Chapter Seventeen
“There, my bonny sister,” Mariel soothed, brushing Madeline’s hair away, rubbing her back.
Madeline lay curled upon the bed, her head in her sister’s lap. Mariel’s arrival this morn had been such an unexpected surprise, but what should have been a joyous reunion after months of separation, was misery.
“Why did you never send word to us of your growing displeasure?” Mariel persisted. “Had you sent a messenger the first moment of your betrothal announcement, Robert would have interceded on your behalf.”
Madeline glanced across the chamber to Robert of Huntington, her brother-of-marriage, who slouched nonchalantly against a tapestry smiling without judgment as she lay in a pool of tears and fabric, giving a nod. “I would have done what I could have, at least.”
“At the very least, we would have spirited you south to Huntington Castle,” Mariel said. “And fought King William for wardenship over you. It’s doubtful there would have been much the king could have done about that, for a usurped marital contract is hardly worth sending an army to invade England.”
Madeline shook her head. And leave Teàrlach? She and Teàrlach never would have come to know each other, and though her heart felt like it was being wrung dry now, she wouldn’t trade the past two months for anything. If Robert had successfully argued for her, she would have become the ward of her brother-of-marriage and older sister instead. Something about being her sister’s burden didn’t feel right, not to mention, she hadn’t had any messengers, anyway.
“How did you even know of this marriage?” she asked, for she had planned to have a letter penned when the wedding was through to relay the “happy tidings.” As far as she knew, no one had sent a letter to England. Somehow, she knew Mariel would be worried or disappointed, or both, and after the wrath her older sister had felt all their years of growing up from their father’s strap, or hand, or nearest item that could be grabbed and wielded, she never wanted to worry her sister again. Harold Crawford had been hard on them both, but Mariel had still borne the lion’s share of his disdain.
“We received a letter. From Laird Moreville’s household. From a Sir MacGregor, explaining of your nuptials and inviting us to be present.”
Madeline slowly sat up, lifting herself from her sister’s rich gown. Teàrlach had done that? She remembered mentioning on one of their outings, how she wished her sister would be here for her wedding day. It had just been a sentiment, for nay, she hadn’t wanted to worry her sister. She couldn’t have written a letter well, anyway. Even now, when she practiced, she made mistakes with her spelling and her penmanship was still unrefined. She shook her head wistfully. Teàrlach had looked after her, even these tiny details of her wedding to a man other than himself… She couldn’t tell Mariel about her long liaison with the guardsman in question. There was no way her sister would approve, was there? A rugged Highlander who owned no land, and the legitimate daughter of an earl? Not to mention, they had trysted out of wedlock. They had trysted the whole of the sennight that they had traveled together. He had loved her with unabashed fervor, and she had returned it. She wasn’t ashamed of doing it, but she was ashamed of admitting to it, and her face reddened just thinking about it.
“Didn’t you know?” Mariel asked.
Madeline shook her head. Mayhap she should have run away with Teàrlach, eloped, and dashed off to the Highlands with him. Her sister, after all, had run away, sending their father on a wild goose chase to find her, and eloped with Robert, standing opposite them now. And their marriage was a wonderful one, for Robert was teasing and lighthearted. Somehow, the handsome Earl of Huntington had jested his way into her sister’s armored heart with his persistence and goodwill. But Robert was a wealthy earl, hardly a Highlander with no land or title.
“Is Sir MacGregor the same man who used to serve our faither?” continued Mariel.
Madeline nodded forlornly, but offered no details.
Mariel furrowed her brow. “Strange. When last I saw him, the man seemed smitten… I thought he’d—” After catching herself from the course of her thoughts, she smiled and took Madeline’s hand.
“You thought he’d what?”
“Never you mind, sister,” Mariel smiled. “But make no mistake, we will argue this, and demand to know why your kin wasn’t sought before this decision was made.”
“I’ve an audience with King William later today, my lady,” Robert added. “To argue the betrothal, by your leave, of course.”
Madeline’s eyes widened with the first feeling of hope in this bleak event. She looked to Mariel again, then Robert, wiping her nose that felt like a bulbous turnip from so much crying. “How might you argue it?”
