The Queen's Lady (6 page)

Mary could not believe that anyone would dare to harm a royal, so she chafed at their restrictions, but at last she agreed that guards could be posted around the section of forest where they would be hunting. And so, with the hounds baying around their horses' hooves, they began.

Scotland might not be as lush and rich as the continent, but the forest did have an almost eerie and beckoning beauty. It was barely fall, yet it seemed that under the green canopy, darkness came quickly. At first Mary rode ahead with James. Gwenyth, riding behind with Rowan, could not hear their conversation, though the two of them rode in silence, which seemed a strain to her.

Laird Rowan did not seem to notice, being caught up in his thoughts. Then, suddenly, he turned to her. “Will you go home soon to visit?” he inquired.

She stared blankly back at him. Amazingly, she had come here and not even thought about returning to her home on Islington Isle. She didn't answer with the first thought that came to her mind.

I am not wanted there.

“I…have not thought so far ahead.”

“So far ahead? But you've known for some time that you would be returning to Scotland.”

“I've been worried about the queen, I suppose.” She found herself adding in a rush, “You don't understand. This has been a difficult time for her. She is, despite her rank, an extremely caring and kind woman. She nursed King Francis through terrible times. She was with him when he breathed his last. Suddenly, despite her youth, she was the
dowager
Queen of France, and there were so many problems to be faced, so many people to be seen…. She was in mourning, but there were emissaries, strangers, coming to offer messages of solace from royalty and nobility, all of whom had to be seen and greeted courteously. All the while, she had to decide on the best course of action for herself and others.”

He was smiling as he watched her—sardonically, she thought.

“One would think that you, of all men, would not judge her but would have some understanding of what she felt,” she snapped.

His smile faded slightly, and he looked ahead. “I was thinking again, Lady Gwenyth, that our good Queen Mary is lucky to have such a staunch friend as you.”

She felt like a fool. “Thank you,” she murmured stiffly, then talking to cover her confusion. “Those who know her well truly love her—
all
those who know her, not just me.”

“Then she is very lucky indeed,” he said softly.

“Are you coming?” Mary called back to them then.

As she spoke, something thrashed in the woods ahead of them.

“Boar,” James said. “Let it be. We haven't the men to cope if the hunt goes badly.”

But Mary never heard him; she was off. She was an excellent archer, and Gwenyth knew full well that she could make the kill. But James raced after her, concerned, and Rowan, muttering beneath his breath, followed.

Gwenyth kneed her mount, ready for the chase, as well, though she didn't particularly like the hunt. Once she had seen a hart die a slow death; she had watched the glow go out of the beautiful beast's eyes, and she had never desired to be part of the hunt again, though there were times, such as now, when she had no choice.

Ahead, the unfamiliar path twisted and veered. Gwenyth found herself alone and realized that the others had apparently taken a different turn. She wasn't concerned; she
did
love riding. But as she slowed her horse, wondering where she had gone astray, she heard a thrashing sound.

Her horse heard it, as well, and began to shy. She talked soothingly, her hands firm on the reins.

All her experience did her no good. The mare suddenly shot straight up in the air, then flipped over, snorting and screaming, a blood-curdling sound. The next thing Gwenyth knew, she was on the ground, lying several feet from the mare, which struggled to its feet and bolted.

“Wait! Traitor!” Gwenyth shouted.

She stumbled to her feet, testing her limbs for breaks. She was sore from head to foot, covered in dirt and forest bracken. At first she was aggravated with both the horse and herself; there had been no way to keep her seat, but she should have been up more quickly, soothing the animal, keeping it near her.

Then she heard the noise again, and the boar appeared.

Arrows stuck out from its left shoulder. Blood oozed down the maddened animal's side. It had been hit and badly wounded, and now it was staggering but still on its feet.

And it saw her.

It stared at her, and she stared into its tiny eyes in return. It was immense; she couldn't begin to imagine its weight.

Die, she thought. Oh, please, die.

But it wasn't ready to die. Not yet. It pawed the ground, staggered, snorted—and began to race toward her.

She screamed and ran, looking desperately for a clear trail—and a tree she could climb.

Was it the pounding of the creature's hooves she heard, or the rapid thunder of her own heart? If she could just keep ahead of it long enough, it would have to die, given that it was losing so much blood. It seemed as if she ran for eons, and still she could hear it coming behind her.

Then she stumbled on a tree root and went flying into the brush. Despite being certain she was dead, she rolled, desperately trying to jump to her feet and run again.

The boar was almost upon her.

Then she heard a new thundering drawing near and heard the whistle of an arrow cutting through the air.

The boar wasn't ten feet from her when the arrow caught the creature cleanly in the throat. It seemed to back up a step, then wavered and fell dead.

She inhaled deeply, hunched down on the forest floor, shaking like a leaf. She blinked, and was barely aware when strong arms came around her, lifting her to her feet. She had never thought of herself as a coward, yet her knees gave way. She barely registered that it was Laird Rowan who had come for her, who had so unerringly killed the boar with a fraction of a second to spare, and who now lifted her cleanly to her feet, holding her close, soothing her as gently as he might a child. “You're all right. It's over.”

She clung to him, her arms around his neck, and as she leaned against the powerful bastion of his chest, she was all too aware that she was continuing to tremble.

“She should not have shot as she did,” he muttered.

“She” was the queen, Gwenyth knew. He was criticizing the queen.

