CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"I WOULD SUGGEST , Lord Rowan, that you simply stay in England," Elizabeth said, when she had finished telling Rowan of the events in Scotland.

Rowan looked at Elizabeth and shook his head. "You know that I cannot."

"Your country is a hotbed of traitors, and it seems there is no rhyme or reason as to those who have been pardoned—and those who have not," Elizabeth said. "Queen Mary writes letters as if she is a secretary herself, long passionate letters. She wants you to be innocent, she dares not believe it." Elizabeth shook her head. "I have it from reliable sources that there truly was a plot. Mary's dear Maitland never signed the agreement between the lords, but I believe he knew of it. Not that there is anything on paper that admits the lords meant to commit murder, but they did sign a Protestant agreement to wrest Mary Stuart from the control of David Riccio and to place the crown matrimonial on the head of Darnley. Now Mary has taken James Stewart, Earl of Moray, back to her side, though there are indications that he was connected to the plot. Your precious land is in deep trouble, Rowan."

"But there, Your Majesty, is the truth of the matter. It is my precious land. And Gwenyth is there."

"Mary has forced a legal issue and said that in Scotland, you are not married. And no one knows where she has ordered Lady Gwenyth held."

"I will find her."

"You will lose your head."

"I must take the risk."

Elizabeth sat back, studying him. She seemed both curious and amused. "Take a long look at the situation, please. The Scottish lairds are ever at one another's throats. When one man is lifted, the rest of his peers turn on him like a pack of angry dogs."

"Is that so different anywhere?" Rowan asked her.

Elizabeth's smile deepened. "We are not so quick to violence here. I have more power than Mary," she said. "I can, and do, imprison those I suspect may be against me. I watch, I listen, and at times I give pardon. I fear for you, Rowan. You are an honest man among thieves."

He could not stop himself from pondering aloud. "I don't understand. I scarcely know Darnley, and what I know, I do not like. Still, I have done nothing to the man. Why would the queen have turned on me?"

"She arranged for you to escape, and immediately thereafter violence was done to her. You provide a convenient scapegoat for any who are guilty. You have never altered your position, in that you have supported James and her barons. I know you believe a united and strong Scotland must be at peace in itself, but I fear that Mary has set upon a course of action that has ensured that will never happen. Yes, from all I have been told, she has come to despise Darnley. But she will support him now. She has no choice. She will not ask for an annulment or a divorce."

"Because of her child," Rowan said bitterly.

Elizabeth nodded. "Because of the heir, she will outwardly support Darnley in many matters. Until her child is born, she will take no action that will cast any doubt on the paternity of her babe, so it is born legitimate. Therefore, I suggest you use caution. Wait until the babe is born. Then you will see. Soon after, I predict, Darnley will fall from grace."

"I fear for Gwenyth in the meantime," he said quietly.

"I envy you both, you know," Elizabeth said.

"Envy?"

"Circumstances have been unjust, and yet…in both of you, I see such deep commitment. Perhaps your faith and the depth of your love will save you in the end. Or perhaps they will bring about your demise. Or, as happens so frequently in this world, perhaps time and hardship will make enemies of you, and all that is tender and romantic will end in bitterness."

"That I will not allow," he said.

"Don't behave as recklessly as your kind are so quick to do."

He couldn't help but inquire. "My kind?"

"Highlanders," she told him, but she did so with a smile. "I am only advising you, of course. In the end, you will do what you will do."

T HE NEWS REACHED G WENYTH at the beginning of July that Queen Mary had been delivered of a baby boy, healthy and fine in every way, though the queen's labor had been long and hard.

She wrote Mary a long letter, describing her happiness at the event, but in reality she was miserable, wondering if she was doomed to spend her life as a prisoner. She spent long, agonized hours wishing that she dared send to London and ask Annie and Thomas to come north with Daniel, but since so many terrible events had taken place, she was afraid to do so. Daniel was safe where he was, and she had to be content with that.

