The Queen's Lady (34 page)

He stood, as well, and she knew he intended to force the issue. She moved too quickly, however, seeking the bedroom she had been assigned on the ground floor in the east wing of the house.

The maid she had been assigned in her imprisonment, a young girl named Audrey, came to her, but she politely bade the girl to leave her alone. She didn't know Audrey well, and felt she could not find help or comfort in her presence. She longed to have Annie with her again, but could not deny the fact that Annie needed to be with Daniel.

The one benefit to Reverend Hepburn was his irony; he had sent a rough wooden tub to the room with hot water—a silent rebuke that she should bathe away her sins.

Alone with her thoughts, she alternated between anger and despair. The world, she thought, was a madhouse, filled with lies and rumors, liars and ambitious climbers, eager for nothing but to assuage their own greed.

At length—certain she had steamed away more than a few sins, even if not those the reverend felt plagued her—she stepped from the tub, donned the softness of her linen nightgown and lay in bed, eager for sleep.

It was not so easy.

It seemed that the Reverend Hepburn had decided she would be able to atone for a few more sins if he provided her with the hardest, lumpiest mattress available.

She wondered if she would indeed be guilty of a sin if, in her heart, she damned the man to hell.

 

T
HE MANSE WAS IN A GENTLE
valley, and even by the dim light of a weak moon, it was beautiful, epitomizing the true magic of the land Rowan had always loved so dearly.

They came on foot, leaving their horses in the surrounding forest with one man to hold guard over their mounts. The manse was quiet. And unguarded.

Rowan was certain the queen's escort did not expect any trouble. Their duty was to deliver one of the queen's ladies to her side. They had no reason to expect trouble, and so it was easy enough for Rowan and his men to study the house, to find entry.

Gavin, as ever, was at his right hand when they entered through a parlor window, followed by several minutes of trial and error.

Rowan found the room where the reverend himself slept; the man snored with the energy and volume of a thunderstorm. He closed the door, then continued down the hall. There were bolts inside all the doors, and he prayed that Gwenyth had not thought she was in danger, that she had not shot the bolt.

And, at last, he found the place where she slept and breathed a silent thanks to God when the door opened easily at his touch.

Time slipped away as he watched her in the moonlight. He had left her, so long ago now, sleeping as she did now, hair free and strewn across her pillow like golden fire in the light of the dying embers in the hearth. She looked like an angel and a siren in one, clad in white, yet that sheer white fabric was clinging to the curves of her body, hinting at the lithe perfection beneath.

He stood in the doorway for several long seconds, then silently closed the door, trusting Gavin to stand guard in the hall. Still, he took time to slide the bolt.

Then he walked over to her, and sat by her side. He saw the dampness gleaming on her cheeks, and realized that she must have fallen asleep in tears. He steeled himself for a moment; he had heard a great deal about her impending marriage to one of the queen's newest favorites since arriving in Scotland.

But then, he had also heard that he was married himself, and that was surely as absurd a rumor as could be found. He had to wonder if she'd had the strength of mind, the faith, to know that there were those who enjoyed discrediting others—while finding favor for themselves—and were quick to create lies.

She opened her eyes.

He was ready to quickly clamp a hand over her mouth lest she cry out. But she didn't. She only stared at him. “I am dreaming,” she whispered.

He choked back a cry of emotion and bent down, lips hovering just over hers. “Then let me dream with you,” he whispered.

Later, he knew he should have spoken further, that there were so many things that needed to be said between them. But their emotions were too strong. His lips touched hers, and thoughts and words were lost in the trembling sweep of passion. They had been apart forever, it seemed, and yet, in her lips, in the eager and hungry return of his touch, he sensed the world becoming right. He lay down beside her, hands sliding over her linen gown, feeling the wonder and heat of her form. She turned into him, fitting herself against him, and their lips remained welded together as he stroked and held her, closer and closer. Her hands were on him, as well, reveling in the freedom to stroke bare flesh, and in her touch he rose to a maddened fever, heedless of time, of place, of life itself. Their lips parted at last, but only so their fevered kisses could fall elsewhere.

Urgency ripped through him with a cruel violence at the feel of her breasts beneath his fingers and lips. The gentle play of her hands and tongue upon his rising passion was unbearable. At last, in the tangle of half-discarded clothing, they came together wildly. She moved against him, an arc of flame and a writhing force, a feast for the hunger of his senses so volatile that his excitement raged wildly, out of control, leaving only the smallest space for reason somewhere within. Yet somehow that reason, rooted in pride and sexual desire and caring, won out, and he held back, urging her still further, until it seemed the world around them exploded.

He was so satisfied and replete that he did not hear the tapping at the window at first. It was Gwenyth who burst up to a sitting position and stared at him in the firelight, alarm in her eyes.

“Rowan!”

He heard the urgency of Gavin's cry.

He rose, quickly adjusting his clothing. He had left Gavin in the hallway, not outside the window.

“There is a great commotion. The queen's men are rising, gathering their weapons.”

Even as Gavin spoke, there was a pounding at the door.

Gwenyth was up, staring at him. “Get out of here,” she whispered urgently.

“You must come with me.”

To his amazement, she stepped back, and he saw the torment in her eyes. “No.”

“Aye!”

“Lady Gwenyth?” someone called from the corridor.

“Get out,” she ordered him, shoving at his chest. “Get out. I…I am to be married. Now get away, you idiot. Would you lose your head upon the block or hang like a commoner? Get out!”

