Chapter Three
Two days he’d been stuck here, and Macpherson was getting damned tired of the place. The inn where he was staying, just down the hill from the castle, was a ramshackle affair, but it was the best one in the borough, boasting fairly clean rooms, an actual bed, a reasonably honest innkeeper, and the best ale for twenty miles. He needed to be in Stirling, but the Highlander had no interest in staying with anyone who kept houses here. So he’d let the entire inn.
As Alexander sat at a long table in the empty taproom finishing his letter, one of the shutters of a window looking out onto the street banged loudly. The wind coming in from the southwest was rising. If he were at sea, he’d be taking in sail and preparing for a squall.
He looked over the letter. He was no lawyer, and certainly no poet, but it would have to do. Corking the ink horn, he gestured for his squire David to return the writing implements to the innkeeper, who’d just carried in a fresh cask of ale from the cellars. The day had been uncomfortably warm with hard rain occasionally blowing through. Alexander thought for the fiftieth time how he wished he were breathing the fresh salt air from the deck of his ship or the clean mountain air from the ramparts of Benmore Castle.
He couldn’t wait to leave the Court. The very air here suffocated him. The sycophants, panderers, fops, the cowards pretending to be warriors, the games, the women dressing to lure their friends’ husbands, the painted smiles, the fluttering eyes. This was the place where virtue went to die. Summoned numerous times by the king to Falkland Palace, he was well schooled in the poisoned atmosphere of the court. Stirling Castle was no different. And his intended was comfortably embedded in this festering climate. No wonder she couldn’t allow herself to give notice to his requests.
The wiry young squire returned and stood waiting a few paces off while the Highlander read over the letter one more time and then folded it.
“Take this to the White Tower,” Alexander ordered. “I want it hand-delivered to Mistress Hay.”
“You know, m’lord,” David said cautiously, “I shan’t have any more luck getting this message to the lady than I did before.”
Alexander glared at the young man. “You need to impress on the queen’s guard that this is important. The blasted wedding is only seven days off. The letter must get to her now. Tell him, or whoever you talk to, that the content of this is vitally important to . . . to my intended. Now get your skinny arse up that hill to the castle.”
“Aye, m’lord,” David said, rightly sensing danger in his master’s tone.
Taking up the letter, he bolted for the open door, nearly running down a shape that moved into his path from the street.
“Beg pardon, m’lady.”
Alexander looked up in surprise at the woman coming into the taproom. The hood of her light cloak had tipped back, revealing golden blond hair bound in thick braid that disappeared down her back. Her dress of deep green was belted with a sash of black velvet that matched the color of the cloak. This was not the baker’s daughter, come to deliver the bread for supper.
She did not look right or left, but went directly to the innkeeper, who seemed as surprised as the Highlander.
“Don’t know what I can do for you, mistress,” the man said. “But the inn is closed for the next sennight.”
“Closed?” she repeated, perplexed. “But I was told that the Macpherson laird is staying here.”
“Aye.” The innkeeper nodded toward Alexander. “There’s the very man himself.”
The blond head swung around, noticing him for the first time. “Oh!”
Above her high cheekbones, large alert eyes fixed on him. Wide, full lips pressed together as she studied him. The lass was young, pleasing to look at, but from the set of her shoulders and the hands clasped tightly together, he decided she was a woman on a mission. She started toward him.
Alexander stood. “What can I do for you, mistress?”
She didn’t see a bench protruding from beneath a table until it was too late. Alexander dove toward her as the woman’s arms flew out to arrest her fall, and he caught her just before she hit the stone floor. As he lifted her back onto her feet, he realized he was holding her in his arms a bit longer than he should. And he wasn’t complaining.
Pressed against his chest, she was all curves beneath the cloak and layers of clothing. Alexander’s head filled with the most tantalizing scent he’d ever smelled on a woman. A combination of roses and . . . something else. Citrus flowers. Sweet memories of sailing in the Mediterranean flooded back to him.
With her feet once again on the floor, she tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. They were wedged between two tables. Her attempt at sliding past him resulted in his chin brushing across the top of her head. The softness of the golden hair startled him.
By the time Alexander was able to look into her face, the woman’s earlier appearance of determination was gone. Her face was flushed, and she was making a great production of rubbing a bruised knee even as she straightened her dress and cloak.