As in the Tower, she was not kept harshly, only at the rather bleak and fortified holding of James Hepburn, Laird Bothwell, newly elevated because he had been instrumental in the queen's escape from Edinburgh. She spent a great deal of time writing letters to the queen, and to her own family and friends, but though they were duly taken from her, she doubted they were ever sent on.

She was allowed visitors, at least, and Angus MacLeod came to see her soon after she learned about the birth of the royal child. Angus had begged her to bow to the queen's fury over her marriage and drop her claim as Rowan's wife. She was astonished that her uncle could be so fickle, as she knew he had admired Rowan.

"The queen can strip you—and Laird Rowan—of every holding," he told her gravely. "Thus far, she has been content to await her child. But now the babe is born, and we cannot know what she will do." Angus shook his head. "Love. What is love?" he said to her wearily. "Marriages are contracts that bind families, secure alliances. Ye know that, child."

"I've seen what wonders they do," she told him drily.

He hesitated. "The queen is using yer name upon occasion, ye should know."

"Pardon?"

"She is offering ye as a prize to many a man who will support her."

"I am not so rich as to be a prize worth winning!" she exclaimed.

"She has suggested that other holdings, seized from the rebels, will be granted to your new laird husband, once ye have one." Angus walked to the hearth, shaking his head. "A marriage contract is a marriage contract. Sixty-year-old widows have been wed to twenty-year-old men. Oft, a bride in her teens is given to a fellow so ancient, he is like the walking dead. That is the way of the world. But to a fellow seeking to plant his seed in the future of the world, a young bride is desirous. And beauty is not a detriment."

"She cannot marry me off without my consent. And I do not believe she would do it."

"You still love your Mary so dearly, don't ye?" he said.

"I am bitter, of course. But I watched her change. I watched her arrive with hope, with love for Scotland, with the confidence that she would be a good queen, one who would unite her country. I know she is misled right now, but I also know that, eventually, she will see the truth."

"I pray that ye are not blind, lass," he said gently. "But as ye have this belief, I will remain quietly at Islington, far from politics, and do me best fer ye." He was silent for a moment. "And fer Daniel, whatever may fall."

She wondered how she had ever found Angus to be stiff and cold. Since she had come back from France, she had discovered that he had been nothing but honorable and constant. And she told him so, hugging him tightly, perhaps embarrassing him a bit, until it was time for him to leave.

She continued her letter campaign, writing to Mary, to Annie and Thomas, and to Rowan, though she knew that none of her letters would reach him.

Very few letters made their way back to her. She did receive letters from one person: Queen Mary.

One letter informed her that Mary suggested she consider marriage to Donald Hathaway, newly created Laird of Strathern. The queen was full of enthusiasm, describing Donald as young, hale and vigorous.

Gwenyth threw the letter down with fury, but there was more on the page, so she picked it back up.

Understand I do this with all love; word from reliable sources states that Laird Rowan, in complete disregard of his duties in his own country, has wed Elisia Strat-field, daughter of an earl, and is now fully in the service of the Queen of England.

Gwenyth refused to believe what she had read. Still, she allowed herself an hour's fury and tears. And then…despair.

As the year waned, she was stunned when an escort arrived, sent by Mary, who desired that she be returned to court just after the Christmas season. She was still so hurt and angry that she longed to refuse, but in the face of the queen's wishes and a half-dozen able-bodied men, she had little choice.

And she did not intend to spend her life in the queen's protective custody.

Even if the news of Rowan's betrayal were true.

"T HERE ," G AVIN SAID , pointing.

From his position atop the tor, Rowan could see the arrival of the queen's men through the trees. Gwenyth, in a handsome cloak that draped over her mare's hindquarters, rode behind the leader of the party, a maid behind her, with five armed guards at the back.

"I see," Rowan murmured.

"It is madness to attack," Gavin said. "We are surrounded by the earl of Bothwell's minions, and ye've taken such grave care never to harm another man fer doing his duty."

"True." Rowan watched the party moving along the road. He itched to attack, to do battle, to win or lose. But two factors weighed heavily upon him. He didn't want to kill. And neither did he want to risk the lives of his own men, ten fellows who had stuck with him through thick and thin.