“I may not be Scottish, my lady, but my family hails from a royal one, and I am held in favor with King Richard of England. Gaining audience with King William was no issue because of it. But I make no promises. King William is fair-minded, not swayed by favoritism. John de Moreville has rights in this matter and no doubt his position will need to be examined, too. The king might very well determine that we are far too late in this endeavor to change course, and demand to know why such issue wasn’t raised much sooner. I will argue that you’re unhappy with this marriage and wish to beg out of the contract and come live with us at Huntington—”
“But I can nay leave Scotland,” Madeline said. She bit her tongue at her hasty interruption, tempering her tone. “I need to return to Dungarnock. I can nay go so far away.”
“Why ever not?” Mariel argued. “You should have come with us when Robert first came to Castle Ayr to take me to England with him, and I shouldn’t have allowed you to decide to remain behind, for look at what has happened.”
Madeline frowned. If she left Scotland, she left Teàrlach, and if Robert could help her get out of this contract, then she planned on hurrying back to Glengarnock and throwing herself into Teàrlach’s arms.
She looked at her older sister, donning such a finely embroidered velvet gown of green, with laces imported from Spain and beadwork consisting of French quartz. The fabric made Mariel’s mossy eyes veritably glow. Her hair, a rich blonde, darker than her own, was fancifully braided with crisscrossed ribboning and locks stylishly curled to frame her face. Lord Robert was keeping Mariel well-tended, and Madeline was envious. Not of Mariel’s rich attire, but of the fact that Mariel had found a home for her restless heart with a man who cherished every ounce of her. Madeline wanted that, even if her version of happiness was one of a simple life in the Highlands, using her own hands to bake instead of being waited on by an entourage of servants. And Mariel’s stomach! Her sister was well along with child. Her rounded belly was only barely showing, but in a few months’ time, Madeline would be an aunt.
How she wished things with John de Moreville and Teàrlach MacGregor could be different.
“I wish to remain in Scotland.”
“Why?” Mariel’s voice was rising.
“I…” Her face reddened just thinking on why.
“Madeline. For you to dig your heels in, you must have a strong reason, for being disagreeable is most unlike you.”
Madeline threw her face in her hands. To speak so freely like her sister. Her tongue felt tied in knots, and yet her anger was mounting. Aye, of course Mariel was shocked by her having an opinion, when she had never let on to how she really felt before. “I just can nay.”
“’Tis not a reason, sister.”
“What could you possibly gain by staying here, alone?” Robert said, coming to stand beside them, his tunic loosely tucked in and his trousers slouching beneath his sword belt. “I would see you well-cared for at Huntington, with the finest of everything you require. You would like it there, and there are many an eligible bachelor, now that so many have returned from the Crusades. I wager there would be plenty of interest in a proper suit from a gentleman of high birth, if you wished it.”
Robert was being kind, she realized, but the thought of perusing the eligible men of England hailing from their refined, tiled halls, made her stomach turn. She wanted the quiet, muscular, mild-mannered, and fiercely protective fourth son of a Highland chief. She wanted to watch him sweating in his fields, working with his hands, working the lathe in his woodshop, and playing with his children running around in plain wool and bare feet. She wanted freedom from society and its restrictions upon her that a life like that promised.
“I thank you for such an offer, I truly do, but my heart is here. In Scotland.”
Mariel furrowed her brow and set her tone to scolding. “We have naught but horrid memories growing up here. How can you claim to love it?”
“Mariel, my reasons are my own,” she replied, exasperated. But couldn’t Mariel leave well enough alone?
Mariel shook her head. “I do nay understand you. What is there to live for here?”
“I am in love with another!” Madeline blurted out. “If I leave Scotland, I leave him!”
Mariel sat in startled silence. Robert’s eyes widened. Madeline shoved herself off the bed and moved to her bedchamber windows, pushing open the shutters to take in a deep breath. The strolling courtiers and the sliver of a view over the city of Edinburgh below them with its daily commotion were a splash of color beneath the gray sky.
“I do nay want to leave him,” she muttered.
She kept looking at the courtiers in their gowns, looking at nothing at all. She disliked it here, even if she had only arrived the day before. This place would always be the place where she saw Teàrlach’s back walking away from her, when she had wished she’d had the strength to throw caution and consequences to the wind and run off with him, like he had begged.
“When did this happen?” Mariel said. Her tone had gentled, and the swishing of fabric told Madeline that her sister was walking to her. A gentle hand came to rest on her shoulder and then Mariel drew up beside her. “Before, or after, your betrothal?”
