Chapter 3
Grateful her accommodations had improved and feeling more herself, Rosalyn cautiously surveyed the chamber with half-closed eyes, admiring the rich, tapestried walls and masterfully carved furnishings, a stark contrast to the dank dungeon. But she couldn’t deny the truth, no matter how glamorous the surroundings. She was still a prisoner with a sheriff as an escort. And that’s why no matter what the chancellor had said, Rosalyn was certain her king, the King of Scots, would award her Fyvie if she could make her plea first.
But she’d need an ally.
As Rosalyn’s determination to control her fate bubbled, her gaze finished sweeping the room and settled on Ursula working meticulously over a cauldron hanging in the hearth. Rosalyn squinted through her lashes, secretly studying the woman, grateful she was the only guest left in her chamber after the healer had ushered out the rest, including Lachlan.
The English bastard had thwarted her plans for Fyvie and taken liberties. He’d kissed her. Twice. With the first, she’d been defenseless. The second, she should have given him a black eye for his trouble. Instead, she’d swooned from the lack of air. Because he was English, she should have been abhorred by the idea of kissing him, but he’d been so kissable. And handsome.
She sighed.
“Watching me, are you?” Ursula accused without turning around.
Rosalyn coughed.
“You know my intentions?”
“No. Well, yes,” Rosalyn finally admitted. Of course, how could she be so idiotic? Most healers were also seers. Better concede now, or she’d stand to lose the woman’s trust.
“Rowan berries?” Curious, Rosalyn sat up, still under the covers, propping her elbows on her knees. “And you’ve heated them?”
“Red berries from the Faerie tree. ‘Tis what I know,” the healer said, turning toward her. “This will settle your stomach,” she promised as she made her way to the bed with her pestle and mortar.
Rosalyn’s nostrils flared as the unmistakable aroma filled her sinuses first, then her lungs, soothing away the nausea that accompanies a fainting spell. Uncooked, she was certain the berries were poisonous. At least she might relax a little knowing Ursula wasn’t trying to put an end to her. Rosalyn hadn’t been able to trust anyone since arriving in Berwickshire.
“Caorunn!” Rosalyn said with conviction, finally recalling the Gaelic name. She’d been taught much of the healing arts from her mother. “Good for many uses including witchcraft protection.”
Ursula confirmed her appraisal with a nod and a reluctant smile, the first to grace her striking features.
Rosalyn grinned and narrowed her gaze on Ursula. “You arenae English?”
The healer sobered and studied Rosalyn for a moment, like a Scottish wildcat would before a retreat or attack. A smile flickered, then turned into a grin of acceptance when Ursula hiked her skirt to her knees and flipped up the hem to reveal a swatch of red, purple, and gray tartan sewn into the underside edge.
“Highlander?” Rosalyn squealed, struggling to hide her enthusiasm.
Ursula nodded.
“Macpherson, sept and clan,” Rosalyn said proudly, wanting to show her plaid, but quickly remembering she couldn’t with her pouch missing.
“Mackintosh sept, clan Fraser,” Ursula said, bursting with pride.
“We’re near-cousins. Is your da Big Douglas? Is the laird still alive?”
Ursula’s grim expression answered for her. “Da went down fighting for Berwick. He would nae have tolerated being evicted from his home like the rest. Four years past.” Ursula swiped a tumbling tear from her cheek, then sat on the bed next to Rosalyn. Scooping up some of the paste she’d made, the healer offered Rosalyn the concoction.
Rosalyn swallowed the bitter herbs, then waited patiently, hoping the healer would offer more of her story. As if reading her thoughts again, Ursula scanned the chamber, then walked to the door and put her ear to the wood. Once she was satisfied no one would eavesdrop, she worked her way back to Rosalyn’s bedside and took up the stool.
“As I was saying,” the healer started again, “my da went down fighting when the English shed Scots blood and murdered our legacy to this land. I’d rather see the French, even the pillaging Vikings, have Berwickshire than let English rule what’s rightfully ours.”
Feeling an immediate kinship, Rosalyn’s heart went out to the Highland lass beside her. They’d both suffered from the loss of land and family. She’d make the perfect ally.
As she mulled over how to approach Ursula on the subject, the woman placed a warm hand over her own. “You didnae need to convince me, I’ll help you escape.” Then she squeezed it and released a deep, back-of-the-throat chuckle. “And no, I didnae share Lachlan’s bed.”
Rosalyn couldn’t help but gasp. She didn’t recall thinking about the two of them together. Or had she? Of course, she was curious about the man who’d been strapped to her back. Not a criminal, but a lord. A man who was accustomed to serving at court, accustomed to getting what he wanted.
“No, he donna always get what he’s after. And his thoughts are so dark, I cannae read them much at all. I’ve tried,” she admitted with that cautious smile.
“If you can’t read his thoughts, then what has he told you about himself?”
