The Bedeviled Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (6 page)

“Ach, lass … ’tis …not a wise thing …” He cleared his throat, apparently finding it difficult to speak. “Women do not … thrive in my company.”

He looked almost angry.

Ashamed, she covered her reddening cheeks with her hands. She had been too brazen. “I canna think what came over me—”

And then, all shame and embarrassment fled as this time, it was he to sweep her close as his lips claimed hers once more but with a softer touch and a tenderness that she wanted to last forever. His hand moved lightly down her back, pressing her close, and then all too soon, he lifted his head and pushed her gently away. Sliding his long fingers down to catch her hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist.

“Aye, I’ll be leaving now, while I still can,” he said in a deep voice, still holding her hand.

“Will I see ye again?” she asked breathlessly. She almost didn’t want him to answer, afraid he would say no.

“Aye, I think we both know that I’ll not stay away,” came the soft reply. “But ye should run the other way the next time ye see me.”

The desperate words pulled her heart as she watched him stride away into the darkness. But then her spirits took wing, and with a light step, she ran back to the cottage and slipped inside.

Maura had returned.

Sitting on a chair before a tiny mirror, the woman brushed her long blonde hair. “There’s to be a feast at the castle soon,” she said. “And I promised Charles that I’d find him several serving wenches. The work is yours, if ye want it, Kate.”

“Oh, Maura!” Kate’s eyes danced as she ran to smother the woman in kisses.

“Enough now!” Maura laughed, pushing her away. “Ye can come with me on the morrow. Tend to your father now!”

Feeling as if she would burst with joy, Kate slipped into her room to find the gruel ready and her father awake. Whistling a merry tune, she slowly spooned the mixture into his lips.

“And why is your heart so light, my sweet Kate?” her father asked with a weak grin.

“Oh, father! We are gone from the almshouse, and I’ve work at the castle. I do believe our fortune is changing at last!” She was so happy she wanted to sing.

“Are ye sure it isn’t that lad that has ye singing?” Her father laughed. “His voice was kind.”

Kate smiled. She didn’t want to speak of Cameron. Not yet. She just wanted to think of him and to hold the memory of his kisses close to her heart. But then her heart gave an odd flop and she sighed. If only the man wasn’t an outlaw but a good, honest fisherman like her father. Lifting her chin, she wondered if it were something she could change.

Chapter Three - The Court of the King

Cameron returned to the Brass Unicorn Inn, walking slowly, lost in thought.

Something about Kate lightened his heart. Aye, she was precocious, lively, and given to chatter, but that was her charm. The lass was warm-hearted, filled with life, and the loving tenderness with which she cared for her father was moving.

He had no business seeking her company.

Grimly, he turned up the lane, hearing the sounds of merriment drifting from the inn long before he saw it. The noise was comforting. It was the precise reason he kept rooms there. The continual commotion distracted him from his heavy thoughts.

One of his men waited outside the door, and Cameron hailed him. The dismal conditions of the almshouse had appalled him. He meant to fix it straightway. Dipping his head, he murmured his orders into the man’s ear, and then
betook himself to his chambers.

On the morrow, he must announce his presence to the king in Stirling Castle. It was a miserable thought. He didn’t want to think of court intrigue. He’d much rather think of the lively lass with the sparkling brown eyes who wouldn’t stop talking, but ‘twas difficult to do without a twinge of guilt.

Settling before the warm, crackling fire, he focused on Thomas, wondering what the man was plotting, but Kate continually intruded upon his thoughts.

Ach, she was a temptation! He hadn’t been tempted in quite some time, but he knew better than to give into his baser instincts. Ach, before, with just one thought of his deceased wives, any impulse he might have had would have died in an instant, but strangely—this time—that customary deterrent was oddly ineffective.

He found sleep long in coming.

* * *

After spending a restless night, Cameron rose with the sun. Bidding Morag the Innkeeper a fond farewell, he mounted his charger and set off through Stirling’s winding, cobblestoned streets with his men riding behind.

The early morning sun cast Stirling Castle in a warm glow as it rose majestically above the belt of trees clustered at the base of the cliffs. He eyed the massive structure with reluctance as he urged his horse up Castle Hill. Below him, he could see the River Forth glistening, swans gracefully gliding under the stone bridge spanning its width. Bright green fields led to the entrance of the Royal Deer Park, and to the west, he could see the jousting arena with the highlands climbing behind it.

He grimaced.

Clothes fittings, banquets, and games of treachery would now occupy his day.

‘Twas far worse than a good honest sword-thrust.

The sound of hooves caused him to glance over and see Archibald Douglas riding forward to greet him.

Cameron raised his hand in acknowledgement and reined his horse. “Well met!”

“Aye, well met!” Archibald flashed a grin, leaning over to clasp Cameron’s arm in a warm welcome.

Archibald Douglas, the Fifth Earl of Angus, was a great bear of a man, square-jawed, ruddy, and stern with a small scar under his left eye. His rumpled red hair, bushy beard, and warm hazel eyes gave him an unassuming, friendly air, but Cameron knew him as one of the craftiest noblemen in Scotland.

“Ye’ve been a long time in coming, Cameron.” Archibald wiggled his bushy brows. “We’ve missed ye sorely.”

“Aye.” Cameron nodded, offering no further explanation. He didn’t need to. While not particularly close friends with the man, their sense of mutual respect ran deep.

“Word has already been sent of your arrival,” Archibald informed him. “The king will see ye within the hour.”