Madeline twisted her sleeves at her waist, summoning courage to confess. “After.” A tear succeeded in leaking down her cheek.
“Who is he?”
Madeline shook her head, refusing to speak.
“Why won’t you say? Is he married himself?”
Still, Madeline couldn’t reply to her sister, simply shaking her head.
Mariel exhaled. “Mayhap then, you won’t say, because he’s nay a noble?”
Madeline swallowed. She couldn’t even summon a gesture.
“Does the man, at the least, return your feelings?”
Madeline nodded, dropping into her older sister’s open arms and burying her face into her shoulder.
“Have you…well what I mean is…” Mariel’s questions fizzled out on a sigh. “Oh, how to put this delicately…”
Robert’s boots clopped closer. “Who is this man? Tell me.”
She refused to look up. Refused to answer. Simply shook her head as she kept her eyes buried.
“Has this man taken care with you, my lady? Has he guarded your propriety?” Robert asked.
Has he bedded me, Madeline translated. She wasn’t naive anymore. She was certainly, not innocent. She couldn’t admit to it, however. She couldn’t admit to her sister, that she, Madeline, the quiet, obedient daughter, had behaved even more outrageously than Mariel. For although Mariel and Robert had eloped, they had still waited to consummate their marriage until after their nuptials.
“He has taken care of me, aye,” she said, sensing her sister relax an increment and her hold tighten harder. It wasn’t a lie. Teàrlach had snapped, and made sure to take her virginity, but while he hadn’t taken care with her innocence, he had taken care of her since the moment they had met again, since that moment when she had regained consciousness and looked up at him looming over her beneath the beating sun at the Spout of Garnock. And until yesterday, he had never left her.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Robert said softly, then strode out, opening and closing the door on a thud.
But his words had sounded stoic, and not at all convincing of a victory. She had allowed herself to fall for Teàrlach as a betrothed woman. She had been unchaste while betrothed to another, and unchaste with a man harboring little hereditary claim. What she had done was wrong in the eyes of the law. But it most certainly hadn’t felt wrong. What did station matter? Teàrlach’s blood ran red, the same as any other man’s. Why couldn’t his intention of goodwill to her, even if he wasn’t a laird, be good enough?
But as the afternoon wore on, and Robert didn’t return, Madeline paced, fretted, forced a few bites of a meal down her throat to, at the very least, maintain her strength, and attempted needlework, but ultimately couldn’t rest. What was taking Robert so long?
“Take a deep breath and relax, sister,” Mariel said. Mariel’s attempt at comfort missed the mark, and considering her older sister was a master archer, it seemed odd that her aim could be so far off target. How could she relax when her very future hung in the balance?
But when Robert finally pushed back through the door as twilight began to fall, his hazel eyes looked sympathetic and his face, long. Madeline’s heart fell to her toes. Nay, it couldn’t be her heart. Her heart lay shattered on the steps where Teàrlach had left her.
“You needn’t explain,” she croaked.
“I met with King William and Lord Henry de Moreville, who just arrived this morn,” Robert said, as if determined to explain anyway. He sighed again, raking his fingers through his wavy hair.
Madeline turned away from both Mariel and Robert, pacing back to her window. She wished he’d leave and take his unfavorable explanation with him. A cluster of handmaidens moved through the commons below, giggling together, and a wave of exhaustion overtook her.
“We discussed and negotiated, and King William ultimately told us to go and have drinks alone, and see what we could work out. The king said if we both agreed to release you from the betrothal, that he wouldn’t force the marriage. But that if the Morevilles objected, he would expect to see you at the altar two days from now with no further issue raised. He didn’t seem entirely pleased with Moreville, I must say, though he said it was unfair to punish John because of your change of heart.”
“And Laird Moreville refused,” she stated flatly, her back still turned, as Mariel came to stand beside her once more.
“Henry de Moreville said you had seemed agreeable to this arrangement for some time, and never once voiced your objection. He said your betrothed is keen to finish his castle repairs, which he only undertook due to the expectation of your dowry.” Madeline remembered staring at Kirkburn Castle, watching the construction work from afar, right before she fainted. What Moreville had told Robert was the truth. She hadn’t raised an objection. She hadn’t known she could. “Even when I spoke of your affection for another man, Henry de Moreville simply dismissed it as pre-marital jitters, and that you would be happy with John in time. I’m sorry, Lady Madeline,” Robert said, as if paying condolences to a grieving widow. “I couldn’t argue it further. Henry de Moreville was unwilling to continue discussing it. Not even some drams of good Scottish spirits down in the city was enough to soften his resolve. If anything, it only seemed to irritate him that you should be pressing for a break in contract.”
