The Bedeviled Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (29 page)

She detested the reading lessons but adored cantering through the surrounding woodlands, around the outskirts of Edinburgh, and amongst the herds of cows and flocks of sheep in the nearby green meadows.

And though her days bustled with activity and more than a little laughter, she grew lonelier with each passing day.

Oh, how her heart ached for Cameron.

Standing beside the cold stones of the tower, her face began to crumple with the sudden threat of tears. Ach, but the mere thought of him was too painful, and she pushed it away quickly.

Carried on the summer wind, the baying of hounds sounded from somewhere far away, breaking her thoughts and reminding her that she was late for the evening meal.

She eyed the castle keep which rose formidably before her in a somewhat forlorn manner.

She could hardly believe that fate had brought her here as a guest, dining on trout and strawberries under an ornate iron chandelier with pure white wax candles. Ach, she should be in the kitchens, serving others the venison, fresh bread, and almond cakes whilst wistfully drooling over bowls of oranges. She should not be eating such delicacies herself. Fate was playing an odd game with her.

With a yawn, she slowly made her way back to the keep.

She had been curiously tired the past few days and a little pale, enough so that Sir Arval had refused to take her riding that day. Instead, he had suggested she should simply rest. She had resisted, but once stretched out upon her feather bed, had soon fallen asleep.

Climbing the stone stairs, she entered the main hall and spied Sir Arval waving from a table next to her drowsing father still sitting by the fire. She eyed him with a twinge of worry. His health was still very frail, and she wondered if he would ever be strong again.

“Did you read the page,
ma chérie
?” Sir Arval greeted her with a challenging twinkle in his eye.

Kate sent him an exasperated look. He knew quite well she hadn’t. Ach, why did the man hound her so?

The Frenchman gave a fond growl. “Then you’ll read twice as long tonight!”

“’
Tis a waste of a good evening,” she grumbled, slipping onto the bench next to him.

“And did ye hear of the Candlemaker’s daughter?” A voice giggled.

Both Kate and Sir Arval glanced over their shoulders to see a thin, wispy lass carrying a basket of bread. She stopped to speak with a middle-aged woman setting the table nearby.

The women exchanged knowing looks.

“Ach, the Candlemaker’s daughter?” The other woman began to cluck. “She’s with a bairn now, isn’t she? And nae a husband in sight!”

“Aye! She’s a fallen woman.” The wispy lass gave a superior sniff. “What would ye do, Hilde, if ye carried a bairn out of wedlock?”

“I would die of shame!” The woman fanned her cheeks. “’Tis the worst disgrace!”

Chattering, they moved away.

Kate quickly dropped her gaze.

She was almost certain now that she carried Cameron’s bairn, and if she did, then soon, they would be talking about her like that. Hoping she was mistaken, she took a deep breath and stared down at her trencher of waterfowl in fig sauce with a sudden queasiness.

Clearing his throat, Sir Arval leaned forward and patted her hands. “The earl hasn’t abandoned you,
ma chérie
,” he murmured softly.

Kate jerked back as color stained her face. Why had he said that? Did he suspect she carried a bairn? ‘Twas it that obvious?

Discomfited, she tore a chunk of bread and dipped it into the fig sauce, but no sooner had she tasted the morsel then she felt her stomach heave.

Desperately, she clapped her hands over her mouth and pushed it away.

“You should rest,
ma chérie,
” Sir Arval suggested kindly.

She shook her head in protest, but the motion triggered a stronger wave of nausea.

She paled. Ach, she truly was carrying a bairn. She already knew it in her heart. There would soon be no denying it. Everyone would know. A myriad of conflicting emotions welled up within her—awe, fear, excitement, and most assuredly shame.

“His lordship will see you well taken care of.” Sir Arval was patting her hand. “He is not a man to love lightly, child. He’ll protect you and—”

Strangely wanting to weep, she jumped to her feet and escaped up the steps to her small chamber. Leaning against the narrow window, she clutched her stomach, rocking back and forth a little on her heels.