He knew his arrival in Scotland had not gone unnoticed. But despite the royal ban against him, he had been greeted with love and honor by the people of Scotland. Friends, those who had kept silent and far from court, had allowed them to stay and rest; in markets and farm towns along the way, the tenants and craftsmen had known him but kept their peace.

Here, they were surrounded by the forces of a man who was ambitious beyond imagination, and high in the favor of the queen.

"We will not attack, but we will follow," Rowan said.

They did, keeping a discreet distance from the party ahead of them.

Gavin, not nearly so recognizable as Rowan, rode ahead as a scout. Toward nightfall, he returned to Rowan's position in the woods.

"They have stopped for the night at Elwood Manse," Gavin told him.

"I have never been there," Rowan said.

Gavin grinned. "I have."

E LWOOD M ANSE WAS NOT a fortification of any kind; rather, it was the residence of the Reverend Hepburn, a Bothwell cousin.

It was a handsome, rambling dwelling. Sheep and chickens moved about the front lawn, and the great house was surrounded by charming, thatched-roof cottages.

The Reverend Hepburn had obviously been alerted to their arrival; he was waiting outside his dwelling, ready to meet her. He was a stout man with a full head of iron-gray hair, and everything about him seemed as stern and rigid as his coloring.

The queen's men were lodged in surrounding abodes, while Gwenyth's maid was given quarters in the attic, and Gwenyth discovered that she herself was to dine with the reverend and be accommodated in the manse itself.

Reverend Hepburn was a courteous man, but he was also determined to preach. As she was served a fine fish dinner, he talked about the state of the country. "We are deeply gladdened by—I daresay we are rejoicing over—the birth of our dear Mary's heir, which will bring us all to greater glory. But we will all need to do our part to see that peace is at hand for all Scotsmen."

"Of course," she murmured, all the while wondering what he was going on about.

"That means that we will all bow in obedience to the queen," he said firmly, amazing her when he pointed at her sternly with his fork. "We are all duty-bound, my lady. Fantasy plays no part in the reality of life. Traitors will not be tolerated."

She knew that she should just hold her peace and be done with the meal as soon as possible, but she could not. "If you are referring to Laird Rowan, he is no traitor. Nor do I believe that, in her heart, Mary thinks so. She has not had his lands seized, reverend."

The man's eyes narrowed. "So you would be like the wretched folk who do not see the truth. They cry his name in the streets," he said with disgust.

"And he will be vindicated."

"The queen will be avenged." The man smiled. "If he is seen in this area, I promise you, the queen will be given a quick and easy solution to the problem he represents. We will deliver his body unto her."

"She has never condoned murder. Are you mad?"

"Any man must fight to preserve his house and lands."

She stood, utterly disgusted with him, and knew she could bear no more conversation. "I have had a tiring journey today. I beg your pardon. I will retire."

He stood, as well, and she knew he intended to force the issue. She moved too quickly, however, seeking the bedroom she had been assigned on the ground floor in the east wing of the house.

The maid she had been assigned in her imprisonment, a young girl named Audrey, came to her, but she politely bade the girl to leave her alone. She didn't know Audrey well, and felt she could not find help or comfort in her presence. She longed to have Annie with her again, but could not deny the fact that Annie needed to be with Daniel.

The one benefit to Reverend Hepburn was his irony; he had sent a rough wooden tub to the room with hot water—a silent rebuke that she should bathe away her sins.

Alone with her thoughts, she alternated between anger and despair. The world, she thought, was a madhouse, filled with lies and rumors, liars and ambitious climbers, eager for nothing but to assuage their own greed.

At length—certain she had steamed away more than a few sins, even if not those the reverend felt plagued her—she stepped from the tub, donned the softness of her linen nightgown and lay in bed, eager for sleep.

It was not so easy.

It seemed that the Reverend Hepburn had decided she would be able to atone for a few more sins if he provided her with the hardest, lumpiest mattress available.

She wondered if she would indeed be guilty of a sin if, in her heart, she damned the man to hell.

T HE MANSE WAS IN A GENTLE valley, and even by the dim light of a weak moon, it was beautiful, epitomizing the true magic of the land Rowan had always loved so dearly.