“Oh sister,” Mariel began, before rounding to Robert. “Rob, what shite. I’ll go and argue this myself. This is my sister, for heaven’s sake!”
Mariel stormed across the chamber to leave. Madeline turned, watching Robert snag her by the upper arms and square her in front of him.
“Mari, stop. There’s nothing to be done further—”
“She isn’t married yet. There’s still time,” Mariel argued.
Madeline felt her insides twisting, witnessing their conflict, feeling her stomach sink once more.
“Listen to me,” Robert said, in the first tone of authority Madeline could recall from her brother-of-marriage. “King William won’t hear further argument. I already tried to return to him. He refused an audience, stating, that if we cannot work out our differences on the matter, then he will see this marriage go forth.”
“But…but Madeline just can’t be forced to do this, she just can’t!”
“There’s nothing—else I can do,” Robert replied.
“Then I’ll go give that arse, Henry de Moreville, a piece of my mind.”
“No, you won’t,” Robert said. “Arguing this further will accomplish nothing and anger everyone.”
“Please.” Madeline caught their attention. “Please. Just…leave it alone. My laird, I am ever grateful you would protest on my behalf. I shall endure this, as I have other distasteful things. Who knows?” She forced a smile, though she knew it did little to brighten her splotchy face. “Mayhap John will turn out to be a…a fine husband.” She forced those last words out. She knew he wouldn’t. The only man who could, would be Teàrlach. And she would never have him again. “I beg you leave me. I’ll see you on the morrow, sister. I’ll be glad to have you here for the ceremony.”
Mariel dashed back to her, trying to take her hands. “Madeline, my heart is breaking for you—”
“And how do you imagine that my heart feels?” Madeline snapped, her brow furrowing. “Please. I mean not to argue. I’m tired. And I want only to be alone. I beg you just, just leave.”
Mariel backed away. Robert wrapped an arm around her, and after a moment, both of them quit the chamber, leaving her by herself with her raw emotions. Life had never been fair to her. Why should she expect anything different now?
…
Madeline was bathed and dressed by the queen’s handmaidens for her nuptials as Mariel hustled around the chamber, laying out the gown Madeline had sewn, and dug through her own purses for a piece of jewelry for her neck. Nerves churned in her stomach, bile threatening to surge up her throat. She had to make a decision. The closer she got to the altar, the more tension her heart felt. Defiance or acceptance? She had much to lose by defiance, for she risked royal censure and punishment, not to mention, it would give John that much more fodder to hate her as their life began. He was already going to hate her when he realized she had parted with her virginity before their nuptials. She didn’t need to give him more fodder to take out his anger on her. But this couldn’t go forward, simply couldn’t, and yet, what choice did she have? What would the king do to her if she refused marriage? Would he actually punish her, or simply leave it to her husband and his family to do the disciplining? She knew not the first thing about King William and his policies toward women or his subjects in general.
What she did know was that her peaceable life and her stolen moments with Teàrlach, hidden away at Dungarnock, were over.
Her hair was combed dry in front of a fire, long strokes of pale blonde tresses, until it was straight and shining. Mariel helped her into her gown and tied the laces, fastening the buttons around her wrist. And then she draped a necklace around her as the maids braided her hair.
“Your gown is simple, but beautifully made,” Mariel said, trying to offer reassurance. “The stone in this necklace brings out the blue in the gown, and my, but it brings out some blue in those stormy green eyes of yours. No matter your opinion of the Morevilles, Sir John will have no choice but to admit that you’re lovely.”
Reassurance. It wasn’t doing any good. Mariel’s reassurance now was simply a veil over the truth that they both felt: that this was a mistake. Mariel had been somber when she arrived that morn, and Madeline may as well be preparing her own eulogy. Life would never be okay with John. But after spending time with Teàrlach, she had come to realize as she lay in bed these past two nights, that no matter the course of her life now, there was no going back to the shadows, living as her father’s afterthought, or no thought at all.
