Chapter 14
Lachlan woke disoriented. As he glanced about his surroundings, he was reminded of a church. Covered with ceremonial urns and silks, a makeshift altar ran the length of one wall. Rosaries hung on another. But then he remembered the poisoning and Rosalyn’s passionate mission to save him. Still baffled by some of her actions, the darn girl had left him aroused and wanting more. He wasn’t sure if it was the herb mixture or his partially satisfying and equally frustrating romp with her that made the difference.
Lachlan realized that he’d slept in the wagon and it was a new day. In no time at all, he was dressed and out in the camp mounting his horse as if he’d never been ill.
Lachlan circled the camp’s perimeter, but stopped short when he discovered another party had joined their group.
Drawing his horse flush with the bishop on the outer circle, he leaned toward the holy man hoping to get some answers.
“English or Scot?”
“Not Roman.” The bishop chuckled. “The men identified themselves as Knights of the Garter. Do you know them?”
“Ah, the noble Knights of the Garter,” Lachlan said, thinking back to a time when he was recruited. “The legendary order founded by King Edward III. They are quite revered,” Lachlan said in a condescending manner.
“You do not sound impressed.”
It was Lachlan’s turn to chuckle. “I have some history with the group and it did not fare well. Though I’m not familiar with any of those men.”
The bishop coughed politely. “I do believe they were part of the promised escort, though you and the other men have been quite efficient.”
Of course, the Garter knights were to be the original protectors. Lachlan paused. That did alter his plans somewhat. His hope was to arrive at Edinburgh Castle, the hero, having led the bishop, the Golden Rose, and the entire party safely from English soil to Rosalyn’s Scottish homeland.
But just as he was about to look for the lass, one of the rider’s caught his attention. A mounted nobleman without a Garter banner. As Lachlan squinted into the sun to get a better look, the man raised an arm and began to wave.
Lachlan spun in his saddle to look over his shoulder. Who the rider was signaling? But when it was obvious he’d been the mark, Lachlan turned back only to find the rider approaching. The wicked grin, a mirror to his own.
As the sun’s rays cut swaths of bright beams through the dense trees, his brother rode through splashes of light and dark until he reached them.
“Brother, good to see you.”
“Why are you here?” Lachlan demanded when his brother reined in his warhorse short before them.
The bishop made the sign of the cross. Clearing his throat, he offered, “One of these men appears to know you after all. Scusami.” Then the holy man dug his heels into the sides of his steed and steered his horse toward the front of the caravan.
After the holy man was out of ear shot, his brother spoke first. “No words of endearment?” Ethan asked, cocking his head to one side, his sarcastic tone ripe.
“Last I heard, you were posing as me. I thought you traveled to Somerset, to see father.”
“Last I heard, you were poisoning me.”
“What?”
“Do not pretend,” Ethan spat, breath hissing through his teeth. “I know your plan. Sideline me from making my report. But father came to Berwick to see for himself. And he wasn’t pleased. You know what that means?”
Disgust rising from within, Lachlan glared at his brother. The same features, the same father, the same blood, but in Lachlan’s eyes they were more like mortal enemies.
“That you will do everything in your power to make yourself look good and make me look like an arse.” He was angry, and if they weren’t both mounted, he’d have punched him in the face.
“Turn around, Brother,” Lachlan said slowly, working hard to keep his voice level. “Go take my place in Berwick with the ladies. Tell them you are Lachlan and enjoy the fruits of my bed.”
His brother laughed louder than necessary. “What? And disobey Father? That’s a death sentence, Brother.”
“Perhaps only one of us will survive this battle for Fyvie,” Lachlan threatened.
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Ethan replied, his disgust apparent.
“If we are choosing allies in that arena, I already have the bishop in my stead.”
“You are too impressed with yourself to remember that he’s already blessed me.”
“The devil owns your soul. No blessing will save you.”
“Gentlemen!” Rosalyn’s sweet voice cut through the arguing. “Stop acting like spoilt children and prepare to disembark.”
Lachlan’s gaze darted from Rosalyn to the Garter knights, who’d stopped to gawk at their squabbling.
“Brotherly banter, I assure you.” Lachlan’s swung his gaze to meet Rosalyn’s again. “Don’t you fight with your siblings?”
“Not in front of noble knights and men of the church,” she said in a condescending manner, tsking him after.
“Well then,” Lachlan said, clearing his throat, “we’ve just shown you how it’s properly done.” He glared at his brother and guided his horse forward, kicking the sides of his destrier.
“Come, Rosalyn, it appears I may join your efforts and help you win Fyvie Castle after all.” He kept his eyes on his brother as his horse fell in step beside hers. “If it means defeating my father and brother at the same time, it may be worth the sacrifice,” he muttered to himself.
Rosalyn sucked in a sharp breath, making him turn to her. Hope gleamed in her eyes. What was one castle, when he had the means to have many more? Perhaps his efforts would be better served joining forces with the Highland lass than fighting for it in her homeland. His brother had a way of altering his goals and ultimately, spoiling his good fun.
Once the party was underway, it wasn’t more than a half days ride until the group, led by the Garter knights, finally thundered across the drawbridge, passing under the jaws of the iron portcullis gate, and into the grand walled fortress that guarded the King of Scots.