She was no longer a respectable woman. Ach, she was now a fallen woman. And womenfolk would soon be tittering over her and her poor bairn.

The thought was an upsetting one. While she could become accustomed to whispers and outraged looks, her poor bairn would find it far more hurtful.

She closed her eyes.

The road ahead was most certainly a hard one.

She was not a fool. Cameron would never be allowed to wed her and make her a proper wife. And while he would assuredly provide for his bairn, he would never be able to give the child his name—the name of kings.

Hot tears loomed, but she bit her lip, stubbornly refusing to shed them. Having disgraced herself, she should want to die of shame. Yet, she still couldn’t bring herself to regret anything. The moment she thought of Cameron’s chiseled lips and dark, passionate eyes, she dreamt of tumbling into bed with him again.

Why was she such a wanton fool?

Ach, what would her own bairn think of her?

But even as shame threatened to consume her, a fierce wave of protectiveness rose to overwhelm it.

She was truly having a bairn.

She couldn’t deny the little leap of joy in her heart thinking of a bairn with wee fingers and toes, a bairn to hold close to her heart through the long, lonely nights, and a bairn she could tease into giggling with a tickle under the chin.

Her lips curved into a guilty smile. Whatever fortune the future held, she would provide her child with a life filled with as much love and laughter as her own had been. She could simply show the lad or lassie how to cover their ears to ward off the painful words of others.

Feeling suddenly drained, she sank to the edge of her bed and slowly stretched out to rest for a moment, but instead quickly drifted off into an uneasy asleep.

It was some time later, in the inky blackness of the night, that Kate awoke with a jolt.

Slowly, she sat up, disoriented, and then she heard a woman scream from the hall below.

Leaping to her feet, she ran to the door.

Men shouted, and the woman shrieked again.

Without hesitation, she rushed towards her father’s chamber but nearly collided with a blonde-haired woman holding a torch aloft.

“Kate?” The voice was familiar.

Kate glanced at her again and then gasped. “Maura?”

“So, ye’ve been hiding here!” Maura smirked, arching a fine brow.

Angry voices filtered up from below, and Kate pointed to the dark stairs winding below. “Do ye know what is happening, Maura?”

“Aye.” Maura’s eyes glittered coldly in the torchlight. “Come with me.”

Something in her tone made Kate hesitate. “But I must find my father—”

“Ye haven’t a choice, Kate,” Maura hissed, reaching out and grabbing her arm.

As Maura began wrestling her back, Sir Arval’s lean figure suddenly staggered from the stairwell. He stumbled towards Kate, clutching his side, and even in the faint, flickering light, she could see a dark stain spreading beneath his fingers.

Her heart leapt to her throat.

“Kate!” Sir Arval gasped. He only made it several steps before collapsing to his knees and then pitched forward unconsciously to the floor.

With a shriek, Kate lunged toward him, but Maura was strong and yanked her back.

“Ach, ‘tis too late for him and your father,” the woman informed her coldly.

Seized by fear, Kate whirled and grasped her shoulders. “Father? What do ye mean, Maura? My father?”

Dimly, she heard Maura reply as if from miles away, “’Twas the fool who gave ye away when we saw him sitting by the fire. And ‘twas enough to tell us that—”

“Father?” Kate screamed, but several strange men appeared and grabbed her from behind, pulling her down the corridor in the opposite direction. “Father!”

“He’s dead.” Maura followed with a frown, covering her ears in annoyance. “Ach, be silent! Ye shrill worse than a fishwife! But then, ‘tis what ye are—”

But Kate was no longer listening to her.

Dead?

Her father couldn’t be dead.

No, not after she’d nursed him back to health—brought him back from the brink of death!

Desperately, she fought the hands that dragged her, but it was futile.

And then for the first time in her life, she fainted.