This was wrong, wrong, wrong…
Her fingers bit into her palm as she was led through the corridors of the queen’s timbered houses, her other hand in Robert’s as he escorted her in place of a male relative, out into the upper yard and along the path to St. Margaret’s Chapel, one of the few buildings so far to be erected in stone. People milled about their business. Mariel walked directly behind her. No production had been planned. A small feast was being provided by the queen as a courtesy, but only for the wedding party, namely her, John, Laird Moreville, her sister, and Robert. There would be no well-wishers, no dancing. She couldn’t fathom festivities anyway. She was on a march to her fate, not her destiny.
She came to the chapel door. The guard leading them opened it and she walked into the muted stillness of the plastered stone. Candles flickered, offering solace. John turned to see her, his face gray. Henry de Moreville stood from the front bench, watching her approvingly. She reached back for her sister and felt Mariel’s firm grasp meet hers. Lord, she had lived happily for so long alone, but she needed her sister’s unfailing strength now.
Her lover was gone. Teàrlach was long departed. The tear she had seen threatening to fall from his beautiful eye, his begging words, swirled in her mind now, making her dizzy, making her stomach twist in knots like a dishrag in a washerwoman’s hands. Illness, brewing all morning in her stomach, threatened to embarrass her in front of the priest waiting at the altar. She couldn’t defy the king. His rule was law of the land. He had already told Robert there would be no more challenge to this marriage. He had the power to imprison her, execute her, exile her, indenture her…
But she couldn’t marry John! The battle raged in her heart with each step down the aisle. She wanted to scream. The priest may as well be an executioner. He may as well be standing on a scaffold holding a noose rather than at an altar holding a Bible. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
The word tolled like a bell, calling out her fate with each discorded clang. Her heart smacked her ribs in powerful thumps. Her feet felt like iron weights. Her gown dragged upon her like chains dragging behind her. She arrived at John’s side. Robert twisted his hand free from hers. Sakes, she hadn’t realized how tightly she held it. He and Mariel moved to one side, leaving her alone. The priest, a tall, painfully thin man with a sour expression and hooked nose looked down at her. Her mind was chaotic. She was sweating. She was aching. He opened his Bible, preparing to offer a dull, drawn-out lecture that, spoken in Latin, she wouldn’t understand anyway.
The king sat to the right of the altar upon a carved throne, dressed finely but not officially. This marriage was hardly one of major political import. He watched her with interest. Her hands began to tremble so badly there was no hiding it. The priest opened his mouth to begin. As if compelled by a lightning bolt, a kick of a horse, a primal instinct that overrode all her good sense, she bolted the few steps to the king and fell at his feet.
“Do nay make me marry him!” she cried, the sob she had withheld all morning bursting from her mouth. “I beg you. I do nay want this! Please, Your Majesty!”
Her shoulders shook. Henry de Moreville rose to his feet, scowling. John exhaled a relieved sigh. Mariel dashed up behind her and collapsed upon her.
“What is the meaning of this, Lady?” demanded Laird Moreville.
“Indeed! Compose yourself, woman!” the priest exclaimed. “This is a house of God!”
She ignored them, grasping the king’s fine boots and resting her forehead to them. “I can nay do it! My heart belongs to another!”
“What is this?” Moreville shouted.
“Shut it, Father,” John chided.
“Enough!” erupted King William. Madeline flinched backward, recoiling into Mariel’s protective hold. The king rose to his feet, his surcoat and robe looming over her. “Rise up, Lady. You know you agreed to marry John. Indeed, I already discussed this with Robert of Huntington. Why do you weep now?”
She looked up at him, rising, the question turning her brow into a stern line. “I…Laird Moreville told me of the betrothal contract, aye, but I never thought I had a choice.”
Henry’s brow furrowed further, a scheme in his eyes. “You were asked if you agreed to the suit, and you indeed said you did. ’Tis in writing.”
She shook her head, confusion capturing her eyes as she realized Moreville was blatantly lying. She looked to Robert, whose brow was also furrowed. “He…” And there it was. Her anger. She was so angry she trembled. “He makes up tales. I was never asked, Your Majesty. I was delivered a missive stating I was betrothed to John with your blessing and agreement, but no one asked me if I wanted to. Ever.”
King William examined her further and seemed to avoid eye contact with Henry de Moreville. “Don’t lie, my lady. Laird Moreville has already written me explaining that he discussed the matter with you prior to the contract, and that you agreed.”