“Not much at all, really. He’s brooding and I catch him staring at me most days. Not that I’m a beauty or anything, but he just does. It’s unsettling. He’s handsome, but conceited.”
“Conceited?” Rosalyn giggled.
“He likes his own appearance.” Ursula leaned in closer to share more whispered gossip. “At the end of a meal in the great hall I’ve caught him grinning in his goblet’s reflection.”
That conceited smile. She’d been a witness.
“And he takes liberties with unmarried noble women,” Ursula said, staring off into the hearth.
“Aye! That I’ve seen firsthand,” Rosalyn confessed. “Just moments after I met him, he ravaged me with kisses. My hands were tied, and I couldn’t fight him off. Tis not a noble way to treat a woman. Is he a bastard?”
“You could call him a skirt-chaser, stealing kisses and embraces like a thief, but the gossips say he doesnae bed his dalliances.” She leaned in closer as if happy to have a confidante. “No one knows much about his family, the de Lavertons. A few of the ladies of the court started looking into his heraldry, but couldn’t find much. Probably trying to decide if he’s a noble worth having or a bastard who should be passed up. But many enjoy his flirtatious attention.”
Rosalyn considered all Ursula had said and cocked her head. “Does he nae have one redeeming quality?”
Ursula’s gaze traveled to the ceiling and her face scrunched up as if her mind was occupied by complex problem. After a few moments of contemplation, though, Ursula finally released a little “ah.”
“Aye, he does,” the healer admitted as she focused on Rosalyn again. “He can be kind.”
“Kind?”
“Not like you and I would be kind.” Ursula stole a look at the ceiling again. “Mayhap considerate is the better word?” Then she nodded as if satisfied.
“Aye, now that you mention it,” Rosalyn said, “he did question the bailiff about my abhorrent treatment in the dungeon.” As much as Rosalyn wanted to dislike Lachlan for all the reasons she should—he was English; he was conceited; his nobility was in question; he took liberties—there was something about him that drew her to him.
“Damn good kisser,” Rosalyn responded in a dreamy tone, but then she gasped, covering her mouth when she realized what she’d said aloud.
Ursula gave her a disgusted glare and a tsk before she continued. “From afar I’ve watched him work his hands through his hair until it gleams in an unnatural manner. But that doesn’t deter most of the available ladies of the court who swoon at his glances. He could have any one of them, but says he’s waiting for me.” She drew her gaze from the fire and gave Rosalyn a he’ll-be-damned reaction. “Well, he can wait until his cock falls off, because it’s nae going to be. My heart is promised to another.”
“Scot or English?”
“Eww! My distaste of the English is as strong as yours.” Ursula nodded knowingly. “His da is chieftain of clan Mackenzie.”
“Enemies! No, Ursula. The fates are cruel to you.”
“Aye, they are, lass. That’s why we are apart for now. He travels from near Edinburgh through Berwickshire once a fortnight bringing the raw wool to be sold at market.”
“So you see each other in secret.”
“Aye, we slip away to the woods by the sea. There’s an abandoned farm by Marshall Meadows. For now, that ‘tis what we have.”
A sharp rap on the door shattered their cocoon of intimacy and startled Rosalyn so much she shook as if a cold draft had entered the chamber.
Ursula’s head jerked toward the door.
“Open up. It’s the sheriff.”
Rosalyn sucked in a sharp breath, unprepared for more questioning. She was hoping to avoid a conversation with another English official altogether. But before she had a chance to figure out a stall, Ursula was at the door opening it a crack only a mouse could navigate.
“Making my rounds.” The sheriff’s gruff voice filtered in through the narrow slit.
“Your charge is in my good hands, resting,” Ursula said.
“Let me enter,” the sheriff persisted, pushing against the door and making his way into the room past a ruffled healer.
Rosalyn swallowed a snicker.
“The Bishop of Imola,” he began, addressing them, “we’re honored to have him as a guest at Berwick Castle. He’s traveled from Italy, sent by the pope for King James.” He paused. “The bishop has requested a Scot be present at the feast tonight.” He shuffled his feet. “You are the only Scot in residence,” he said, looking directly at Rosalyn.
Rosalyn resisted the urge to glance at Ursula, who until they’d been alone had hidden her Gaelic lilt.
“Will she have to attend in ball and chain?” Ursula asked provokingly as the sheriff’s gaze shifted. “As her healer, I cannot promise she has recovered enough to attend.” Her accomplice crossed her arms over her chest and waited.
The sheriff cleared his throat. “What would assure her good health for tonight’s festivities?” he asked in a low, toneless voice, his gaze moving to the glowing hearth.
“Her dirk returned and no guard to watch over her chamber. I’ll be her guardian from now on,” Ursula said, as simply as if she’d asked for sweet cream.
“Then it will be quite the blessing in the great hall to see you both for the ceremony,” he replied with sarcasm, watching Ursula on his way out the door. As it closed with a hard slam, the healer’s eyes gleamed with victory.