Stuart, Elizabeth (18 page)

"Listen
to me, Jonet. Just listen," Alexander said, stepping back. "After
that I'll not stop you if you still want to go."

She
hesitated uncertainly and Alexander hurried on. "I was as surprised as
your uncle when Murdoch rode up out on the moor. I wasn't expecting him. There
was nothing arranged between us. Yes, I was going to turn Mure over, I owe him
that from a long time ago. But I wasn't going to hand you over. I was going to
take you to friends, get you out of Scotland just as I'd told you I
would."

Jonet
glanced over her shoulder, wanting to run, wanting to be away from his eyes,
his voice, from that incredible something that made her want to forgive the
unforgivable. "I don't believe you," she repeated, taking a hasty
step back. "I don't even want to believe you!"

"Name
of God, Jonet, if you won't believe what I'm saying, at least use your head!
You know I hate Murdoch. Do you think I want to see him made even more powerful
by gaining control of the Maxwell lands? I'd do what I could to stop this
marriage if for no other purpose than that. Lord, I'd try to stop you even if
you did want to marry that ass!"

His
voice was the same: low, persuasive, swaying her even when she didn't want to
be swayed. He moved closer. "Yes, Jonet, I tricked you. I lied to you in
the beginning. And I'll admit the truth to you, lass, I'd probably do the same
tomorrow if it gave me my chance at Mure. But the rest was no trick and this is
no lie. I won't see you married to Thomas Douglas and that's a fact. Jonet, for
the love of God, let me help you!"

She
raised her chin defiantly. "I don't need your help. I'm doing just fine on
my own!"

"And
just where are you proposing to go? You won't last an hour out here now the
sun's gone down."

"No?
Well, you might be surprised to learn I can think for myself! I'm going to
Hol—" She caught herself in consternation.

"Holyrood,"
Alexander finished. "Jonet, don't be a fool!"

"I'm
not," she announced icily. "Margaret won't turn me over to the
Douglases. She hates them as much as I do."

"Sweet,
suffering Jesu!" Alexander swore. "No, Margaret won't turn you
over—not until they grease her fist with a bit of silver." His hands
caught her shoulders. He gave her a rough shake. "Margaret Douglas changes
sides so often no one can keep up. You can trust her only so long as you can
still see the silver in her palm. She's sold her brother's council to her
husband, her husband's plans to Wolsey, Wolsey's advice to the French, and
Francis and Albany's secrets back to Henry again. The one constant in her life
is her desire to get back her son."

"That's
not true! Robert said—"

"And
just look where Robert is now!" Alexander interrupted. "Do you think
Margaret's lifted a finger to help him? I can tell you she hasn't!"

His
grip tightened. "Even if she did want to help, there's nothing she can do.
Save for a handful of guards paid for by the French and her blessed dignity as
the Queen Mother, Margaret has nothing. Angus allows her to keep Stirling
Castle and some of the rents from her properties. He allows her some semblance
of independence because it makes things appear normal. Believe me, lass,
Margaret Douglas isn't about to risk swamping the leaky ship she's at sea with
just to pull you on board. She's had to fight too hard to keep her own self
afloat!"

Jonet
was shivering, all hope dwindling to bits. Everything Alexander had said might
be true, but she didn't know. "But I don't want to go back! I don't want
to marry Thomas!" she cried. "They'll hurt Robert if I don't
and—"

She
broke off. Tears of fear and frustration welled in her eyes. "God...
oh
God. What am I going to do?"

For
a moment, Alexander said nothing. In the uncertain wash of the distant street
torches, his face softened.

"You're
going to trust me to help you, Jonet. For God's sake, let me help you!"

"Trust
you?" She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. "After what you
did? Sweet Lord, you haven't even tried to deny it!"

"No,
I haven't. Doesn't that tell you something?" He drew her against him and
she stiffened. Still, it was wonderful to feel him, so warm, so close, to shut
out the confusion and fear for a moment.

"I'll
tell you what you're going to do, Jonet. You're going back with me to whatever
is left of Angus's house. And you're going to trust me to help you even though
common sense calls you a fool. And you're going to find, lass." He
hesitated, tilted her face toward his. "That sometimes it's wisest to seem
a fool."

He
didn't kiss her and, unbelievably, Jonet found herself wanting it, aching for
it. His arms were the same sweet haven she remembered. The warmth of his body
held the same magnetic pull. Just what kind of simpleton was she, that she
could so quickly forget what he'd done?

