Chapter 27
Lachlan silently cursed. They’d been on the trail to Edinburgh for two days and there had been no sight of Ethan’s retinue. And according to the bishop, Ethan’s group had only a half day lead. But no matter how hard Lachlan’s team of eight rode, with fewer stops and short respites, they hadn’t caught up with Ethan yet.
Lachlan even was beginning to wonder if his brother’s group was traveling to Fyvie at all. His twin could have told the bishop of his plans, then convinced his party to travel to another part Scotland. Or to Somerset, for that matter, to hide Rosalyn. There was no telling, because the Garter knights would follow Ethan’s orders. They wouldn’t suspect his twin was doing anything wrong. And if Ethan had the Golden Rose of Scotland, it would be easier to sell if he were traveling through England.
Bishop Passarelli must have sensed his uncertainty. He turned his horse around and met Lachlan at the edge of the trail where they’d stopped.
“Lachlan, have faith,” the bishop said, holding both his reins and his hands in prayer. “Although they elude us now, God’s will is strong.”
“We are at a disadvantage, Bishop. Between an Italian priest, an English Lord, and six English knights, none of us are very familiar with this countryside.”
“Si, Lachlan, ‘tis clear we are taking the most-traveled path, and I sense your discouragement every time we encounter a traveler going the opposite direction with no news of Ethan’s party. If we don’t meet up with them on the road, we will in Aberdeen.”
Lachlan hoped what the bishop said was true. He was anxious about the safety of Rosalyn, but he would be more at ease if he knew she was already at Fyvie, where she had some support.
He hoped, too, that her people would welcome the real Lachlan Macpherson. But he needed to arrive in time to confront his brother, before Ethan was sworn in as laird and chieftain.
If he was too late, would there be a way to reverse the award? He had to expect that with the bishop’s trust in God’s will, all would be right soon.
~ ~ ~
Once inside Fyvie’s castle walls, Rosalyn scanned the group of servants who’d lined up to greet them. As they dismounted in the lower bailey by the stables, it was not long before one of them came rushing toward her.
“Lady Rosalyn, you are home,” the young girl gushed. “My prayers have been answered.”
Rosalyn remembered her well. “Sweet Catherine, yes, your lady has arrived home.” She smiled at the young girl, but before she had a chance to ask Catherine how she was doing, the rest of the staff queued up behind her.
Ursula stood by Rosalyn while some of the men got busy putting away the horses. It was only Sir James and Lachlan who stayed behind.
At the moment, Rosalyn did not care what her traveling companions thought of her welcome. She was going to relish every moment of it. These people had served her for years and were like family. She was happy to greet each one of them personally.
After the last servant woman came forward with a little bow, she took both of Rosalyn’s hands in hers.
“Greta!” Rosalyn immediately recognized her childhood nursemaid. Then Rosalyn threw tradition aside, drawing Greta into her arms. She gave her a hug with squeal of delight. “I’ve missed you so,” she confessed softly in the caretaker’s ear.
Greta held on and Rosalyn did the same, not wanting to let her nursemaid go as the memories came flooding back.
“Lady Rose,” Greta whispered in that familiar, loving voice, “your mother and sister are prisoners somewhere in Aberdeen.” The servant released her and bowed.
“So good to see you too, my lady,” Greta said in a formal tone. The maid’s eyes met hers and gave her a knowing look. “Good to have you home, my lady.” She curtsied. “I shall wait ‘til yer ready and escort ye to yer room.”
While Rosalyn plastered a smile on her face for appearances and waved the staff back to work, her mind began to whirl. Her mother and sisters were prisoners? Somewhere in Aberdeen? She wished Greta could have given her more information.
But Rosalyn was determined to keep her combined anger and panic in check. Boundaries, allies, and castle ownership needed to be established with a cool head and a strong constitution.
What would Dengas Macpherson do? That’s what she must do, she decided as she spun around.
