Wild Hearts (31 page)

"Did you bring the stuff?" asked Mrs. Sinclair.

"Of course. Tell me, has she ever mentioned the day old Angus fell to his death?"

"I heard her tell Tabrizia about the time someone came to kill her, but she spoke of a man. She never knew it was you in men's clothing. It is too bad we didn't get it over with that day. If only that old fool Angus hadn't interfered."

"I had to do it— he recognized me," Margaret insisted.

"It doesn't matter. I told you Paris suspects Anne pushed his father over. He is convinced that she can walk."

"She'll never walk again," vowed Margaret. "Now we have to convince them downstairs that Anne is near death and we are doing all we can for her."

Margaret went down to the solarium and was relieved to find Damascus alone. She told her Anne was unconscious and could not be roused. She said her mother was sick with worry, as Anne had been ailing all night and had sunk deep into a coma. Damascus, very upset, went up to look at Anne and indeed found her in the condition Margaret described. In a panic she went to the stables to look for Shannon. The moment Damascus left, Margaret took the vial from her pocket and slapped the woman in the bed until she roused enough to swallow the contents. Anne breathed deeply once, sighed and stopped breathing. Margaret pulled back her eyelids to find her pupils totally dilated. She then felt for the pulse. There was none. By the time Damascus brought Shannon, Paris's wife was dead, and no matter what suspicions the shrewd redhead might have, there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it.

Paris confronted Magnus with his temper so hot, Magnus had a devil of a time calming- the irate man.

"Betrothed to whom?" Paris demanded angrily.

"I can't tell you," said Magnus pompously.

"Can't or won't?" shouted Paris.

"All right, I won't tell you," Magnus shouted back. "You think I don't know how badly you want her? I'm not blind! Give me credit for some intelligence. But the simple truth is ye have a wife, so ye cannot have her. I won't see Tabrizia a concubine, and if you love her, you'll let her make an honorable marriage."

Paris stomped out, but before the day was over, he had spoken to both Mrs. Hall and to Jasper, and he knew to whom Tabrizia was betrothed. His pride wouldn't have been mutilated if it had been a lesser man than himself. He could have scorned their choice. Pointing out the man's shortcomings would have been balm to his wounds, but Patrick Stewart was the highest in the realm. That he was darkly handsome and had a way with women made matters worse. Paris's emotions were in shreds. The wound she had opened in his heart was raw with pain.

He sought Tabrizia deliberately and found her at the Queen's Court. "So, you are betrothed to Patrick Stewart. Does it not bother you that gossip names him father of the Queen's last child?"

Tabrizia used her tongue to wound him. "Can you say truthfully that you, too, have never warmed the Queen's bed, milord? Do I detect a note of envy that your seed failed, where perhaps his did not?"

He almost struck her, but with an iron, control he stayed his hand and sneered. "How much is Magnus paying him?"

This question dismayed her greatly, but she was determined not to let him see it. She shrugged casually. "Men's lives are unfortunately ruled by economics, though I doubt even the Earl of Orkney would be rapacious enough to demand twenty thousand in gold!"

Two hours later, Paris encountered John Gordon and did the unpardonable. A spark was inevitably ignited the split second they ran into each other. Paris knew in any encounter between two people, one emerges dominant, one submits, the crucial difference made by fear. He vented his spleen by drawing his knife and dirking Gordon in the shoulder. The moment the King heard of the incident, and the news traveled like wildfire, he banished Cockburn from Court.

The juicy tidbit was upon every lip, so it was only a matter of hours before Tabrizia learned of it. She heaved a sigh of relief. Now she would not be jumping out of her skin at shadows, nor constantly looking over her shoulder for that tall, menacing figure.

When she opened her door that night to the familiar, low knock, she was surprised to see Patrick Stewart himself. She held the door wide to admit him, and he slipped in quietly. He took her hands, then drew her to him for a long kiss. He murmured against her hair, "I know I cannot stay long, but I want you to meet me tomorrow at your father's house. We cannot talk here; walls have ears."

She scanned his face anxiously. "Is aught amiss?"

He shrugged and gave her a confident smile. "Yes and no. Tell him to have the marriage contracts ready."

"Thank you for the beautiful material, milord," she whispered.

He kissed her eyes. "I cannot wait to see you in it."

The next day, when she went to her father's house, she announced, "Did you know that the King has banished Paris from Court?"

"Yes, and a good thing, too, I say. The lad is so reckless, there is nothing he will not dare, no risk he will not run. For his own sake I am glad he is gone. It was a miracle he did not commit murder under the King's nose."

When the Earl of Orkney arrived, and after he had drunk down his customary raw whisky, he carefully read the marriage contracts and studied every word. He did not sign them but asked if he might take them with him to examine again.

Tabrizia spoke up, "Something is troubling you, milord. Will you not share it with me?"

"You know the Court thrives on gossip, and since I have heard the rumors, no doubt they will be reaching your ears, too. I have been warned the King is considering laying charges against me."

She gasped. "What charges, milord?'

He hesitated, then went on bitterly, "He claims he has received complaints of oppressions, extortions and rapes in my kingdom."

She went pale. "What will happen?"

He shrugged, "If the charges are laid, I will be incarcerated in the Tower until they are disproven."

"You must get away from Court before that happens," said Magnus decisively.

"My thoughts exactly." Stewart smiled.

"I am ready to leave, milord, whenever you are," offered Tabrizia, crushing down the doubts that were beginning to surface.

"We can be married in the chapel at Denmark House. I have already spoken to the chaplain. I will come for you in the next few days. Spend a while with your father and say your farewells."

She made an obedient curtsy, and her heavy lashes swept down to cover the uncertainty in her eyes. Now that the time was almost upon her, she was unsure.

