Chapter 6
The next morning, Lachlan rushed into the great hall anxious to hear from his brother. Taking the seat next to Ethan, Lachlan snatched up a hunk of cheese from the trencher and grinned. If his twin claimed he’d won the wager, Lachlan would insist he hear it from Ursula himself.
“Before you begin,” his brother said, staring straight ahead, looking half-drunk already, “I want you to know it’s clear that you sent me to fail.”
Lachlan gloated inwardly as he took a satisfying bite of the imported Jarlsburg. Savoring his victory and the cheese, a servant interrupted him, curtsied apologetically and asked meekly, “Wine, my lord?” When Lachlan nodded, she filled his goblet to the brim.
After taking a few sips, he turned to his brother. “How could you fail? You’re a handsome-looking fellow,” Lachlan bragged, nudging him in the ribs.
“I was too quick to gamble.” His brother’s glaring stare and stubborn set jaw said more than his words. “However, I will honor my wager and do your bidding with one condition.” He waved a heavily ringed hand like a king, paused dramatically, then said, “Only when it suits me.”
Lachlan sighed. He should have known. Controlling his brother was near impossible. He sighed deeply. “I shall concede to you, but with one condition—that you not share our surname while you are here, or in Scotland.”
“We’re Luttrells after all. Notorious as our family is, you venture to hide your heritage, even now that father has been vindicated and he calls the King of England cousin? Are you ashamed?”
“I have my reasons, Lachlan said. “Until you embark on your journey to Windsor, you will be known as Ethan de Leverton. Agreed?”
“So be it!”
Skeptical of his brother’s quick agreement, his promise most likely a lie, Lachlan frowned. Like when he lied to his father about his mother’s death. “Have you poisoned anyone lately?”
“Perhaps, why do you ask?”
“I was deciding if I could count on your promise, or if it was yet another lie.”
Ethan ignored his brother’s doubt. “Do you need the Scottish lass poisoned? Surely, I could volunteer.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Lachlan said. “Just because you want someone out of the way doesn’t mean poisoning them is the answer.”
“Poisoning is an everyday occurrence, especially in our family,” Ethan said, as if boasting. “Which reminds me,” he said, stroking his beard and studying Lachlan with a critical eye, “did you hire a new food taster? I believe you lost the last one.”
Now it was Lachlan’s turn to ignore his brother. “I must ready for the journey to Edinburgh.” He was ready to be rid of Ethan. “As far as Father is concerned, I have Fyvie in my possession. That will be your report.”
They both rose.
“For now I leave you,” Lachlan said.
Ethan grasped his shoulders, then wrapped one arm around his back in an awkward embrace, more ceremonial than sincere.
Lachlan sighed in relief as they parted company and he made his way out of the great hall. He took the stairs two at a time, anxious to embark and plead his case before King James.
Once inside the chamber, Lachlan’s first task was to retrieve the small drawstring fur pouch that belonged to Rosalyn. Even though he’d sworn to himself that deception no longer served him as he planned for a new life with the new de Leverton name he’d concocted, he was smart enough to realize old habits die hard. His family’s obsession for land was one of them.
After retrieving the pouch from the behind the tapestry, Lachlan spread the contents on his desk again, just as he had the day he’d met Rosalyn. He shifted the items around, wanting to restudy the seal, rolling the heavy stamp around in his hands. He’d seen forgeries before, even made some of his own. The weight of it felt substantial enough to be legitimate. Rotating the head to study it more closely, he squinted his eyes and lifted it closer to the wall sconce. This one was real. He was sure of it now.
How had the lass managed it? Paid for it handsomely, he supposed. He chuckled thinking about the false imprint he’d used on his papers, but not the king’s seal. No, the penalty for forging or misuse of a royal seal was a beheading. Lachlan shuddered. Fyvie meant everything to him, but his integrity meant more and he promised himself he could make the claim without the king’s seal as evidence against her.
To avoid temptation, though, he returned to his hiding space and shoved the stamp and the wax into the dark recess. Greed was an ugly companion and in some ways, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself once he was ready for the king’s final judgment.
When he righted the tapestry, a streak of sunshine cut a swath across the desk, reminding him that it was time to saddle his destrier. As he picked up the pouch, the sunlight struck a piece of Rosalyn’s odd red stone, making the edge gleam from underneath the frayed tartan. The heavy iron key rested on top, creating an awkward mound of her treasures.
After packing the key and the tartan away, he studied the last, the red stone, wondering if it was precious or merely a fancy piece of glass. But as much as he wanted to act honorably at the Scottish hearing, Lachlan was grateful to have this pouch as leverage against the Scottish lass. Even if he left the most damning evidence behind, any one of Rosalyn’s personal belongings might prove useful at Edinburgh.
Filled with confidence and a clear plan, Lachlan stashed Rosalyn’s possessions in the bottom of his travel satchel. Knowing the servants would gather the rest of his belongings, he left the chamber with a cocky stride to find the Scottish lass.
