May McGoldrick

Chapter One

Stirling Castle, Scotland

Summer 1484

“It’s your wedding,” the young queen said. “So why do I feel as if I’m sending you to the gallows?”

Elizabeth Hay stood at the open window of the White Tower, looking across the busy courtyard toward the chapel. A hum of voices drifted up to her as worry tightened its grip on her throat. The brilliant morning sun was shining down on the castle’s Inner Close. Along the walls yellow flags with the red lion rampant alternated with the queen’s new flag of blue and white. The shadow of a bird drew Elizabeth’s eyes to the sky. A hawk soared high above the castle walls. Elizabeth wished she could grow wings and fly above it all, her senses so sharp that she could know who came, who left, who made promises, and who broke them.

Instead, the painful tightness grew into a knot, spreading into her chest until she could not take a full breath.

“Elizabeth,” the queen persisted. “I’m worried about you.”

The young woman turned to face Queen Margaret of Denmark, now the wife of James of Scotland. Known not only for her elegance and beauty, but for her kindness, Margaret’s concern showed plainly on her troubled face. Crossing the room, the queen took her hand, seated Elizabeth beside her on a bench by the window, and waved away the attending lady’s maids.

“You’re crying.”

“Am I?” Elizabeth managed to say, unaware of the tears slipping down her cheek.

“Perhaps we haven’t pursued every option. If you honestly don’t want to marry this Highlander, I will insist on a postponement.”

“Nay, that’s not it,” she began, faltering. How could she explain to the queen how she felt? Everyone assumed she was simply nervous about such a momentous step, worried over losing the life she was accustomed to, uncertain about the future. But there was so much more that Queen Margaret didn’t know, so much that had transpired these past few days.

The young queen produced a silk kerchief and patted away the dampness on Elizabeth’s cheeks.

The chapel bells began to toll. And now there wasn’t even a moment to explain.

The time had come for her to go. Elizabeth stood and motioned to the other women to help her with the veil.

“I can halt the ceremony,” Queen Margaret offered once again, putting a hand on her arm. “I can speak to my advisors right now.”

“Nay, Highness. You’re very kind. I know you’ve done all you can to help me. But the hands have been dealt, and fortunes decided. Come what may, I must go.”

* * *

The Highlander waited in the Inner Close by the door to the Chapel of St. Michael. A congregation of nobles already stood inside, talking in hushed tones. Above their heads blades of golden light from the slits of windows cut brightly through swirling clouds of incense.

Clan chiefs and lairds across Scotland knew that this union had been two decades in the making. Many wondered if the marriage would ever be consummated. It was an old story. A lass of three, a lad of seven—pawns in a contract when a fleet of ships was transferred for extensive tracts of land. As the years passed, anyone familiar with the two had hoped the families would find other means of satisfying the old promises, for it had become obvious to all that the couple were completely ill-suited for each other.

And no one had hoped for it more than the two young people themselves.

Macpherson frowned and edged into the shade of the doorway. Everyone in Scotland knew how different they were. Elizabeth Hay had been educated and brought up in the courts of Italy and Denmark. Now a close companion of the queen, she was well traveled, fluent in several languages, and a talented musician. In addition to being a friend of the queen, she served as the indispensable right hand of her father, the well-known architect Ambrose Hay.

And he, himself? To the seagoing men of Scotland and England, he was Macpherson of Benmore Castle, the Black Cat of the Highlands, commander of a dozen ships that raided rich coastal towns and wreaked havoc on British, Dutch, and French traders. His chosen profession had made him a wealthy man. In seaside villages from Antwerp to Dublin, mothers evoked his name when they wanted to strike terror into their unruly whelps on dark nights. He was a Highlander. Wild, free, and dangerous. And for a wife, his closest allies believed, he would take a woman made of the same hardy stock. Not some delicate Lowland flower. Certainly not Elizabeth Hay.

And yet here he was, sweating as the bells tolled.

Macpherson glanced impatiently at the White Tower. Doubts ate away at him. She wasn’t coming. This marriage was not going to happen.

A doorway opened across the Inner Close, and Queen Margaret glided over the stones of the courtyard, attended by her entourage. But he had no eyes for her. His gaze was fixed on the veiled bride at her side.

The young laird muttered another curse under his breath and scowled at the woman drawing near. The hell he’d gone through to be here at this moment. Had she suffered, at all? The embroidered veil hid any view of her face.

He did not speak until the queen and the rest of the bride’s escorts filed past them into the chapel.

“M’lady,” he growled.

“Highlander,” she replied, coming to stand before him.

“Blast me,” he cursed, taking hold of the veil and tossing it back away from her face. “You lied.”