The Warrior Bride (38 page)

“You like the sea?” Anora asked. “What?” she breathed.

“Those of us born to Evermyst have a fondness for the sea,” she said. “Isobel was drawn to the lofty keep even before she knew she was born to it.”

“You were separated at birth,” Rhona said. “Aye.”

“And yet you did not try to find her.” The words spewed forth.

Anora’s eyes were solemn. “I did no know of her existence. Only Meara knew, and she kept the truth to herself in the hopes of protecting us all.”

All? She almost laughed, but she could not. “So you did not want the high fortress for yourself?”

“Perhaps I did,” she murmured. “But I would give it up for my sister. Blood is strong. Kinship is a bond that cannot be broke, not by the passing of time nor the struggle of hardships.” Was there a tinge of sadness in her tone? A touch of desperation? “Do you not agree, Lady Rhona?”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Noise boomed around them, and yet the world seemed utterly silent.

“I could not help but notice your pendant,” Anora whispered.

Rhona slipped her hand over the silver shell.

“‘Tis an unusual piece,” she said. “Do you-”

“I must go!” Rhona blurted.

“Nay. Already?”

“Aye,” she said, and fled toward the stairs. She was not running away. ‘Twas simply that she must remember her mission, must not get caught up in foolish sentiment and girlish ramblings. But when she reached the bailey she did not delay, but balled her ungainly skirts in her fists and rushed through the crowds toward the outer wall.

The mob pressed in about her. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of an earth-toned plaid and sable hair. Lachlan! She spun around, but he was only a mirage swallowed by the crowd.

A handsome gentleman dressed in bright plaids stood near a woman with flame-colored hair. A slim lass skipped by, elegantly attired except for the black nosed martin peeking from her sleeve. Two blushing maids teased a dark-haired lad with a cat-faced brooch. These were Lachlan ‘s people. These bonny folk who laughed and cared. But she would still the laughter, and he would never forgive her.

She was running, stumbling through the crowd, her skirts wrapped like serpents about her ankles. Breathless and shaking, she reached Turpin’s pavilion.

“Lady Rhona.” Colette touched her shoulder. “Are you well?”

“Aye.” She calmed herself, tried to breathe, to think. “Someone came searching for you.”

Lachlan! He was here. He had come-to keep her safe, to help her through. “Someone?” she breathed, barely about to force out the word.

“Aye,” said the maid and, ducking into the pavilion, brought forth a bulky package. It was wrapped in linen and tied with hemp. “A woman brought this by.”

“A woman.” Her heart plummeted.

“Aye, she said that Lachlan of the MacGowans bade you take this and use it as you must.”

Rhona felt herself pale, for she already knew the contents. Beneath the linen she could feel the hard metal of her warrior’s helm.

He was here. And he knew. Knew she had come on some mission, but he could not know what. And yet he believed in her. She closed her eyes to reality. She could not betray his truth, but she had little choice. Turning like one in a dream, she bore her garments to a private place, shed her womanly garments, and donned her warrior’s garb.

The bailey bustled with revelers. The crowds milled and lurched. Hours passed. Torches were lit, illuminating the courtyard, but Rhona remained in the shadows, her heart constricted, her muscles tense, waiting.

A dark- haired scoundrel stood upon a rope and juggled wine-filled mugs. From across the courtyard, an acrobat blew flame from his mouth, and not far away Ramsay MacGowan strode through the crowd, his swaddled son held close to his chest.

But there was no puppeteer. There was no king. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps-

But then she saw the puppet master. He was dressed in common gray. In rags! The marquis was nearby, halfway up a flight of stonework stairs, and from the light of the fire eater’s hissing flame, she could see the hatred in his eyes.

Truth smote Rhona like the strike of a double-edged sword.

‘Twas not the king Robert hated. ‘Twas Ramsay MacGowan!

From a window far above, a movement caught her eye. Evil comes to Evermyst!

She shrieked a warning even as she leapt from the shadows and struck Ramsay at the waist, bearing him to the ground. A man bellowed. Women screamed. The baby flew from his arms. An arrow hissed past, piercing the swaddling.

Rhona gasped and sprang toward the child, but when she pulled the cloth aside, ‘twas naught but a bundle of rags.