"You're
not going to marry Thomas Douglas," Alexander repeated. The ghost of a
smile touched his face. "You didn't have to burn the bloody house down and
run out here into who knows what danger. For God's sake, lass, let's save a bit
of wear and teat on us both. There's plenty of trouble to go around without
creating what's unnecessary."

His
eyes scanned her face, his smile slowly fading as his gaze dropped to her
mouth. She felt the heat of that look as if he had touched her, sensed the
wanting in him that fueled her own. The slightest tremor shivered through the
long, tactile fingers resting against her face. "Do you know, Jonet, how
much..." He breathed in deeply, "How very much I want to kiss
you?"

Her
heart had set up an unsteady beating. "No, don't! I... I can't," she
cried out. "Don't you understand, Alex? I can't!" Still, she found
herself studying his mouth—his beautiful, fascinating mouth.

The
moment stretched into an age. Then Alexander lowered his head, his lips
brushing hers as she twisted her face away.

"Jonet,
don't. Don't turn away from me." His eyes met hers, held them with some
nameless power she couldn't fathom. She had a fleeting thought that he must
practice the Black Arts.

And
then she ceased to think at all as their lips met, parted, joined, as she was
drawn into his arms and into his kiss. She closed her eyes, refusing to think
of anything but the intense and overwhelmingly sensual pleasure of their bodies
together, of his mouth against hers.

His
arm slid down her back. He gathered her closer and she leaned into him, her
arms slipping around his neck, her fingers threading the cool, thick silk of
his hair. For a moment there was no danger, no fear, no Douglases and no Robert
Maxwell—just his heart thudding heavily against hers, his mouth joining hers in
the unexpected reawakening of an incredible magic between them.

"Pardon,
Monsieur Hepburn, I do so hate to interrupt. But your presence is urgently
desired elsewhere."

The
words scarcely registered. Then Alexander was spinning her around and sideways,
his right arm reaching for his sword.

"I
think not, monsieur."

The
sword never finished its arc from his sheath. Five men had stepped out of the
fog and one of them was Grant. The Scotsman moved carefully, the point of a
sword held fast against his throat.

The
speaker made the slightest suggestive movement of his weapon and Grant
flinched. Jonet's eyes widened as a trickle of red spouted just beneath his
jaw.

"His
fate rests in your hands." The man glanced significantly toward Jonet.
"As does hers,
n'est-ce pas?"

"Sorry,
Alex," Grant muttered. "They were on me in this fog before I knew
what had happened."

Alexander's
arm tightened reflexively about Jonet. "Very well, I find myself
persuaded. If you let the girl go... and him."

"But
certainly. We've no interest in your woman. This fellow either unless he is so
foolish as to follow. Now drop your sword. Your dagger as well,
s'il vous
plait."

Alexander
nodded grimly and began unbuckling his sword belt. No chance of making a fight
of it—not with Jonet here. He'd been a fool to be caught offguard. He'd known
the French were here. He should have known they'd want him. But he hadn't been
thinking of that. He'd only thought of Jonet.

He
found her staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. He forced a smile.
"It's all right, lass. Grant will see you safe up to the castle. Tell
Murdoch the two of you came to fetch him because of the fire. Make him believe
it was an accident."

She
nodded.

One
of the Frenchmen was moving forward to collect the discarded weapons. Removing
his dagger, Alexander dropped it to the ground alongside his sword belt.
"No more running away. Stay put unless Grant tells you differently."

Jonet
nodded again. "Alex, are you..." She looked toward the men. "Are
you going to be all right?"

He
reached out and caught her chin. "Aye, lass." He stared at her, eyes
narrowed, an odd, aching emptiness spreading through him. Lord, where would
Jonet be if anything happened to him?

"We
are waiting, monsieur. This farewell, make it brief."

Alexander
breathed in sharply. Christ, he didn't ever remember such an overwhelming urge
to kiss a woman. Or a woman who looked so like she wanted to be kissed!

He
dropped his hand. With one last glance he swung about and strode toward the
men. He leveled a hard look at Grant. "Look after the girl."

Grant
nodded. "Aye. I'll see to it."