First a golden rose to deliver, then Fyvie Castle’s fate to be determined. Lachlan was anxious for both.
~ ~ ~
The last hours of the day’s ride passed quickly enough for Rosalyn after the soldiers had announced Edinburgh was near.
And when her king’s castle finally came into view, her pride of being Scottish had never been stronger.
Once they’d been properly welcomed, Rosalyn was led by soldier escort through the halls of King James’s castle, grateful to be a guest and not a prisoner.
Her life had taken precarious turns since she’d left Aberdeen. Not sure of who to trust or what to cling to, except for her love of her family, it was her determination to regain control of Fyvie Castle that saw her this far.
Through no fault of her own, though, Rosalyn had traveled through most of England and back to Scotland on her own without an escort. Although she’d left Aberdeen with her Uncle Angus, he’d fallen ill on their way to reclaim Fyvie. Traveling wool merchants from her home in Aberdeen had seen her safely to Berwick-upon-Tweed where she’d expected her uncle to rejoin her. But he hadn’t. Until today, finally back in her homeland, Rosalyn had been vulnerable without an escort.
Now that she was settled in the chamber next to Ursula’s, Rosalyn fell backward onto a freshly threshed bed and closed her eyes, recounting the words Lachlan had said earlier that afternoon. Could she begin to hope that the jealousy and competition between the twin brothers could work in her favor?
A sharp rap on the door interrupted her thoughts. Just as she raised her head to ask who was there, Ursula slipped into her chamber like a thief.
“The plan?”
“He’s on our side,” Rosalyn replied, hardness entering her voice.
“What?” Ursula asked, crossing the ornate rug, stepping softly as if she was still trying to steal her way in to the chamber.
“Lachlan is on our side. He wants to help me fight for Fyvie,” Rosalyn declared breathlessly, hoping there was some sincerity in his offer.
“Why would he help you?” Ursula asked flatly, seemingly unimpressed with Rosalyn’s enthusiasm.
“Because he hates his brother and father more than he wants the castle. I suppose there’s more, but I am certain his brother is a bigger threat than I am,” she concluded with a huff.
Ursula eyed her like a traitor. “Remember, lass, I’ve known the man longer than you and I wouldn’t put much stock in his willingness to look out for you before he looks out for himself. What makes you so sure he and his brother aren’t playing you for a fool?”
Rosalyn hopped up from the bed, anger flaring, cheeks heating as she moved toward Ursula. “Because I saw the go-for-blood look in their eyes. Because I heard the bitterness of competition in their voices. Because I could feel the hatred radiating between them.” Rosalyn’s hands fisted at her sides.
Ursula took a measured step back as Rosalyn began searching inside her skirt pocket for the furry pouch. When she found it, she held it high above her head like a victory trophy. “And because I found this,” she said, gloating.
Ursula remained silent, but crept closer when Rosalyn lowered the prize and began to loosen the thin, leather tie that held her precious pouch closed. She strode over to the bed and dumped the contents out onto the fur coverlet.
Ursula followed, then stood, curiously quiet beside her as Rosalyn began spreading out her precious cargo.
“Tartan. Key. Stone.” Rosalyn sucked in a sharp breath when the item she wanted wasn’t there.
“Where is it?” She turned to Ursula as if she’d know.
Ursula shrugged. “What are you missing? Is this the pouch you’d lost at Berwick?”
Rosalyn nodded frantically, tears welling in her eyes.
“Where did you find this?”
“In Lachlan’s breeches,” she said, sniffling.
Ursula burst out laughing. “You were searching Lachlan’s crotch in the bishop’s quarters and found this?” The healer’s eyes bugged out of her head.
“That sounds horribly wrong. Please understand I was held in his tight embrace. He was kissing me and I wanted to get away.” She sighed when she realized Ursula was holding back another laugh. “I—He does not know I have it,” she said with an exasperated sigh, sitting down on the bed next to her precious belongings.
Ursula joined her and put an arm around her shoulder. “Now, calm down and tell me everything from the beginning,” she said in a soothing voice.
Rosalyn sniffled and laid her head on Ursula’s shoulder. Seeing some of her most beloved treasures made her yearn for her mother and family.
“These are precious mementos. An important part of my life. My story. My family. I always carry them wherever I go.”
Ursula unwound her arm from her shoulder, then reached over her lap to take hold of the red stone.
“Do you recognize it?” Rosalyn asked, brightening.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Rosalyn nodded excitedly, forgetting some of her trepidation about the missing stamp.
Ursula stared at her in awe. “How do you come by this?”
“‘Tis been in my family for generations. It has been hidden. Sadly, many have died protecting it.”
“If it wasn’t missing, Lachlan must not know the stone’s value.”
Lachlan. The missing stamp. Her fears began swirling. A cloud of dread hung over her now and Ursula must have sensed it.
“Tell me more. Start at the beginning,” Ursula asked her, reaching over to swipe a tear off her Rosalyn’s cheek in a loving way.
Rosalyn heaved a sigh. “Yes, these tokens are all precious to me. The tartan. The stone . . .” She stroked the metal keepsake. “The key—” She lowered her voice. “to Fyvie’s secret treasure chest.”
“Pray tell, the token you are missing is as precious as these?”
“I’m missing evidence that will save me or damn me. And if Lachlan still has it, I’m not so sure he’ll want to save me.”