Rosalyn turned to James and Lachlan with the same plastered smile she’d used to see the staff off. Both men, a few yards from her, stood in similar stances, arms crossing the body and legs spread wide as if their boots were roots reaching into the earth.
Does James know he’s related to Lachlan? Perhaps that’s what Lachlan wanted to keep secret when he’d threatened her at the gate.
She mimicked their stance and grew serious. “Men, I am home. This is my birthplace and where generations of my family have led Clan Macpherson.” Secretly, she prayed that the two would hear her out. “My da, Dengas Macpherson, gave me the title of laird on his deathbed four years ago, but before he was buried and his body cold, Nicholas Luttrell stole Fyvie Castle from the Macphersons. Aye, he forced me, my mother, and my sister out.” Rosalyn stood on her tiptoes wanting to appear taller. “I want it back.”
Sir James and her husband both stared at her for a moment, neither speaking. She wondered if they’d consorted while she’d greeted the servants.
Could the two be brothers? Or where they distant cousins? Both men had tall, muscular frames, but that was where the similarities ended. Lachlan’s sleek, black, and meticulously groomed hair and beard were a stark contrast to his brother’s. James looked like a wild Norse God, his golden hair tossed wildly about his shoulders in the brisk evening breeze.
Finally, Sir James came forward, taking her hand and turning to Lachlan. “I welcome you both to Fyvie Castle,” he said in a formal but warm tone. “Greta will show you to your chambers. Later, we will all meet in the great hall. If you are here to claim Fyvie, we have much to discuss.”
Rosalyn wanted to talk now, but she was determined to keep up the appearance of a calm clan leader. No doubt, she’d have to be patient and let Sir James explain the process.
She felt less anxious, though, when Greta hooked her arm. Striking a childhood chord, she wanted to skip across the lower bailey as they’d done when she was little, but Rosalyn held herself in check for Lachlan fell in step with James behind them.
The walk across the familiar lawn seemed both pleasant and torturous. Of course, being reunited with a loved one, even if wasn’t her mother or sister, made Rosalyn want to weep with joy.
On the other hand, she was anxious, too, because Lachlan and James would have private time together. Even though they were married and he carried her name, they were still both vying for Fyvie.
When Greta and Rosalyn reached Fyvie’s keep, she stopped and turned to watch the two men deep in conversation. They had cut to the right and were going into the main entrance.
“Greta, you trust me, don’t you,” she asked in a hushed whisper even though they were alone. When Greta nodded, she continued with a request. “I need you to follow me, but don’t ask any questions.” When Greta nodded again, Rosalyn started across the bailey, walking quickly with her nursemaid at her heels. If it wouldn’t have drawn the attention of the guards on the parapets, she would have run.
Once they’d reached the horse stables, Rosalyn took a sharp turn at the corner and headed toward the entrance. Pushing Greta ahead of her, the servant followed her pantomimed directions until they entered the well-appointed horse barn.
Once inside, Rosalyn pressed a finger to nursemaid’s lips, then led her by the hand through the back of the stables. Rosalyn needed to search Lachlan’s satchel before anyone else did. She’d watched the groomsmen lead the warhorse away with the bag attached to the saddle. Surely, his destrier would be feeding by now.
After winding around a few rows of empty stalls, Rosalyn found success. The massive bay was chomping on some fresh straw and looked to be in good spirits, giving her a whinny when she approached his stall.
Rubbing his snout cautiously, she noticed his bucket was empty. Good, she thought, he should be approachable.
Motioning to Greta stay on guard, Rosalyn quietly entered the stall and began searching for Lachlan’s bulky satchel, hoping a stable hand hadn’t already taken it first.
Kicking straw with her boots, she scanned the stall in the dim, late-afternoon light. She noticed right away that the saddle had been removed and placed on a rack. Her stomach sank first with disappointment, then did flip-flops when Greta coughed.
“Hello, good sir,” she said brightly to someone outside as Rosalyn dove for the floor and covered herself in straw.