* * *

Gradually, Kate became aware of voices. One voice was deep and sounded weary. The other was familiar, an annoyingly nasal tone.

Slowly, she lifted her lashes. Her head ached. She was lying on the cold, stone floor. Dazed and stiff, she propped herself up on her elbow, and then a pair of booted feet paused before her. She heard a nasal laugh.

It was Thomas Cochrane.

Dressed in sumptuous green velvet, and with his heavy gold chain about his neck, he hunched over her with his hands clasped behind his back.

With an expression of pleasure upon his long face, he said, “I have been blessed this day. Not only do I have a title to an earldom within my grasp, I will soon have Cameron crawling before me, weeping tears of despair.”

Kate stared at him, her thoughts strangely muddled. Why was the man speaking of Cameron?

“Aye, I’ll watch him suffer!” Thomas continued, his voice shaking with pent emotion. “As ruler of this land, I’ll hound him—”

“Ruler?” the weary, deep voice interrupted him with a disdainful snort. “Playing the puppet master will never be the same as being the king, ye fool! And your time is at an end. James will never forgive ye for what ye’ve done now.”

Turning her head, Kate saw a finely dressed nobleman slouched against the wall, his hands and feet bound. There was a jagged cut on his forehead, and it took her moment to recognize his pale face as John Stewart, Earl of Mar, the youngest brother of King James.

Kate caught her breath in surprise.

“Aye.” Thomas smiled, apparently enjoying her reaction. “Even Mar, a prince of the royal Stewart blood is powerless before me. Even now the king mulls over tidings that his cherished brother conspired with sorcerers and witches to slay him.”

Mar gave a contemptuous laugh. “He’ll never believe ye. At last, ye are undone, knave. Even now, my brother will be riding to Craigmillar to secure my freedom! Ach, ye are but a fool!”

Thomas Cochrane’s lips twisted in a scornful smile. “Who is the fool? Your brother is a firm believer in the black arts. ‘Tis ye who will die right soon, ye and the witches that I say colluded with ye these past months, pleading with the devil to smite your own brother!”

Mar gave a snort of disgust.

Thomas shrugged. “I never would have harmed ye, Mar. ‘Twas Albany I was after, but then ye sought to kill me at the hunt. Ye brought this upon yourself!”

At that, Mar fell silent, and Kate swallowed, shaking her head in bewilderment. She was feeling strangely lethargic and confused. Was she caught in some ghastly nightmare? She closed her eyes, willing herself to wake. But when she opened her eyes again, nothing changed.

She frowned. Where was her father? Where was Sir Arval?

“And ye, Kate!” Thomas sneered, dropping on one knee before her. “I respected ye. We are both commoners grasping for power, and I respected that in ye … until ye betrayed me by thieving the letters from Albany’s desk.” Reaching down, he grasped her by the throat and hissed. “And for that, ye’ll pay.”

As his fingers pressed harder, she struggled for air, clawing desperately at his hands until he shoved her back with revulsion.

Raising his hand, he moved towards her and struck her hard across the face.

Pain exploded in her nose, and she fell back to the floor, striking her head. For a brief moment, she saw sparks of light followed quickly by a thick darkness, and then her vision returned.

Looming over her, Thomas pulled a small, gold-inlaid dagger from his belt. With a gleam of pleasure in his eye, he trailed the blade down the side of her face, down her neck, and to the pearl-laced bodice of her gray gown. Then with a vicious jerk, he half-tore, half-ripped it away, using it to mop the blood streaming from her nose.

Holding the bloodstained cloth against the torchlight, he gave a smile of satisfaction.

Kate numbly looked away, and it was then that her eye caught on the blood-splattered stones.

Suddenly, she remembered her father and Sir Arval.

They were dead.

This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t be true. Her father and Sir Arval couldn’t really be dead!

But she did not weep. She could not even react. The numbness rose, taking a firm hold upon her, and she watched impassively as Maura entered the room and held up several of the pure, white wax candles from the hall.