She shook her head, her mind reeling. What lies! Moreville must have assumed her too mannered to argue and tip the king off to his falsehood.
“My sister would never lie,” Mariel gasped, clutching her harder.
Anger surged and before Madeline could tame her tongue, her cheeks flushed with sunbursts and she turned her glare on Moreville.
“He speaks falsehoods!” she exclaimed, turning back to the king. “I maintain I was Never. Asked! I hadn’t even the pleasure of seeing my warden the whole of my stay at Dungarnock! His head guardsman delivered to me a missive, of which he read to me. Of which I carry in my personal belongings still, if I needs provide it to you. He taught me to read, and I have since read the missive for myself! It clearly states that Your Majesty and he have come to an agreement and I am betrothed. I was never asked!”
Her breath shook. Each inhale of air fueled the anger boiling over in her chest, and for the first time in her life, she felt the urge to hit someone.
“She’s clearly overwrought from this experience,” remarked Laird Moreville. “Why, I met with her myself to discuss the matter. She tries to lie to you now, Your Majesty, to paint me in a poor light.”
“She does nay,” scoffed John, folding his arms satisfactorily. Clearly, he was willing to join ranks with her in this regard, if it meant securing his freedom. “He did nay even ask me if I consented, and I’m his son. He never told me until after the deal had been made with Your Majesty.”
“That isn’t what your father told me yesterday,” Robert said, stepping forward. “Yesterday, he said you were eager to marry, for her dowry.”
John chuckled wryly, then tipped back his head and laughed. “Really? Father, it’s too much.” John turned to Robert and the king. “I wished to marry another woman, and my father refused. He had already secured this marriage. He threatened to disinherit me if I eloped with my lady, instead. I guarantee it, it is he who wants Lady Madeline’s dowry, nay me.”
“He…she…” sputtered Moreville, growing flustered with no short amount of sweat now saturating his collar. “They try to ruin my good name—”
“Speaking of your good name, my lord,” began King William, finally addressing Moreville. “You and I must discuss a matter or two. I had thought to bring this up after the nuptials, for I thought John wished to be married and didn’t want to ruin his happy day. However…” The king snapped his fingers at a guardsman standing at the wall behind the throne.
The guard jingled forward and produced a ledger.
Laird Moreville’s face drained of all color.
“You seem to have a peculiar accounting technique. I wonder that you might explain your methods to me,” King William said, the sheen of terror upon Moreville’s face proving something was amiss. “I have it on good account that for every twenty-pound disbursement I made to you for the lady’s upkeep, fifteen of those pounds went into your, eh…” he leafed through the ledger. “Ah, yes. Your ‘estate’ fund. For your son’s castle refurbishments, it seems?”
Moreville shook his head. John folded his arms, laughing again, shaking his head, though there was nothing pleasant in his tone. “Ah, Father. You stole from Lady Madeline? And for that?” He turned to the king. “He built me mistress quarters, for he knew I did nay wish to marry the Lady Madeline. When we finally visited her to take her to see the new castle, she was living like a peasant, nay a lady. And the only reason she had enough to keep her candles lit was because Teàrlach MacGregor paid each of his sennight’s wages to provide for her.” He turned back to his father, his brow contorted in an incredulous smirk. “You stole from the lady and forced your guardsman to surrender his only wages to pay for her livelihood? What a blackguard you are…”
Madeline steadied herself against the altar railing, grasping Mariel’s hand so tightly, she feared she would collapse if she let go. Her thoughts swirled. Teàrlach had paid all his earnings to her warden? He had paid for all the goods he’d brought her? He had sacrificed his whole livelihood for her? It would be just like him to do something so wonderful and avoid recognition. I’m nay a laird, just a fourth son… The thought made her heart bleed. Somewhere, right now, Teàrlach was alone, trying to scrape his heart back together. He hadn’t just taught her to read and opened her eyes to the world. He had loved her from the beginning.
King William motioned to his guard. “Please escort Laird de Moreville to his chamber, and ensure he is secured with yourself placed at his door. Because, sire,” he turned back to Moreville, “your treachery doesn’t end with such unrepentant thievery.”
