Ravished by a Highlander (27 page)

“He’s never to leave Skye, though,” he told her in the midst of her kisses. “I’ll have him shot if he tries.”

“Yes, yes, anything you want.”

He withdrew from her slowly, and with eyes that smoldered like brands, he said, “I want ye to be mine, and then I want ye
in my bed.”

*   *   *

The ceremony went smoothly, despite the tapping of Jamie’s boot against the cold church floor and his constant turning to
look over his shoulder, as if he expected the king’s entire garrison to come crashing through the doors.

Davina barely remembered the priest’s soft benediction. Her gaze was fastened on Rob’s throughout. Her vision filled with
his handsome face and loving smile, while her thoughts overflowed with brand new hopes for her future. She would make him
happy, this strong, determined man who gave her his heart, his home, and all that she’d ever wished for.

In the Great Hall, they feasted on roasted lamb (from which Davina and Maggie abstained), fresh breads and fruit pastries,
a variety of soups and broths, and Camlochlin’s finest ale and whisky. Rob moved about the guests with an ease that was bred
into him as the clan’s future Chief. But no matter who he spoke to, or what topic they engaged, his gaze found hers across
the room. His smile was intimate and eager.

Davina knew he wanted her, and though her body still ached, she wanted him just as much. She wanted to be alone with him,
to touch him, explore him, breathe him, taste him, and tell him how desperately she loved him.

She wasn’t prepared though when, setting down his last drink, he reached for her and traced her lips with the pad of his thumb.

“Bid good eve to our guests.” His command was low, throaty, and riddled with desire.

She blushed and averted her eyes from the dozens watching as he kissed her. When he bent to scoop her up in his arms, Will’s
cheer rang through her veins and made her cover her face in Rob’s fresh plaid.

Her mortification was soon replaced with awe and the sting of joyful tears when Rob carried her into his chambers—their chambers.
Hundreds of candles lit the room like stars on a summer night. Lush bouquets of purple heather filled every corner and permeated
the air with the soft, sweet scent of the Highlands.

“You picked all this yourself,” she said, remembering how good he smelled this morn.

“Finn and Will aided me.” He dipped his mouth to hers and carried her to the bed. “Does it please ye, Davina?”

She nodded, unable to form the words without weeping. Yes, yes, it pleased her. Oh, God, yes! Everything he did pleased her.
Every button in her gown that he loosened, every tender kiss he pressed to her exposed flesh, pleased her. He saved her life
and sheltered her in the safety of his capable arms. She didn’t think anything could make her love him more—until he picked
flowers for her!

“I love you,” she whispered as his body covered hers and he sank deep within her. “Only you until I die.”

K
ing James sat alone in the royal solar staring blankly into the hearth fire, a silver cup of wine dangling from his fingers.
He paid no heed to the music or merriment wafting upward from the Banqueting House below. His coronation had drawn every nobleman
in England and Scotland to Whitehall Palace, as well as many Highland chiefs, all eager to pay their new king homage and kiss
his royal arse. But none of them could be trusted. Indeed, it was more than likely that one or more of them were responsible
for the tragedy that left him in his present condition, drunk and heartsick.

She was dead.

Soon after the ceremony proclaiming him king, word had come with Lord Dumfries that St. Christopher’s Abbey had been burned
to the ground. No one was left alive.

Davina.

With no witnesses, it was impossible to know who had committed the terrible crime.

For over a se’nnight after the celebration had moved from Westminster to his new home at Whitehall, James had pretended good
humor during the day. He’d greeted his guests, ate, drank, and smiled when the moment demanded it, but his thoughts were always
on her. At night, like this one, he sat in his solar alone, too filled with grief and anger to feign anything else. Who was
responsible for killing her? He racked his brain while he doused all his regrets with the finest wine in England. He had too
many enemies to count, but none of them knew that Mary was not his firstborn.

Charles had known, of course. James had told his brother soon after Davina was born. At first, the previous king reviled the
notion that his niece was being raised as a Catholic. But eventually, Charles stood by him, as he had done on so many other
occasions, knowing his younger brother to be a rebel of sorts and a man of secrets. Indeed, James had wed Anne Hyde, a commoner,
in secret. He had denounced Anglicanism and kept his conversion hidden for many years—a task he had hated, but one serving
the throne. When Davina was born, he knew she would be raised in the Protestant faith, even against his wishes, so he removed
her from court. An act of rebellion it might have been at first, but after years passed with Charles producing no legitimate
children, and with opposition to the Catholic faith growing steadily, it became imperative to keep his firstborn hidden from
the world.

The nuns of St. Christopher’s Abbey knew who she was, as did Captain Geoffries, and after him, Captain Asher and his men.
His dear wife Anne had cried out for her daughter before she expelled her last breath. How many were in attendance at her
deathbed? Mary and his youngest, Anne, had been there, along with the Bishop and Lords Covington and Allen of Parliament.
Besides them, James had no idea who suspected that the child his wife wept for had not died at birth.

He took another swig from his cup, then let it drop to the floor. Little Davina. He had seen her only twice in her life after
her birth, once when she was but two years of age, and then again when she was one and ten, a year after her mother left the
earth. It was too dangerous to visit the Abbey, but he’d arranged for the Abbess to have his daughter brought out of doors
while he and his troupe passed St. Christopher’s on their way to Edinburgh. James had wanted to bring her to Spain, or even
France, where he’d spent many years before the Restoration, and where he had first been introduced to the Catholic faith.
But Anne wanted to keep her close, so they kept her in Scotland, and left her in the care of nuns. Anne had never seen her
daughter again.

