Courting an Angel (45 page)

“If ye’ll excuse us,” Gordon said. With a farewell nod to Mungo and Lavinia, he ushered his wife outside and then asked, “What was that aboot?”

When Rob looked at him, misery had etched itself across her delicate features. “I’ve just been neatly trapped in a lie,” she admitted.

“Angels dinna lie,” Gordon said with a smile.

“Well, I did.”

“Aboot what?”

Embarrassed, Rob dropped her gaze and confessed to his chest, “I told Ladies Elliott and Armstrong that my fingerless gloves were the height of fashion at the Tudor court.”

Gordon threw back his head and shouted with laughter. Then he yanked her against his body in a sidewise hug.

“’Tisna funny,” Rob said. “I could see in Lavinia Kerr’s eyes that she knew the truth of the matter. What will I do when she blabs to the king that I carry Old Clootie’s mark on my hand?”

Gordon leaned close and planted a kiss on her lips, saying, “Dinna fret aboot such nonsense.”

Rob glanced over her shoulder in the direction of Edinburgh Castle’s esplanade. “That scaffold doesna seem like nonsense to me,” she said in a small voice as a ripple of dread danced down her spine.

“Listen to me, angel.” Gordon turned her to face him. “Any man or woman who calls ye a witch is as good as dead. I’ll guard ye with my life.”

“Why?” Rob asked, searching his eyes for the truth.

“What kind of a question is that?” Gordon asked. “Yer my wife and carry my bairn. What better reason could there be?”

Because ye love me, Rob thought. She managed a faint smile, looped her arm through his, and said, “I’d trust ye with my life any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”

“That’s my girl,” Gordon said, patting her hand. He nodded at the tavern’s boy to fetch their horses.

If only he loved me, Rob thought, unable to banish the ominous image of that scaffold from her mind. If only he loved me and we were back in the mountains at the summer shieling.

* * *

While Gordon and Rob rode north on the Cannongate toward Holyrood Palace, Mungo MacKinnon and Lavinia Kerr sat inside MacDonald’s Tavern. They spoke together in hushed tones about the Marquess and Marchioness of Inverary.

“I canna believe that little, mousy nobody from the mountains will be the Duchess of Argyll one day,” Lavinia complained with a pout, surprised and irritated at having lost her masculine quarry to another woman.

“That mountain mouse isna a nobody,” Mungo replied. “She’s Dunridge’s only daughter and the Earl of Basildon’s niece.”

“I canna understand why she’d lie aboot those gloves bein’ the latest rage at the Tudor court,” Lavinia went on heatedly, missing her cousin’s look of amused speculation. “She’s tryin’ to make fools of us.”

Mungo shook his head. “Gordy’s wife has good reason to cover her hand.”

“Is she deformed?” Lavinia asked, brightening at that prospect.

Mungo chuckled at the hopeful note in his cousin’s voice and answered, “In a manner of speakin’.”

“Tell me what ye know.”

“Rob MacArthur is the green-eyed daughter of a Sassenach witch and carries the proof of it on the back other left hand,” Mungo told her, his hatred apparent in the hard edge to his voice.

His words and his emotion startled Lavinia. “I dinna ken yer meanin’, cousin.”

“Brigette MacArthur caused the deaths of my father and my aunt,” Mungo explained, “and I’ve been waitin’ all my life to exact my revenge.”

“What do ye mean?” Lavinia asked. “’Twas twenty years ago that yer father disappeared and yer aunt took an arrow meant for Menzies.”

“Because of Brigette MacArthur, I grew to manhood without a father,” Mungo said, his voice bitter. “I found letters from my late Aunt Antonia provin’ Lady MacArthur’s guilt in his death.”

“How could Brigette MacArthur have killed yer father?” Lavinia scoffed. “Where would she even have met Uncle Finlay?”

“Aunt Antonia hated her MacArthur sister-in-law and wanted her dead,” Mungo told her. “As a favor to his beloved sister, my father disguised himself in a Menzies plaid and abducted Brigette MacArthur. He planned to leave her on the infamous Lady’s Rock in the Sound of Mull. However, while my father was attemptin’ to drown her, the bitch managed to drown him . . . I almost dispatched Dubh and Rob MacArthur when we were in England. Too bad for me, the devil’s spawns have the devil’s own luck.”