“Nay,” rasped the marquis.

Rhona straightened and drew her sword, but in that instant, the world disintegrated to cold ash, for there, beside Turpin, stood Catherine.

He turned toward the girl as if in slow motion and smiled as he pulled her close. Time slowed to a crawl.

Rhona could do nothing but watch as he wrapped his arm about the girl’s waist and lifted her against his chest. Could do nothing as his left hand disappeared murderously behind her back.

The warrior had failed! Had lost, and suddenly there was nothing she could do-nothing but hope for a miracle.

“Champion,” she whispered. And somehow, he came, stepping out of nowhere, looming behind the marquis at the top of the stairs.

The world was as silent as death, and yet she could not hear the words spoken from the stone steps.

“Let the lass go,” ordered Lachlan. Rhona was safe.

Ramsay was safe! And by God, Catherine would be the same, for Rhona loved the girl, whether she knew it or not and he would not see her heartbroken. “Let her go, or I swear by that’s holy, you will not last the day.”

The marquis darted his gaze from one to the other.

“Who are you?” he rasped.

“I am Lachlan of the MacGowans.”

”The Welshman!” he hissed and jerked his head toward Rhona. “And him?”

“She is vengeance.”

Even in the firelight, his face went pale.

“Let Catty go,” Lachlan ordered. “She has naught to do with this.”

“And neither do I,” hissed Robert, his chest heaving, his hands atremble. “Do I, MacGowan?”

“Do not harm her.”

“Harm her? Nay. I would not, for she is my progeny. My heir,” he whispered and laughed demonically. “Damn you MacGowans for taking all I had.”

“We took nothing from you, Turpin.”

”The Fraser bitch should have been mine, but your brother seduced her. Her son should have been my son, but he was sired by another. I am the marquis of Claronfell, the king’s own cousin. You are naught but Highland rabble, and yet I get your brother’s cast-asides. The haughty Lorna carried his brat. A boy it was. A boy! Yet she gave me naught but a pair of worthless maids.

Catherine’s face was as pale as death, but m her hand, hidden in folds of her narrow skirt, was Rhona’s dirk.

Lachlan eased his fist open and breathed a silent prayer.

“Let her go and we will do the same for you, Turpin.

“Ahh, the renowned mercy of the MacGowan clan,” he said, and laughed. His voice shook. “I think not, Dafydd,” he whispered and backed up the steps. Lachlan eased away, giving him room. “I will take her with me. But she will be safe so long as you keep your secrets to yourself.”

Lachlan dropped his gaze to Catherine’s. A single tear slipped down her cheek, but her gaze never faltered-and he nodded.

She delayed a moment, a heartbeat of time, and then she tightened her grip on the hilt and stabbed.

The marquis screamed. His hands loosened, and.m that instant, Lachlan snatched his own blade from its sheath.

It snarled into the air and plowed into the marquis’s chest. He staggered backward. And suddenly arrows hissed from every direction, striking him like body blows. He drew his last breath before he struck the ground.

“Catty,” Lachlan rasped and snatched her from her feet. She hid her face against his chest and clung to him with all her strength. “Sweet Catty.”

“Champion!” Rhona stumbled up the stairs. Her face was wet with tears, her voice raspy. “My champion, you came,” she whispered.

“Aye. Aye, lass. I will always come,” he said and, drawing her into his embrace, kissed her with wild desperation.

She touched his cheek, her fingers trembling against his skin. “How did you know? How-”

“And what is this then?” asked an imperial voice. Rhona tried to step away, but Lachlan pulled her against his side, not able to let her go for the briefest moment.

“Your Majesty,” he said and bowed.

“The Rogue Fox, kissing a warrior,” said the king. “‘Tis a sight worth seeing.”

Lachlan cleared his throat. Catherine still clung to his chest like a tattered doll. He tightened his grip across her back and closed his eyes to the fierceness of his emotions. “I can explain this, Your Majesty.”

“Can you?”

“Aye. The warrior is not what he seems. What she seems. In truth, Your Highness-”

“Could you explain this better, Lady Rhona?” asked James.

She removed her helm. Firelight danced across her noble features. “The marquis of Claronfell plotted a murder, Your Majesty. I thought it was you he meant to harm.”