Davina became another secret amid the many he had been forced to keep during his life. Now she was dead, and he grieved, not
as a king whose hope in an heir to carry on his beliefs was lost, but as a father who never had the chance to know or love
his daughter.

There came a knock at his door. He allowed entry and looked up as his young wife Mary entered the solar with three guards
stationed around her.

“My lord.” She curtsied and bowed her head dutifully, the dark ringlets around her ears bobbing. “One of your captains has
returned from Scotland and requests an audience with you.”

He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell anyone why he was here in his solar drinking his way into unconsciousness instead of
enjoying the festivities in the Banqueting House.

Davina might as well have died at birth like the four other babes after her. Anne had wept that her stillborns were God’s
punishment for what they had done. But his true firstborn hadn’t perished in the womb. He had seen her, so small, so innocent,
smiling up at Captain Geoffries as if he was her father instead of the man trotting outside the gates of the Abbey with a
boulder on his heart. Surely, God had not forgiven him, and never would.

“I don’t wish to see anyone. Send him away.” James waved his wife away with a heavy hand.

“Your daughters Mary and Anne inquire after you, as do their husbands.” She broke away from her guards and rushed forward,
falling on her knees when she reached him. “I pray you come to the Banqueting House, lest they see your absence as a sign
of fear of your enemies.”

Ah, yes, William of Orange, his son-in-law, who had done everything in his power to stop him from succeeding to the throne.
Now there was a man capable of murder. Unlike James’s other nephew and archenemy, James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, who opposed
James’s ascension openly, William smiled while he plunged his dagger, denying, even as one bled, that the weapon was his.

“Husband.” Mary squeezed his hand when he closed his eyes, too weary to think on the rest of his enemies. “Whatever is troubling
you, you must put it aside. You are the king and you have many supporters. I am one of them.”

James looked into her dark, imploring eyes. He never thought he could care for a woman the way he had for his beloved Anne,
but Mary of Modena had proved him wrong. It had taken her some years to adapt to her significantly older husband, but he believed
she cared for him. She was dutiful and quiet in audience, but at night she shared with him, not only her body, but her thoughts
and opinions. What would she think of him if she knew he had abandoned his daughter?

“There are things I would tell you, wife.”

“Later.” She patted his hand and then kissed it. “First, speak to this captain. He says the matter is an urgent one. After
that, come sit by my side and still the tongues that flap against you.”

He smiled at her faith in him, her strength. Anne would have liked her. “Very well, show him in and then inform my guests
that I will join them shortly.”

He watched her leave, the three guards following close behind. When the door closed again, he shut his eyes and saw his daughter’s
face. She’d been cherubic at two, with plump, pink cheeks, hair the palest shade of yellow, and eyes as big and as blue as
the heavens. When he saw her again nine years later, it was from a distance; but his gaze soaked in every detail of her form,
the way she moved across the courtyard on her way to the church, and how she paused ever so briefly and looked out beyond
the gates as if she could sense him there.

He’d taken every precaution. He thought no one knew of her and still he’d sent an army to protect her should his enemies ever
discover his secret. But it hadn’t been enough.

A knock at the door shattered the image of her face. James allowed entry and briefly looked up as two men entered the solar.
One of them he recognized as Captain Connor Grant, the High Admiral Stuart’s nephew. Grant’s companion, a younger man garbed
in Highland fashion, set his bold gaze on him, and then on the cup discarded close by.

“Yer Majesty,” said Grant, dropping to one knee. His companion remained standing.

“What are you called, young man?” James asked, genuinely amused for the first time in a fortnight. Now here was something
out of the ordinary. He didn’t know whether to scowl at his audacious guest, or smile at him.

“I am Colin MacGregor, Yer Majesty.”

“MacGregor…” Yes, he should have guessed it, the king thought to himself, sizing the lad up from the tips of his muddy boots,
to his eyes, lit from within with quiet confidence. “Are you from Rannoch?”

The lad shook his head. “Skye,” he said, glancing around the solar. He didn’t look overly impressed with the finery surrounding
him, but rather surprised to find the king alone.

“Ah, your Chief is among my guests.”

“Aye, he is my faither.”

The pride in his voice pleased James. He had met the infamous Devil MacGregor and his family after the ceremony and had invited
them to Whitehall. The chief was a man James wanted on his side. A bit secretive himself, MacGregor disclosed to no one exactly
where on Skye he lived. Oh, it would have been simple enough to find out, for James’s cousin Claire lived among them, wed—by
Charles’s approval when he was alive—to Connor Grant’s father. But James did not ask. As long as the MacGregors never came
against the realm again, he would let them have their secrets. Some men needed them. “Why did you not arrive with him?”

“That is what I’ve come to speak with ye about, sire,” Captain Grant said, rising from his knee. He gave the Highlander a
hard look for his lack of submission before he turned his attention to the king.

“Yes, yes, sit.” James offered. “What is this urgent news you have for me?”

“’Tis about the attack on St. Christopher’s Abbey.”

James’s heart halted in his chest. It took every ounce of will he possessed to remain in his chair and to keep his voice steady
when he asked the captain what he knew about it.

“I know who is responsible fer it.”

“Who?” James asked hollowly. His beringed fingers clutched the armrests until his knuckles grew white. At last… at last, a
name…

“Admiral Peter Gilles, sire. The Duke of Monmouth’s right-hand man.”

Now the king sprang to his feet. The murderous rage that had been eating away at him night after night had finally found direction.
“If what you say is true, they will both die beneath the Wheel. What proof do you have of your accusation?”

Grant looked down at his hands. When he spoke, his voice was low and strained with reluctance. “Colin was there when it happened.”