“The Earl of Dunridge is in Edinburgh for the memorial service,” Lavinia remarked. “Why dinna ye challenge him and be done with it?”

“I’m bent on revenge, not suicide,” Mungo replied dryly.

“Then why dinna ye kill Brigette MacArthur?” Lavinia asked.

“I’ll get to her as soon as she leaves the protection of Dunridge’s walls,” Mungo answered, an unholy smile lighting his expression. “As a matter of fact, I’m plannin’ on executin’ the whole damned MacArthur clan into extinction. I’m startin’ with the daughter. She’s easy prey bein’ so near at hand.”

“Ye canna hold the daughter accountable for the mother’s crimes against ye,” Lavinia tried to reason with him.

“Who’s side are ye on?” Mungo snapped.

Lavinia flicked him a cool gaze. “My side. And what’s this proof she carries?”

Mungo made a protective sign of the cross and said, “The witch bears the devil’s flower on the back of her left hand. I saw it while we were travelin’ north.”

Lavinia burst out laughing. “Cousin, ye surely dinna hold with such foolish notions?”

“King James believes in witches.”

“So?”

“So I need yer help,” Mungo told her. “When we sup with the king tomorrow evenin’, I want ye to draw the witch into an argument. ’Tis then we’ll force her to unmask her hand for all to view. The verra next mornin’ ye’ll feign an illness, and I’ll complain to the king that she cursed ye. ’Tis certain Jamie will sentence her to death for practicin’ witchcraft. I’ll have the beginnin’ of my revenge on the MacArthurs, and ye’ll marry Gordy and become the future Duchess of Argyll.”

“Are ye daft?” Lavinia exclaimed, determined not to be connected with such a risky business. “She carries Inverary’s heir. Do ye actually believe Gordy will let ye get away with this?”

“Gordy has the anvil with which to forge another brat.”

Lavinia chuckled throatily but then shook her head. “Cousin, I willna be a party to killin’ the chit.”

“I thought ye wanted Campbell,” Mungo shot back.

“I did,” she hedged, “but realized that others at court are even more appealin’.”

“Like who?”

She smiled at him. “Like none of yer business.”

“Livy, let me put it to ye this way,” Mungo said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Do what I ask, or I’ll whisper in yer father’s ear that he’d best make a second marriage for ye. I heard Old Man Ramsey’s lookin’ for a wife.”

“That stinkin’ swine?” Lavinia cried. The revolting thought of bedding a fat, toothless old man with body odor made her relent. “Verra well, I’ll draw her into an argument, but I willna feign illness.”

“Ye instigate an argument,” he agreed, “and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Mungo tossed a few coins on the table, and together they rose from their chairs and started toward the tavern’s entrance. “By the way, save me a place beside ye at tomorrow’s memorial service,” he said. “I’ll be a tad late.”

Lavinia stopped walking and whirled around to face him. “Why?” she asked, suspicious.

“I’ve somethin’ to do,” he answered.

“Like what?”

Mungo raised his brows at her and cast her an unholy smile that sent shivers rippling down her spine. “Like none of yer business, dear cousin.”

Chapter 17

“Well, I could be happy if only —”

“That arrogant pup better make ye happy or I’ll —”

Rob reached up and placed a finger across her father’s lips, the same gentle gesture for silence that he’d used with her when she was a child. Smiling into his dark eyes, she looped her arm through his.

“Let’s walk aboot,” Rob said. “I’ll explain what I mean.”

When he nodded, Rob led her father across the browning lawns outside Holyrood Abbey toward a cluster of oak trees that stood together like old friends. She breathed deeply of the mildly crisp air and admired the oaks’ autumn garb of gold, orange, and red leaves.

With her father by her side, Rob felt relaxed and secure. Though he’d always enjoyed a reputation for fierceness, Iain MacActhur had been her first and best champion. Her father had always saved time for her in spite of his myriad duties as chief of the MacArthur clan. She smiled inwardly, remembering how he’d joined her and her imaginary friends several afternoons each week for a mug of cider and an animated chat. And then there were the many times when he’d held her protectively close while she wept because none of the other children would play with her.