“Perhaps we should start again,” he said, not trying to hide his amusement. “As I said, I’m Alexander Macpherson. What can I do for you, mistress?”
Her gaze was slow to rise to his face, but when it did he was caught by the color of her eyes. They were blue, but not the azure shade of a clear Scottish sky. They were dark blue, like the sea off the coast of Morocco.
“My name is . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am Clare Seton.”
The name meant nothing to him, so he waited for her to say more.
“I serve as a companion to the queen. One of her ladies-in-waiting.”
Finally. The lass must have been sent by Elizabeth Hay. His haughty intended was at least acknowledging that he’d arrived in Stirling.
“I’ve come on behalf of your future bride,” she continued.
His curiosity was aroused by the appearance of this young woman. Why would Elizabeth refuse even to accept a message carried by his squire but now send this lass? Either something was amiss, or here was yet another reminder of how unversed he was in courtly ways. In either case, now might be a good time to keep his nose in the wind.
“And what of it?” Alexander leaned back against the trestle table and crossed his arms.
“If you’d be kind enough to take a walk with me, everything will become clear.”
Remaining where he was, he looked at her steadily and saw her squirm under the scrutiny.
“Only down to the river. Well, actually . . . to Cambuskenneth Abbey,” she stammered. “It’s not too far. Not a mile down the hill.”
“Why?”
She looked away before saying in a lowered voice, “To meet with Elizabeth.”
Alexander let her words float in the air for a moment before replying. “Why not meet me at the castle? Or come here herself?”
“It wasn’t possible. She had some business to attend to.” The young woman was twisting her hands before her. “She was certain you wouldn’t mind joining her at the abbey.”
He didn’t mind, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Indeed, he was impatient to get this business over and done with. He’d walk from here to Edinburgh, if he needed to. His ship was waiting at anchor off Blackness in the firth, and he was ready to be on it.
Besides, he mused, it would be best to do the deed in person, rather than leave her to read it in that letter he’d sent off.
But he didn’t like being ignored, and something in him—the devil probably—was enjoying seeing this Clare Seton squirm a wee bit. He only wished it were Elizabeth Hay herself. Still, he wondered what they’d told this one to expect from him.
“Actually, I do mind,” he said flatly, turning away from her.
“But . . . but is it really asking too much to meet with your intended before the wedding?” the young woman stammered.
“Exactly what I’ve been thinking for the last two days,” he replied, pouring himself a bowl of ale. “Is it beneath her to see my squire? She repeatedly sent him away without even a word.”
“I am sure she meant no disrespect.”
“And I mean no disrespect now. But if she wants to see me, she can come to me.” He picked up his ale, dismissing her.
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Am I?” he said sharply. “You have my answer. Be on your way.”
No sound of rustling skirts. No steps retreating toward the door. Only the creaking of the inn’s sign outside, swinging in the gusts of wind. Perhaps she wasn’t so frightened, after all. He drank down the bowl, pretending she wasn’t there.
“Please reconsider it,” she asked in a soft voice.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, surprised by the note of dejection in her tone. Her head was held high, but she was strangling two fingers with the leather tie from her cloak.
“Even if you don’t care to meet with her, I need to go to the abbey, and I assumed you would accompany me. I didn’t bring an escort.” She unwound the tie from her fingers, seeing she’d drawn his attention to it. “I would truly appreciate it if you . . . if you’d come with me.”
Alexander looked into her eyes for a long moment. She was lying. She’d come here for some other reason. He was the master of a dozen ships. He was laird of Benmore Castle. He’d learned early on the need for being able to see through a man . . . or woman. He could recognize when a person was lying. And that was exactly what she was doing. But why?
His gaze moved downward, taking in the pulse jumping wildly on the smooth column of her neck. He was becoming intrigued with this Clare Seton and whatever her game was.
“I can understand if you don’t care to meet her. But I know Elizabeth quite well. Perhaps you’d be interested in asking some questions about the woman you intend to marry.”
Alexander tossed the bowl on the table.
“Very well, mistress, since you need an escort. And frankly, I’m getting tired of sitting here waiting.” He gestured toward the door. “Lead the way.”