They came on foot, leaving their horses in the surrounding forest with one man to hold guard over their mounts. The manse was quiet. And unguarded.

Rowan was certain the queen's escort did not expect any trouble. Their duty was to deliver one of the queen's ladies to her side. They had no reason to expect trouble, and so it was easy enough for Rowan and his men to study the house, to find entry.

Gavin, as ever, was at his right hand when they entered through a parlor window, followed by several minutes of trial and error.

Rowan found the room where the reverend himself slept; the man snored with the energy and volume of a thunderstorm. He closed the door, then continued down the hall. There were bolts inside all the doors, and he prayed that Gwenyth had not thought she was in danger, that she had not shot the bolt.

And, at last, he found the place where she slept and breathed a silent thanks to God when the door opened easily at his touch.

Time slipped away as he watched her in the moonlight. He had left her, so long ago now, sleeping as she did now, hair free and strewn across her pillow like golden fire in the light of the dying embers in the hearth. She looked like an angel and a siren in one, clad in white, yet that sheer white fabric was clinging to the curves of her body, hinting at the lithe perfection beneath.

He stood in the doorway for several long seconds, then silently closed the door, trusting Gavin to stand guard in the hall. Still, he took time to slide the bolt.

Then he walked over to her, and sat by her side. He saw the dampness gleaming on her cheeks, and realized that she must have fallen asleep in tears. He steeled himself for a moment; he had heard a great deal about her impending marriage to one of the queen's newest favorites since arriving in Scotland.

But then, he had also heard that he was married himself, and that was surely as absurd a rumor as could be found. He had to wonder if she'd had the strength of mind, the faith, to know that there were those who enjoyed discrediting others—while finding favor for themselves—and were quick to create lies.

She opened her eyes.

He was ready to quickly clamp a hand over her mouth lest she cry out. But she didn't. She only stared at him. "I am dreaming," she whispered.

He choked back a cry of emotion and bent down, lips hovering just over hers. "Then let me dream with you," he whispered.

Later, he knew he should have spoken further, that there were so many things that needed to be said between them. But their emotions were too strong. His lips touched hers, and thoughts and words were lost in the trembling sweep of passion. They had been apart forever, it seemed, and yet, in her lips, in the eager and hungry return of his touch, he sensed the world becoming right. He lay down beside her, hands sliding over her linen gown, feeling the wonder and heat of her form. She turned into him, fitting herself against him, and their lips remained welded together as he stroked and held her, closer and closer. Her hands were on him, as well, reveling in the freedom to stroke bare flesh, and in her touch he rose to a maddened fever, heedless of time, of place, of life itself. Their lips parted at last, but only so their fevered kisses could fall elsewhere.

Urgency ripped through him with a cruel violence at the feel of her breasts beneath his fingers and lips. The gentle play of her hands and tongue upon his rising passion was unbearable. At last, in the tangle of half-discarded clothing, they came together wildly. She moved against him, an arc of flame and a writhing force, a feast for the hunger of his senses so volatile that his excitement raged wildly, out of control, leaving only the smallest space for reason somewhere within. Yet somehow that reason, rooted in pride and sexual desire and caring, won out, and he held back, urging her still further, until it seemed the world around them exploded.

He was so satisfied and replete that he did not hear the tapping at the window at first. It was Gwenyth who burst up to a sitting position and stared at him in the firelight, alarm in her eyes.

"Rowan!"

He heard the urgency of Gavin's cry.

He rose, quickly adjusting his clothing. He had left Gavin in the hallway, not outside the window.

"There is a great commotion. The queen's men are rising, gathering their weapons."

Even as Gavin spoke, there was a pounding at the door.

Gwenyth was up, staring at him. "Get out of here," she whispered urgently.

"You must come with me."

To his amazement, she stepped back, and he saw the torment in her eyes. "No."

"Aye!"

"Lady Gwenyth?" someone called from the corridor.

"Get out," she ordered him, shoving at his chest. "Get out. I…I am to be married. Now get away, you idiot. Would you lose your head upon the block or hang like a commoner? Get out!"