Casting him a sidelong glance, Rob wondered how best to explain herself. Implying that her marriage to Gordon Campbell was less than perfect would definitely be a mistake, especially since he’d just been forced to apologize publicly to a king for whom he harbored no respect.

Sometimes lyin’ is kinder than tellin’ the truth . . . Rob recalled the day she’d given that piece of advice to her cousin, Blythe. If only she’d heeded her own words, she wouldn’t be facing the difficult task of convincing her father that all was relatively well.

“I only meant that I wished my husband loved me,” Rob said. “Like ye love Mother.”

“I’m positive Gordy loves ye,” Iain assured her. “Why, yer the most lovable woman in the world.”

“Da, I believe yer a tad biased,” she said with a smile.

“I may be biased, but I’m tellin’ ye the truth,” her father replied.

“Gordy has never professed his love.”

Iain put his arm around her. “Sometimes a man finds sharin’ his deepest emotions difficult. That doesna’ mean he lacks those deep emotions. Remember, love is as love does.”

“But why would men want to hide their feelin’s?”

“There are as many reasons as there are men,” Iain answered. “Usually, a man fears lettin’ his woman see how vulnerable he is.”

“I canna believe that aboot Gordy,” Rob replied. “Why, he’s the bravest man I know. Besides ye, that is.”

Her diplomacy brought a smile to her father’s lips, and he planted a paternal kiss on her forehead. “Other than that complaint, how are ye feelin’?”

“I’m fine now that the mornin’ sickness has passed.” Rob blushed and dropped her gaze to her shoes. “At first I thought I was dyin’ of some terrible disease.”

Pleased by her admission, Iain MacArthur chuckled. He’d raised his only daughter to be innocent and modest, if not exactly biddable.

“And I do love Gordy’s sons as much as if they were my own,” she added, peeking up at him from beneath the thick fringe of her sooty lashes.

“Ye always did have a generous heart,” Iain remarked, his dark gaze warm with tenderness. “I’m glad that yer husband’s past indiscretions dinna bother ye overmuch.”

“So why didna Mother journey to Edinburgh with ye?” Rob asked, steering their conversation away from her husband’s indiscretions.

“I insisted she remain in Argyll,” Iain answered. “Yer mother is no shrinkin’ wallflower and says whatever pops into her mind. At the moment, Jamie Stuart isna verra high in her regard. She thinks he’s an unnatural, betrayin’ brat.”

“I harbor the same belief.” Rob dropped her voice to barely a whisper and told him, “I met Queen Mary when I was in England.”

“Ye did?” Her father appeared interested.

Rob nodded. “I persuaded Uncle Richard to take me to Chartley when we were in Shropshire that summer before her —” She broke off, unwilling to say those horrible words. “Oh, Da! She seemed so pathetically lonely. My heart ached for her. Jamie refused her refuge when the English offered to send her home.” As soon as the words slipped from her lips, Rob regretted them.

“I didna know aboot that,” her father said, his expression grim. “I doubt Cousin Magnus knew either.”

Rob touched his arm. “Nothin’ will bring her back from the dead now.” Iain MacArthur smiled at his daughter’s remark. She sounded almost exactly like her husband. Perhaps, the match between them had been a good one.

“Will Dubh be safe from prosecution?” Rob asked, her worry apparent. “Isabelle is the only real friend I ever had. If Dubh and she are happy together, I wouldna want to see them torn apart.”

“Listen to ye,” Iain chided her, giving her a sideways hug. “Why must ye carry the whole world’s problems on yer delicate shoulders? I forbid ye to fret aboot anythin’ more than deliverin’ a healthy babe. Yer brother and his bride are well and will remain that way as long as I have life in my body. Besides, yer mother would surely kill me if I let any harm befall her firstborn.”

Rob tilted her head and gazed up at him. A smile flirted with the corners of her lips, and she said, “Da, I love ye.”

“What a perfectly heartwarmin’ picture,” Duke Magnus remarked, approaching them. “I suppose there’s somethin’ to be said in favor of sirin’ daughters.”