“And Thomas?” Cameron raised a curious brow.

“Aye, it isn’t easy to get the king’s ear of late. Thomas stands in the way. He never strays far from the king’s side.” Archibald growled. “We’ve need of your silver tongue, my friend, and that of Lord Julian Gray. I sent for him nigh on two weeks ago, and I expect him this day.”

The news gladdened Cameron’s heart. Lord Julian Gray was as close a friend to him as Ruan MacLeod.

With a curt nod, Cameron raised his hand, signaling the conversation was over, and in companionable silence, they rode up the street to the castle gates.

At the entrance, Cameron again paused, eyeing the great castle of Stirling rising above him. Green moss and lichen clung to the base of the outer walls, standing out in stark contrast against the dark gray stones. It was an ancient fortress and one of Scotland’s finest.

“Aye, ‘tis time, my friend. Ye can delay it no longer,” Archibald murmured in a tone somewhere between understanding and amusement.

With a grimace, Cameron spurred his horse forward.

He dismounted in the courtyard, eyeing the newly finished, ornate tower house with its great vaulted chamber, the work of Thomas Cochrane. He’d heard the man had studied in Italy, and his work clearly demonstrated a fine skill. But in architecture only. He had no place seeking titles and attempting to govern the land.

“Follow.” Archibald raised a hand and led him through a side entrance towards the royal apartments.

As a Stewart, and cousin to the king, Cameron was entitled to rooms in the west wing of the royal apartments. As he passed the Great Hall, he caught a glimpse of the immaculately carved wooden ceiling.

“Aye!” Archibald snorted in disgust. “Our king is only interested in cavorting with his painters, tailors, and masons. I’ve not seen him on the back of a steed since he moved his court here, nigh on three months ago.”

King James III had always favored the fine arts over all else, neglecting the governing of the realm in the pursuit of gratifying his own pleasure. In recent years, his behavior often carried into excess, with endless banquets and the continual bestowal of lavish gifts upon a parade of favorites.

“What of Hommil the tailor?” Cameron asked. Last year, the man had never strayed from the king’s side. The king had openly caressed him with the fondest affection at every banquet. Thomas Cochrane had been there but hovering in the background. The entire situation had been scandalous.

“He’s been traveling with the previous castoff, Leonard the smith, spending their ill-gotten gains,” Archibald replied gruffly. “Of late, even Torphichen the fencing-master has been scarcely seen with the king. It has only been Thomas Cochrane receiving fond kisses and all favors.”

Climbing a spiral staircase, Archibald led him through several chambers to a suite of apartments that looked out over the highlands.

A velvet carpet graced the floor in front of a high, curtained bed, and nearby stood a writing desk with a vase of flowers, a feather quill pen, and a large candelabrum with eight tapers. Several carved chairs with crimson velvet cushions sat before a fireplace with a fire already crackling on the hearth.

Situated to allow the morning light to filter in, the window of the bedchamber afforded him a view of the surrounding forests and wild expanse of the moors spreading across the horizon.

He moved to the window and breathed deeply of the chill breeze sweeping down from the highlands.

Closing the door soundly behind him, Archibald leaned against it and folded his arms. “There are strange doings afoot, my friend. ‘Twas at the feast last night that the king received tidings of Mar and Albany’s arrival within the week, but he fell into a fit of anger at the news, and began shouting they were coming to unseat him.”

Cameron drew his lips in a thin line.

Alexander, Duke of Albany, and John, Earl of Mar, were the king’s younger brothers. Rumors always circulated that both sought to seize the throne. But Cameron knew this to be untrue. The three brothers shared an unusually close bond.

The king’s tirade smacked of some ill doing. Was Thomas Cochrane responsible?

“I’ll see what I can discover, Archibald.” Cameron gave a curt nod.

He was back at court only a few scant minutes and already found himself engulfed in treacherous plots.

The man sent him a wide grin. “Then, I’ll be on my way.”

As the door closed after him, Cameron wearily rubbed the back of his neck. He had found precious little sleep in the night. He took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh spring air blowing through the window, ruffling his raven hair.

He longed to return home to Inchmurrin Castle, standing tall on the most southerly isle of Loch Lomond. And he would straightway, he promised himself, as soon as he had overturned any marriage plans the king might have made and once he had insured all was well between the king and his brothers.

There was a knock upon the door.

Wincing at the intrusion, Cameron murmured, “Pray enter.”

The door creaked open, and Thomas’ nasal voice snaked through the room. “Greetings, my lord.”

Expelling a silent breath, Cameron composed his features and graciously inclined his head. “And what brings ye here, Thomas.”

The man wore velvet breeches and a jeweled doublet. A heavy gold chain glittered about his neck, and he fingered it fondly as he replied, “The king would see ye now in his supper room, my lord. I’ve been tasked to escort ye there.” He watched Cameron closely.

Seeking to disarm the man, Cameron sent him a pleasant smile. “I would discuss the matter of Heloise that lies betwixt us first, Thomas.”

Thomas tensed and his eyes narrowed.

“If truth be told, her lands and title were not of sufficient worth for a man like ye.” Cameron continued softly. Aye, he’d twist this current situation to his own advantage, even though such court games of flattery were becoming ever more distasteful. “’Tis your marriage we should be discussing with the king, not mine, and I’ll tell him such words.”

Almost imperceptibly, Thomas’ eyes flickered in pleasure.

“Aye, let us speak of this to the king.” Cameron clasped the man’s shoulder. “Lead on, my good man. I will follow ye.”