He withdrew a missive from the back cover of the ledger and held it out to Moreville to see. The laird stood stone still, unmoving. “If your eyes fail you, on this parchment is a message from Harold Crawford, Lady Madeline’s sire and my former Sheriff of Ayr, relayed by one of my prison wardens. Trust that warden is now behind the very bars he used to patrol. If I recall…” He tapped his chin. “Crawford is in prison for plotting against me. And if my learning serves me well, these words written on this secret missive state that you are swearing your fealty to him upon his ‘release,’ of which he seeks to take up refuge in the uplands and help you persuade Laird Barclay to cede lands in Ayr to you. ’Tis of humor, for the man is never to be released. Upon recovering this evidence of your disloyalty, I have discovered an attempt to help him escape. Thus, the reason you insisted on this marriage with Lady Madeline, is it nay? Now that I see this scheme, it all makes sense, for although I’m certain Lady Madeline is a fine woman, a suit between her and your heir made little sense. Until now.”
A wave of his finger sent Moreville away in the guardsman’s unrelenting grip. He turned to John who stood dumbfounded and to Madeline whose hand had migrated from the railing to cover her mouth, holding her jaw in place as it threatened to land upon the floor. Her father had nearly escaped? The thought sent a shudder through her very bones. Somehow, Madeline and Mariel’s arms ended up in a clutching embrace, and she felt Mariel shiver as well. Praise be to God that the escape had been thwarted. But how had the king discovered all of this?
“Lady Madeline,” the king began, addressing her politely. She recovered her wits and bowed. “Do I assume accurately, that the man who has stolen your heart is a Highland guardsman?”
She blushed red with embarrassment and peeling herself out of her sister’s hold, she searched for the right words. She knew Mariel was gaping at her now, too, but didn’t look to verify. She finally nodded. “Aye, Your Majesty.”
“Is this guardsman named Teàrlach MacGregor?”
“Indeed he is,” she whispered.
He nodded once to himself, then turned to the ashen-faced Moreville heir. “John de Moreville.”
“My king?” John replied, bowing.
“I understand now that this wasn’t a marriage you pursued, and because you both disagree to it, I am inclined to release you both from this betrothal. However, can I trust you to allow friendship to flower betwixt you and Madeline?” Now that he wasn’t condemned to marry her, he nodded readily. “Please take her back to Glengarnock, to Teàrlach MacGregor. I am temporarily promoting you to constable, though only time will prove if you maintain the title.”
John bowed deeply. “As you wish, Your Majesty. I will see her and her party safely there. My most gracious thanks.”
“And John,” the king continued. “Unless Lady Madeline chooses to move south to England with her sister, she is to remain at Dungarnock for as long as is needed, if she requires it. There’s no guarantee that MacGregor returned to his post. I will continue to maintain her, and I expect my disbursement to be used well for her benefit. I’ll be checking.”
John nodded again, bowing.
“I shall supplement her support, too, if I cannot convince her to move to Huntington,” Robert said, smiling at her. “Had we known her dire circumstances, there’s no question I would have intervened much sooner.
“And finally,” King William finished, taking Madeline’s hand. “You and MacGregor, if you so choose, have my blessing for a union. My deepest apologies for all you have endured. You will be well looked after now.”
She bowed to him, kissing the ringed hand he extended to her. “I thank thee, Your Highness,” she replied, her words soft. “I shall forever remember your kindness.”
The king smiled down at her. “I wish good health and many children upon you in your union to Sir MacGregor. The man was visibly distressed when he brought me that ledger—” Teàrlach had brought him the evidence? As if she needed another reason to love the man. “It seemed he was smitten, even if he would never admit it. I have faith that today’s development will please him greatly.”
She couldn’t help but smile, wiping the wetness upon her cheeks. Teàrlach would be thrilled, as she was now. Not thrilled. Elated! He would whisk her away to his family home in the Highlands as he had begged of her. She could throw herself into the king’s arms right now and kiss him. Quickly she tempered herself. Even thinking of such unbridled behavior was scandalous. She stepped back, beaming, and bowed.
As John offered her his first kind arm to escort her away, her heart soared. She couldn’t wait to run to Teàrlach and tell him she had done it. She had defied the king for him. She loved him and wanted to make that life with him. She would pledge to be a good wife to him, bless him with children, as he had pledged himself to be a good husband and provider.
As she, John, her sister, and her husband set out together the following morn toward Glengarnock, the cart couldn’t move quickly enough to steady her happy heart.