She felt her indignation grow and gained strength from that. Her trembling ceased, and she realized Laird Rowan was shaking, as well, and she almost kept silent, but in the end she had to speak. She stiffened in his arms and said, “The queen is an excellent shot. Laird James should not have raced after her. He no doubt distracted her.”

“He was concerned for her life,” Rowan retorted instantly. “Apparently he should also have been concerned with yours.”

“Set me down, please, this instant,” she demanded, offended that he so clearly saw her as a useless fool.

He did as she demanded, and she wavered, then fell against him again. She really
was
a fool, she thought. She had not realized that her limbs had remained as weak as jelly.

He steadied her, not allowing her to fall. She fought desperately for strength and finally found it. “Thank you,” she enunciated, stepping back on her own at last. Of course, she must have made a sadly ridiculous picture, she thought, her riding hat gone, every pin lost from her hair, wild strands of it flying everywhere and filled with leaves and twigs. There was dirt on her face; she could feel it. Her riding costume was completely askew.

Embarrassed by her appearance, she knew she was defensive, and she even knew she had been wrong to take offense, when he had so clearly saved her life. As he stared at her, she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and she wanted desperately to open her mouth and speak, yet something—pride? shame?—kept her from it.

She saw disappointment seep into his eyes as she remained silent, and that made it all the worse. Why did she care so much what he thought of her?

She managed to whisper words at last. “It wasn't the queen's fault,” she said, but she knew those words were not enough. He'd saved her life. She needed to thank him.

It didn't help that he just kept staring at her.

At last she dredged up some dignity, as well as her manners. “Thank you,” she said primly and quietly. “You saved my life.”

He bowed low to her courteously, as if her words had not come shamefully late. “Perhaps you'll learn to ride with greater authority now that you are home,” he said, and turned away, heading for his mount.

Naturally his horse had obediently awaited him.

She followed him, moving with swift and certain strides. “I ride quite well,” she informed him.

“Oh?”

She flushed again. “My horse shied and fell,” she told him.

“I see.”

She could see that he didn't believe her. “She reared straight up, and then went over,” she elaborated.

“Of course.”

“You are impossible!” she exclaimed.

“I'm so sorry. Why is that?”

“You are not listening to me.”

“Of course I am.”

“You do not believe a word I say.”

“Did I say any such thing?” he demanded.

She tried very hard not to grit her teeth as she gathered up her torn riding skirt so she would not trip. “Again, I thank you for saving my life,” she said, and started down the path.

Unaware that he had followed her, she was startled when he grasped her arm. She spun around and stared up at him, her breath catching, her heart beating too quickly. Like him or not, he was imposingly tall and strong. He was also aggravating beyond redemption. But there was nothing repulsive about his touch.

“Where are you going?”

Where indeed?

“To find the queen.”

“On foot?”

She exhaled. “My horse, as you may have noticed, is nowhere to be seen.”

“Come.” When she continued to stand stiffly, he smiled at last and said, “You don't need to be afraid of me.”

“I'm not.”

“Perhaps not, but you're wary.”

“You haven't learned to love the queen. Maybe you will now,” she informed him.

“I serve Queen Mary with all that is in me.”

“But it's Scotland you love,” she informed him.

His smile deepened. “If it's Scotland I love, she is the persona of Scotland, is she not? Now come along. Join me in the saddle, so we can find the others.”

“You're horrible, and I don't think I can sit a horse with you.”

He laughed out loud then. “I agree with you, and you attack me.”

“You are not at all agreeing with me.”

He reached out and touched her forehead, brushing a strand of leaf litter from her forehead. It was an oddly tender gesture. Suddenly she didn't want to argue with him, she wanted to…

Feel his fingers brush her flesh again.

She stepped back quickly. He had a wife. One he adored, though she was so gravely ill.

“Come,” he said again, this time impatiently, then gave her no choice, picking her up easily and setting her atop the tall stallion before jumping up behind her. There was no help for it; his arms came around her as he managed the reins. She swallowed deeply, wondering how this person who could be so blunt and rude seemed to arouse something in her that she had never felt before.

It was absurd. And wrong.

Keeping her seat was not difficult. His horse was an immense ebony stallion, but completely under his control. The animal's gait was smooth, even and swift. Gwenyth leaned back in an uncomfortable combination of misery and arousal, more aware of a human touch than she had ever been in her life.

At last they returned to the copse where James and Mary awaited them. The queen cried out, upset, rushing over to Gwenyth and pulling her close the minute Rowan set her on the ground, hugging her fiercely, then withdrawing to search out her eyes and look for any injury upon her person.

“Are you hurt? My poor dear, it was my fault.” She accepted the blame while casting an angry eye toward her brother. “What happened? You found the boar. No, obviously, the boar found you. Oh, dear God, to think of what might have happened…”

“The creature is dead at last. We'll send someone for it, Your Grace,” Rowan said.

Mary cast him an appreciative glance, then looked back at Gwenyth. “You are all right?”

“My dignity is sadly shaken, but in all else, I am fine,” Gwenyth assured her, then drew a deep breath. “Laird Rowan arrived with miraculous timing. He—” Why, she wondered, did she hate so to say it? “He saved my life.”

“Then we are beyond grateful to Laird Rowan,” Mary said gravely.

He nodded in easy acknowledgment of her words. “Your Grace, I am pleased to serve in any way that I can.”