***

The
men moved off, and the fog immediately swallowed them up. Alexander moved
silently, watching for a chance of escape. Twice he gathered himself for the
attempt only to relax a few moments later. Eight inches of steel rested snugly
against the base of his spine and he couldn't afford to miscalculate. These men
had the look of professionals. His only hope was to play for time.

They
halted before an abandoned shop. The door swung open and he was shoved forward
into an ill-lit room littered with empty crates and broken barrel staves.

Four
men sat at a makeshift table playing cards. They were dressed as the others,
soberly but expensively in woolen doublets and cloaks.

The
man who appeared to be the leader of the band lifted his sword point to
Alexander's cheek. "You are without weapons, monsieur, and clearly
outnumbered. Behave yourself and your hands and feet will remain free. Anything
else would clearly be suicide."

Alexander
didn't bother to look at the sword. "I don't see any reasonable
alternative."

The
man smiled and gestured to the right. A narrow stairway ascended into darkness.
"Upstairs then.
Maintenant!"

One
of the men caught up a candle and preceded them up the stairs. Alexander
followed, ducking through a low doorway and into a small, windowless chamber
that had probably been used for storage. He'd made a great many enemies in
France three years ago. Any one of them might be behind this. He just wished to
hell he knew which.

The
man put down the candle on a rough plank table. It was the only furniture the
room contained save a couple of stools. A sharp prod at Alexander's back drew
blood. He moved forward across the room and turned back, feeling the warm
sticky wetness against his shirt.

The
two Frenchmen were already on their way out. "Surely you didn't go to this
trouble just to bring me here and leave me," Alexander called.

The
man with the sword turned back. He glanced at his reddened sword point and
smiled. "I suggest you sit down, monsieur. You will have a short
wait." Then he stepped out, shutting and bolting the heavy door behind
him.

Alexander
sent a thoughtful look about the room. There was no avenue of escape and
nothing to use as a weapon save the rickety stools. He walked over to inspect
them, then leaned down and slipped a dagger from his boot. It was a sweet
little weapon and had done its share of service for him and Jonet. He slid one
finger along the well-honed edge, then pressed a hand to the sting at his back.
Then, smiting, he took the Frenchman's advice.

For
the next hour Alexander occupied himself by planning his escape, refusing to
consider what might happen if his efforts were unsuccessful. He tried not to
think of Jonet, but that kiss made it well-nigh impossible. He hadn't meant for
it to happen, but his feelings had caught him off guard. Then somehow he'd
found her in his arms. At least Grant would be able to see her out of Scotland.
That was all he'd planned to do anyway.

The
sounds betokening an arrival drifted up from below. A door slammed. There was a
rustle of footsteps and the muted hum of voices. Then footsteps ascended the
stairs.

Alexander
slipped the dagger up the sleeve of his doublet and leaned against the table.
The door swung open and two people stood silhouetted in the flickering light of
a single candle. One was his friend from below, the other a caped and hooded
stranger.

With
a short, impatient movement, the stranger flung back the hood, revealing hair
that gleamed gold in the candlelight. Blue eyes gazed out at him from the pale
face of a woman—an extremely well known woman.

Alexander
stumbled to his feet, then down on one knee. "Your Grace," he
managed. "What an unexpected honor."

Margaret
Douglas moved across the room toward him. "Honor? I would hardly call it so.
The son of a traitor and a traitor several times over yourself. You've worked
for my brother, now you work for the knave who was once my husband. I wonder I
don't have you killed and be done!"

Alexander
glanced up. "But you won't else this abduction wouldn't have been
arranged. You want something or you'd simply have hired these men as
assassins."

She
sent him a sharp look. "They may yet be. My French friends tell me there's
a reward in their country of five thousand crowns on your head. They seem to
want you badly enough and, frankly, I could use the money."

Alexander's
expression didn't change. The reward had been offered over two years ago. No
one had yet been able to claim it. "May I rise," he inquired.

She
nodded.

He
rose to his feet while Margaret studied him minutely. He gazed boldly back. At
forty the queen was long past her prime, but even with the ravages of numerous
offspring borne and buried and the strain of a fifteen-year struggle to retain
power, there where traces still of the English beauty who had married James IV,
bringing a dowry of hope for a peace between nations.

It
hadn't worked out, of course. The peace had been shortlived. Alexander felt a sudden,
unexpected sympathy for a woman caught between two countries and belonging to
neither. He was in the same quandary himself.

He
smiled and gestured to one of the stools. "I would I could make you
comfortable, Your Grace. Unfortunately, this is all I can offer."