~ ~ ~
Waking with a satisfied stretch worthy of a lazy cat, Rosalyn rolled over and squinted from the sun pouring in between the cracks of the plum velvet drapes. Foggy-minded and warm, she whispered the words on her lips. “Again, Lachlan, again.”
Bolting straight up in bed, she shook the fuzzy images of the dream from her mind. Aghast at her flushed cheeks and moistness between her thighs, Rosalyn tried to destroy the image in her mind of a naked Lachlan seducing her. “Father, forgive me,” she said beneath her breath, “for I have sinned.”
Tossing back the warm fur covering, she quickly planted her feet on the threshed matting, fishing for her soft slippers. Heart thundering, the image of a naked Lachlan entwined with her in bed flooded back. How could she face him after yester eve? Meet his eyes after meeting his cock? Would he gloat about it? Tease her? What then?
Damn Ursula. Rosalyn had agreed to slip Ursula’s wicked wine into Lachlan’s goblet. She’d have to see him at least once before she left for Edinburgh. Her cheeks burned after another vision of Lachlan popped into her head. She swore again.
As she reached for her linen chemise and began to dress, she shifted her attention to her task. Could she pay a servant to do the deed? But then the thought of it all going wrong squelched that idea. Even if she bribed a servant with gold, how could she be certain an English wench would honor a Scotswoman’s bidding? No, Ursula would never forgive her if the deed was not done right. The deceptive task would have to be her responsibility alone.
But she’d need a distraction.
Hoping she wasn’t too late, Rosalyn checked the flask tied to her belt and made sure it was secured as she left the chamber and headed for the great hall, anxious to find Lachlan.
Once inside the great hall’s main entrance, Rosalyn slid into the shadows by the trestle table, still laden with meats, pies, and tarts, as her gaze scanned room for Lachlan, her charming adversary.
Finally, her eyes settled on the back of his head. Finding him sitting alone, she walked quickly through the retreating courtesans, nodding politely as they passed. Then she rushed to the table.
“Oh, I’m so glad I found you,” she said breathlessly as she took a seat beside him. “The bishop was looking for you,” she lied.
With his eyes upon her, she froze. Then she panicked and looked away. She counted to ten and prayed for courage. When it did not come, she decided being silent was worse and turned to face him.
“Lachlan,” she finally said in a big gasp, “Bishop Passarelli wants to speak with you about Berwick-Upon-Tweed and why it’s a prosperous seaport. About the history of how it’s been fought over centuries between our nations.” She took a hard swallow and pressed on. “I told him as an English lord in residence, you’d have much to say about the matter.”
“Well, you were wrong,” he replied dryly, his condemning gaze not wavering.
“Scusami,” mumbled a soft voice from behind.
Startled, Rosalyn almost knocked over Lachlan’s goblet with her hand as she turned. But it was the bishop who put a kind and steady hand on her shoulder. “God forgive me for alarming you, lass.” He chuckled softly.
Even Lachlan laughed for a moment, too, his harsh gaze softening a little.
Rosalyn hopped up and curtsied deeply with her head bowed. Lachlan stood. The pope’s apostle put his hands in prayer at his heart. “I was looking for you, lass,” the bishop said, turning to her.
“Well, of course, because you must have known I’d be with the Englishman,” she said, taking her seat with her heart beating frantically. To Rosalyn’s relief, Lachlan settled back on the bench next to her and the bishop took a seat across from them.
As the Lachlan and the bishop began to talk, she seized the distraction and whisked Lachlan’s empty goblet off the table and into her lap. Keeping her gaze on the two and pretending to be engaged in their conversation, she fumbled with the flask top anxious to get the wicked wine in front of Lachlan.
Finally, victory was hers as she finished filling the cup and slid the goblet back in place without notice.
Now, the most difficult part. Rosalyn took a deep breath and waited. And waited. And waited.
As much as she wished for Lachlan to grab the goblet and guzzle the poisoned wine, after about ten minutes of conversation with the bishop, his hand had not raised it.
She wanted to appear at ease, but it was difficult not to fidget as the conversation appeared to be ending.
The bishop stood. “Si, a prosperous seaport will be the envy of any nation,” the bishop said, then turned toward her. “We will go now,” he instructed.
She stood slowly, stalling, as her mind scrambled for a reason not to leave Lachlan’s side until she was sure he drained his goblet. Then an idea struck her.
“Your Holiness, would do the honor of blessing Lachlan’s wine?” she asked, handing him the filled goblet. “Pray for good health and good fortune in the days ahead?”
The bishop’s eyes softened like a father’s would when honoring a daughter’s request, and he accepted the cup.
Lachlan stood and bowed his head as the holy man placed his hand over the wine and softly said a prayer in Latin.
To her relief, Lachlan took the goblet from the bishop and after a raised salute, drained the cup of its contents. He glanced at Rosalyn. “Looking out for my wellbeing, how selfless of you.”
“How selfless, indeed,” she responded, choking on an embarrassing giggle and bowing low. “Now, I shall excuse myself to ready for the journey.” She straightened, waiting on the bishop.
“When the trumpets sound, we will embark,” the bishop said.
Rosalyn snickered to herself as she almost skipped out of the great hall.