He gritted his teeth. He had no idea what had given the game away and caused such a fury in the night.

“You are coming with me.”

“If you touch me again, I swear I will scream, and you will watch your men die painful deaths before dying ignominiously yourself,” she warned. “Now go.”

“Lady Gwenyth?” The call from the hallway was louder this time.

“Go. You are an outlaw. You have betrayed the queen, and I despise you,” she said coldly. “I will marry a proper laird, legally, and you will remain my enemy.”

He couldn't have been more stunned if she had slapped him.

And then she walked toward the door, ready to open it as she called, “I am here. You have woken me from my sleep. Pray give me a moment to don my robe.”

He longed to spin her around, rage against her, proclaim that she was his wife and he had never been a traitor. But then he heard Gavin cry out and realized that one of the queen's guardsmen had come upon his devoted friend.

And so he leapt out the window, though he still thought to avoid murder, and only gave the attacker a firm knock upon the head, allowing Gavin to rise, unhurt.

“What in God's name has happened?” he asked as he steadied Gavin on his feet, leaving the other fellow prone beneath the window.

“People are rising to arms,” Gavin said. “I was still in the house when the messenger arrived and roused the family. Henry Stewart, Laird Darnley…”

“Aye?”

“He has been murdered,” Gavin said.

 

R
OWAN WAS GONE
, and Gwenyth hastily flung on her robe, so shaken that she could barely dislodge the bolt.

“Open your door, Lady! You are in grave danger!”

The bolt gave, and she stepped back.

Reverend Hepburn, his sword in hand, nearly crashed into her anyway. He looked anxiously around the room.

“What has happened?” she cried.

“God knows what is going on now. The entire country is in an uproar. Fear stalks the land tonight. Darnley is murdered, and everyone suspects everyone else of the crime.”

She let out a stunned breath, chills crawling over her flesh. “The…the queen?” she demanded.

“She was not with her husband. She is safe.”

His eyes narrowed as he examined the room more closely. Just then one of the queen's men came striding in from the hall.

“Lady Gwenyth is in danger. I know not what faction could wish her ill, but there was a fellow at her window, and when one of my men would have taken him down, another attacked him.”

“What do you know of this?” Reverend Hepburn demanded.

She shook her head, feigning fear. “Am I safe now?” she cried, as if in despair.

“Calm yourself, my dearest lady,” the captain of her escort said. “We will surround the house. We will give you privacy to dress and then—”

“You caught no one? You don't know who was seeking to harm me?” she cried, mimicking fear.

He hung his head slightly. “No, my lady. They were like wraiths. They disappeared into the woods.”

“How many men were lost?” she whispered.

“None, though one man has quite a headache.”

“We must leave for Edinburgh at first light, I beg you,” she said.

“Aye, lady,” the captain of the guard agreed, and walked away.

Reverend Hepburn stared at her distrustfully, there was no charge that he could bring against her. All he had was suspicion, so she bade him good-night.

“Don't bolt your door again. We must be able to get to you if the danger returns.”

Gwenyth agreed to leave the door unlocked, yet begged that a man be stationed at her outer window.

He agreed, and then, at last, he left her. Shaking, she closed the door and walked stumblingly back toward the bed. It had seemed so brutally hard, but it had cradled such magic. And yet, already she began to wonder if she had been dreaming.

Nay, for life itself seemed the greater nightmare now.

Rowan had come, and he had escaped, but she knew she had broken his heart in order to convince him to leave.

The people were roused in his favor, she knew.

And now Mary's consort was dead. Murdered.

Ice seemed to fill Gwenyth's veins as she wondered what import his death would have. She should have felt terrible sorrow; she should have been worried about the queen, about the state of the realm.

But instead she was afraid only for one man. Rowan.

And she was afraid for herself. Would he ever understand just how terrified she had been for his life? Or would he believe that she, like the queen, had betrayed him?

She didn't cry. And she didn't sleep.

She only sat there through the night, numb and shaking.

 

W
HEN
G
WENYTH ARRIVED
at court, she was taken instantly to the queen. Mary looked calm; she did not appear to have given way to hysterical tears. She, too, seemed to be numb.

“Dearest Gwenyth!” she cried, rising as Gwenyth dipped low in her curtsy. Then the queen drew Gwenyth to her in a fierce hug, as if there had been no harsh words between them.

And Gwenyth held her in return.

“Murder,” the queen whispered. “My life is plagued by murder.”

Gwenyth didn't dispute the fact. As they had ridden hard for Edinburgh, more and more news had reached them. There had been some kind of plot to do with gunpowder, and an explosion. Laird Darnley—who had been ill and resting at the queen's house at Kirk O'Field, planning to return to Holyrood the following day—would rightly have died in the explosion. But he had not. He had been found outside the abode.

Strangled.

It was certainly an irony. The queen had grown to despise her husband. She had tolerated the man, while letting her displeasure with him be known, only for the sake of world-wide recognition that James, her babe, had been born indisputably legal.

“It might have been me! I might have been with him. I had to attend a masque, else I might have been there with Henry.”

It was true. No matter how hard Mary tried to be both strong and fair, she had made enemies. And the ever-fickle lairds were changing once again. After all, Scotland now had a male heir, duly proclaimed the child of Mary and Henry. Legal and accepted—and only a few months old.

Now Darnley was dead.

They were indeed living in dangerous times.