She
shook her head. "I don't sit with traitors."

It
was obvious she wanted something. He just had to stay alive long enough to find
out what. "Oh, and what do you do with traitors?" he asked, knowing
she had no room to throw stones.

"Employ
them... occasionally."

"I
see."

She
was frowning, biting her lip. "They tell me you're good. You must be. I
understand you've worked for my brother and that devil Wolsey."

Alexander
nodded. "I had little choice. After Flodden my hand was forced, so to
speak. As I understand yours was."

Her
eyes flashed with quick Tudor anger. "Yes, I needed a man and I was a bit
too trusting. I'm still paying the price for that mistake, as you see."

"Certainly...
and so is Scotland."

"An
odd comment. You've surely profited from this tug-of-war between Angus, Henry
and me. Your barony and lands have been reinstated and I'm sure Angus keeps you
in funds—probably from rents that should be mine!" she added petulantly.

"My
estates are ruined, Your Grace. It will take more than the pittance I receive
to make them profitable again."

She
gazed at him consideringly. "Are you telling me you're in the market for a
new master?"

Alexander
shrugged. "I've yet to learn what you want, but I'm always willing to
listen to a beautiful woman."

For
the
first time she smiled. "Don't think me a fool to be swayed by smooth
words. I've had my share of them, but I fear the time's long past when I could
honestly be called beauty."

"Not
at all." Alexander hesitated, then smiling, took a step closer.
"Lasting beauty is in the bone structure, the eye, the lilt of the voice,
Your Grace. Things a truly beautiful woman retains no matter her age. You have
all that and more."

Margaret
inclined her head enough to hold his gaze, her eyes widening, her pupils
dilating slightly. She flung up her hand and snapped out an order to the
Frenchman. The man withdrew unobtrusively, shutting the door behind him.

Margaret
studied Alexander a moment longer, then her mouth twitched upward in amusement.
"And they told me you had no weapons. Fie, men are fools! I would say that
face, those eyes, that voice, Lord Hepburn, are all the weapons you require for
a most effective defense."

"But
a man can never be too careful and I don't trust to them entirely." With a
practiced movement, Alexander slid the dagger from his sleeve. It glinted
dangerously in the candlelight.

Margaret's
smile faded. "Do you threaten me, sir?"

"I
would no more harm my queen than my father betrayed his king, your husband,
fifteen years ago." Flipping the weapon over, Alexander presented it to
her, hilt first. "I am entirely at your mercy, Your Grace."

She
stared at the glittering blade. For a moment he thought the gamble had been a
mistake, but Margaret was a bold woman who had lived among bold men all her
life. She began to smile. "Keep it," she said, looking up. "I've
a feeling you might be needing it. Now... suppose we sit down."

***

An
hour later Alexander found himself on High Street. Margaret had offered an
escort, but he had declined. It wouldn't do for Angus to discover he'd been in
company with Margaret and her French allies. Lyle either for that matter.

Alexander
frowned, his thoughts still spinning from the unexpected turns of the evening. Margaret
had made it clear that unless he helped her get what she wanted, she would use
her powers to see him given over to the French.

And
what she wanted was her son.

The
situation was so ludicrous he had almost laughed in her face. She had
imperiously issued her orders and he had stalled for time. He had ended up
agreeing to see what he could do. It was the only way to get out of the
building with his freedom. With the performance tonight, he'd bought a few
weeks grace for himself, but he still had to untangle a situation growing more
complicated by the hour.

Lyle
and Diana wanted his services and had offered a reward so incredible it was
past belief. Margaret Douglas had demanded his help as well, and she'd used
threats as well as bribes. Angus wanted reports on both the English and French,
while Murdoch just wanted him dead.

And
then there was Jonet.

Alexander
frowned at the thought of her, at the remembered feel of her in his arms.
Strange that the memory of a simple kiss had remained with him so clearly after
all the twists of the evening. He was aware that she fancied herself in love
with him, and he found it ironic, now, that his original plan had succeeded so
well.

On
the surface it made things easy, but he had long ago begun to regret what he'd
started. He liked the girl, liked her beyond the powerful physical attraction
between them, the physical need she undoubtedly mistook for love. Well, she'd
find out one day about desire and the slacking of it, and that love was often
love only before and not after. But it wasn't going to be from him.