James smiled and, reaching out, took her hand between his own. “And thus you hurried to my rescue once again, Rhone?”

“It seems his venom was not bent on you, my liege, but on the MacGowans instead. He positioned an archer in the window. He had best be caught,” she said and scowled upward. “Although I know not who loosed the arrows that killed the marquis.”

“The shaft through his heart is me sister Shona’s,” said Gilmour, and stepped suddenly from the crowd. “The others are from assorted clansmen.”

“You knew,” Rhona gasped, and stared at Lachlan.

“You knew there was a plot aimed at Evermyst.”

“I thought you were in danger,” Lachlan said. “I too searched the marquis’s belongings. Read his missives.”

“He believed Ramsay was targeted,” said Mour. ”Though he wasn’t sure. Thus me brother’s clever baby of rags. Anora was mad enough to kill him herself for the risk he took, but we thought it best to let the drama play out, for we could not accuse Turpin without proof.”

“You knew,” she said again.

”The archer has died,” announced a soldier, stepping from the crowd. “We tried to take him, but he chose death on the rocks below instead.”

“Who was he?” asked James.

“‘Twas Caird of Windemoor, my king.”

“The Munro’s captain.”

“He has never been pleased with Windemoor’s truce with Evermyst,” Gilmour said. “Lord Turpin’s coin only made the proposition more tempting.”

“Sir Charles is also involved,” Rhona began, but Lachlan interrupted her.

“You hurried to our king’s rescue again?”

James turned toward him. “Did you not know it was the lady warrior who helped me escape from the Black Douglases many years ago?”

Lachlan shook his head.

“MacGowan,” he chided. “You should learn a bit about a woman before you kiss her so fiercely.”

“Me apologies, Your Majesty,” he said. “But she can

be a bit closed mouthed.”

“It did not look that way to me.” Chuckles issued from those around them.

“Indeed,” said the king, and sobered. “Our lady warrior was as much a prisoner of the Douglas as I. She dressed as a groom and brought me the same type of garment to aid my escape from Edinburgh.”

“She must have forgotten to mention that.” Lachlan said.

The king laughed. “I owe you much, Lady Rhone,” he said. “In fact. I recently received a request regarding you.”

“A request, my liege?”

“Aye,” he said. “It seems that your foster father would like to bequeath Nettlepath to you instead of giving it to his closest male heir. I suspect I will have to grant his wish.”

She said nothing, but shifted her gaze first to Catherine and then to Lachlan. Her eyes shone in the firelight, filled with an emotion so strong it was all he could do to keep from taking her into his arms and forgetting their royal audience.

“In truth, Your Majesty,” she said softly. “There is another favor I would ask.”

“Speak,” he said.

”The marquis of Claronfell sired two daughters. We would take them as our own if you will allow it.”

“We?” he asked.

” Lachlan and myself,” she said.

Joy and passion smote Lachlan like a fist to the chest and perhaps it shone in his eyes, because the king laughed.

“And have you told the rogue fox of your plans yet, Lady Rhone?”

She blushed. Actually blushed, though she raised her gaze to his. “Champion,” she whispered. “I know I am not what you hoped for in a bride. But the lassies need-“

“You are mine!” he growled, and pulled her back into a tight embrace. “Forever and always.”

“Aye,” agreed an ancient voice, and as they watched, Meara of the Fold pushed her bent body through the crowd. “Peaceable and powerful. Cunning and kind. Loving and beloved. Welcome back, wee Rhona.” Her faded eyes were filled with tears. “I knew you would return for duty’s sake if none other.”

Rhona shook her head. “You knew I was the warrior. “I am old, but I am not daft.” She twisted her ancient face into a scowl. “And… your sisters recognized you some time ago.”

She lifted her gaze to the firelit maids who stood together at the crowd’s edge. Anora and Isobel Fraser. Her sisters. Her blood. “How?” she breathed.

Meara shrugged. “I do not know. They possess some strange power. ‘Tis unnerving is what it is. But ‘twas I who told you of the evil, was it not?”

“How did you know evil stalked Evermyst?”

“I didn’t,” she admitted. “But I could think of no other way to keep you close.” She nodded. Her ancient eyes were misty, but she held her chin stubbornly high. “‘Tis about time you come home, lass. We have waited long.