Paris Cockburn was ready to weigh anchor on the
Sea Witch,
ready to welcome the open sea to rid his nostrils of the stench of the Court. He belonged in Scotland, and that was where he was bound. As he stood on deck in the late afternoon beneath a leaden sky, a messenger was dispatched to him from a ship that had just arrived. He took the sealed packet below to his cabin, noting the writing of his sister Damascus. He broke the seal and scanned the fine writing. He took the paper over to the cabin's porthole to shed more light .upon the delicate script.

My dear brother Paris,

It is with great sadness that I give you the tragic news of your wife's death. Mrs.Sinclair and Margaret did everything they could, but it was too late. Please return as soon as you are able.

Damascus.

Under her writing, Shannon had added a few sentences in her bold hand.

Paris,

By the time you return, Anne will be buried. I suspect Margaret and her mother of foul play, but since they may have rid us all of a burden, perhaps we should not examine it too closely.

Shannon.

Alexandria had scribbled a couple of words at the bottom, which he could not make out. He folded the letter carefully and slipped it inside his doublet. The news had taken him totally off guard. He wasn't hypocrite enough to feel sorrow at the loss; nevertheless, he sighed for what might have been under different circumstances.

His mind probed the words he had just read. There had been no mention of what had caused her death, and a frown deepened between his brows as he pondered Shannon's meaning. Most likely it had been the morphia that had killed her, and Mrs. Sinclair was practiced at administering it. He was relieved that it had happened while he was so far away, for as sure as night follows day, suspicion would have been laid at his doorstep, for he had never made a secret of the fact that there was no love lost between them. He stood up, shaking off the queer lethargy that had stolen over him. He must get back as quickly as possible. He was needed.

He went up on deck to check the tide and saw that it was time to haul up the anchor. He shouted the order, then took the letter out again to reread its contents. As he glanced down the page, the two words Alexandria had added stood out clearly. She had written, "Secure Tabrizia!"

In his deep, carrying voice, he rescinded the order he had shouted. "Lower the anchor again, quick, before the tide takes us. We'll wait for the next tide." He went below to bathe and change his clothes; then, resplendent in his finest, he left the ship, a glittering light of determination in his emerald green eyes.

Tabrizia was about to go down for the evening meal when the low knock came upon her chamber door. She took the note from Jasper, and as she read the message, her pulse quickened at the instructions.

My Love,

We must be wed tonight before the King imprisons me. Meet me in the chapel at ten.

P.

She traced the bold letter P with her finger and wondered if she had the courage to go through with it. The rumors of oppression and rape in the Orkneys had upset her, yet, she reasoned, Patrick had only ever treated her with tender concern. With this thought foremost in her mind, she decided to seize the moment and make it happen. She bathed and put on white silk undergarments, then she took the exquisite bridal gown from her trunk and laid it upon the bed while she brushed her hair until it crackled like wildfire. As the minutes sped past, she feared that she would not be ready in time. She finished putting all her toilet articles in the trunk along with her jewel casket and the notes she had received. She fastened the catches on the heavy lid, noticing that her hands had begun to tremble.

She slipped into the wedding gown and set the coronet upon her darkly glowing hair. The transformation was amazing. As she gazed into the small mirror, she saw that she looked like a queen. It would be cold down in the chapel, and later, on Patrick's ship. She pulled her black sable cloak around her shoulders and sat down to wait. In a very short time Jasper's low knock came. She bade him enter, and he lifted her trunk to one shoulder. "I'll give ye safe escort to the chapel, mistress."

"Thank you, Jasper," she said mistily, "you have guarded me well." She followed him silently down the backstairs for three flights, until the doors of the chapel were in view. She pulled her furs more tightly around her and turned to say good-bye, but he had already gone, leaving as silently as he had arrived.

The chapel seemed dark and sinister at this late hour, and the silence stretched out before her, magnifying the whisper of the gown with every movement of her body. A tall figure swiftly moved out from the shadows, and as the pale yellow candlelight touched his hair and beard, she saw that it was Rogue Cockburn.

She gasped. "Why are you here?"

His dark green eyes raked the bridal gown, and a mixture of love and misery gripped his heart. He'd never beheld such rare beauty before, but it was intended for another, and the thought was unbearable to him. He said evenly; "I'm here to be married. You received my note?"

Tabrizia thought her senses had gone astray, nothing made sense to her. "Your note? But I thought..." Then she realized the P had meant Paris, and she was caught in yet another one of his plots. "What of your wife?" she asked, raising bewildered eyes to his.

"Dead," he replied bluntly.

Her small hand flew to her throat. "Murdered?" she choked, her eyes mirroring the fear that gripped her.

He nearly went on his knees to swear before God he'd had no hand in it, then his pride rose up and would not let him be bested. His eyes narrowed dangerously as he reached out a brown hand and brought her close against him. "Does it matter?" he challenged coldly.

Tabrizia searched his harsh features, dreading the worst, then lowered her eyes at what she saw there. She could not bear to look at him. "I cannot...
will not
... marry you," she uttered.

He remembered that he had decided he wanted all or nothing, yet here he was willing to settle for anything he could get. If he could not have her love, then so be it, but he would have her at any cost. A derisive laugh escaped his lips, and his grip upon her arm tightened as he pushed her forward into the chapel. She felt so small and helpless as he towered above her, yet she was determined not to utter the words that would join them. Her feet moved one in front of the other against her will as she was slowly forced toward the altar.

When the chaplain approached, Paris let go of her arm and clasped her hand, which was icy cold against his warm, brown fingers. She raised pitiful eyes to the priest and begged, "Help me... this man—" Her words were stopped in her throat as Paris gripped her hand so tightly, she feared her small bones would be crushed.