He'd
brought Jonet pain enough and there would be more to come once Mure was
executed. He only hoped he'd have her out of Scotland by then. He would discuss
her situation with Lyle. The Englishman had contacts in France. No doubt Albany
would be delighted to take a hand in her future. After all, Mure had been one
of his strongest supporters and Albany was well-known for his loyalty to his
own.

Alexander
frowned again, surprised to realize his thoughts had been turning so heavily on
the girl. It was only that he felt responsible. Having once tipped the scales
in her life, he felt oddly compelled to see balance restored.

Not
that it would move him to help Mure. The earl deserved what he'd got, though
not, of course, for any crimes the Douglases had trumped up. And Alexander was
finally going to have that little interview he wanted; Thomas Douglas would be the
key to that. Alexander was going to discover the truth about what had happened
to his father, or as much as Mure knew of it. And if he had his way, the man
was going to sweat.

Looking
up he found he was nearing Angus's town house. At least the fire Jonet started
hadn't burned it to the ground. Letting himself in, he crept up the stairs past
the parlor. The heavy smell of burned wool pervaded the house, but the fire
hadn't done any serious harm.

He
slipped down the hall, intending to pass Jonet's door and continue to his chamber
above. But something made him stop. For a moment all was silent, then the sound
of a woman's muffled sobbing came faintly from within.

The
door was unbolted. He eased it open and stepped inside.

The
sound ended abruptly. Jonet sat up in a rustle of bedclothes. "Who's
there?"

"And
who were you expecting?"

"Alexander!"

It
was a cry of overwhelming relief, and he smiled in the darkness. It was
surprisingly pleasant to know she still cared.

"Alexander!
Lord, I've had you dead in every conceivable way!"

"But
I'm not, as you see... or rather you can't see, but I assure you it's true.
I've all the important parts still attached."

The
heavy window curtains hung open and the faintest of lights filtered in. He
could vaguely make out a small figure huddled in the midst of the vast tester
bed. He moved toward it.

"Who
were those men?"

"Frenchmen."

"Well,
I know that! What did they want?"

"My
blood initially, but I was able to talk them out of it." He hesitated.
"It's something totally unrelated to your problems, Jonet. It will be best
for us all if you just forget what you saw."

She
digested his words carefully. "Very well. I was just... wondering."

"Oh?
Don't tell me those tears are for me. I thought perhaps, after reflection, you
might have been hoping I had met my fate."

"I'm
not crying," she began indignantly. "I'm just... just—"

She
broke off. For several seconds she was silent. "I don't know what to think
of you," she said at last. "A great deal of the time I hate you. I'm
trying so hard to hate you. When I think what you did... the lies...
all
those horrible lies!"
She hesitated again. "But yes... I was
worried. I won't try to pretend otherwise. Somehow I can't wish you dead. Not
even if you do deserve it."

Alexander
sat on the edge of the bed. Jonet had a sharp-edged honesty he admired, a
truthfulness that was her own worst enemy. And he hated to admit she'd said
exactly what he wanted to hear.

"Did
all go well after we parted?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
"Did Murdoch believe you?"

Jonet
accepted the change of subject gratefully. "I think so. He was furious at
first and I couldn't understand why. This isn't even his house! Then Angus came
out and he was quite nice."

She
leaned forward, clasping her knees. "Oh, Alexander, Angus was charming! I
can't believe he's as bad as everyone says. Perhaps he doesn't know all
Murdoch's done in his name. Do you think if I went to him and explained? If I
asked his help—"

"Jonet,
no. Believe me, Angus knows exactly what's been happening."

"Oh."
She rested her chin on her knees consideringly. "I suppose you would know,
wouldn't you?"

"Yes,
Jonet, I'm afraid I would."

"You
were right the other day when you said my world was turned upside down. The
hateful people are bad and the nice people are all bad as well. It's some kind
of miserable world this side up." A slight huskiness had entered her
voice. "I keep wishing I could just wake up and go home. That everything
would be like it was."

The
darkness was warm and intimate. It drew them together, heightening every physical
sensation, shielding their eyes and their thoughts. Alexander was
overwhelmingly aware of the soft bed beneath them, of Jonet's warm woman's body
only inches away from his own. Of the fact that he wanted to touch her. He
wanted much more than to touch her.

His
hand found her cheek in the darkness, traced the dampness of tears.
"That's not going to happen, lass. It's never going to be like it
was."