He gritted his teeth. He had no idea what had given the game away and caused such a fury in the night.

"You are coming with me."

"If you touch me again, I swear I will scream, and you will watch your men die painful deaths before dying ignominiously yourself," she warned. "Now go."

"Lady Gwenyth?" The call from the hallway was louder this time.

"Go. You are an outlaw. You have betrayed the queen, and I despise you," she said coldly. "I will marry a proper laird, legally, and you will remain my enemy."

He couldn't have been more stunned if she had slapped him.

And then she walked toward the door, ready to open it as she called, "I am here. You have woken me from my sleep. Pray give me a moment to don my robe."

He longed to spin her around, rage against her, proclaim that she was his wife and he had never been a traitor. But then he heard Gavin cry out and realized that one of the queen's guardsmen had come upon his devoted friend.

And so he leapt out the window, though he still thought to avoid murder, and only gave the attacker a firm knock upon the head, allowing Gavin to rise, unhurt.

"What in God's name has happened?" he asked as he steadied Gavin on his feet, leaving the other fellow prone beneath the window.

"People are rising to arms," Gavin said. "I was still in the house when the messenger arrived and roused the family. Henry Stewart, Laird Darnley…"

"Aye?"

"He has been murdered," Gavin said.

R OWAN WAS GONE , and Gwenyth hastily flung on her robe, so shaken that she could barely dislodge the bolt.

"Open your door, Lady! You are in grave danger!"

The bolt gave, and she stepped back.

Reverend Hepburn, his sword in hand, nearly crashed into her anyway. He looked anxiously around the room.

"What has happened?" she cried.

"God knows what is going on now. The entire country is in an uproar. Fear stalks the land tonight. Darnley is murdered, and everyone suspects everyone else of the crime."

She let out a stunned breath, chills crawling over her flesh. "The…the queen?" she demanded.

"She was not with her husband. She is safe."

His eyes narrowed as he examined the room more closely. Just then one of the queen's men came striding in from the hall.

"Lady Gwenyth is in danger. I know not what faction could wish her ill, but there was a fellow at her window, and when one of my men would have taken him down, another attacked him."

"What do you know of this?" Reverend Hepburn demanded.

She shook her head, feigning fear. "Am I safe now?" she cried, as if in despair.

"Calm yourself, my dearest lady," the captain of her escort said. "We will surround the house. We will give you privacy to dress and then—"

"You caught no one? You don't know who was seeking to harm me?" she cried, mimicking fear.

He hung his head slightly. "No, my lady. They were like wraiths. They disappeared into the woods."

"How many men were lost?" she whispered.

"None, though one man has quite a headache."

"We must leave for Edinburgh at first light, I beg you," she said.

"Aye, lady," the captain of the guard agreed, and walked away.

Reverend Hepburn stared at her distrustfully, there was no charge that he could bring against her. All he had was suspicion, so she bade him good-night.

"Don't bolt your door again. We must be able to get to you if the danger returns."

Gwenyth agreed to leave the door unlocked, yet begged that a man be stationed at her outer window.

He agreed, and then, at last, he left her. Shaking, she closed the door and walked stumblingly back toward the bed. It had seemed so brutally hard, but it had cradled such magic. And yet, already she began to wonder if she had been dreaming.

Nay, for life itself seemed the greater nightmare now.

Rowan had come, and he had escaped, but she knew she had broken his heart in order to convince him to leave.

The people were roused in his favor, she knew.

And now Mary's consort was dead. Murdered.

Ice seemed to fill Gwenyth's veins as she wondered what import his death would have. She should have felt terrible sorrow; she should have been worried about the queen, about the state of the realm.

But instead she was afraid only for one man. Rowan.

And she was afraid for herself. Would he ever understand just how terrified she had been for his life? Or would he believe that she, like the queen, had betrayed him?

She didn't cry. And she didn't sleep.

She only sat there through the night, numb and shaking.

W HEN G WENYTH ARRIVED at court, she was taken instantly to the queen. Mary looked calm; she did not appear to have given way to hysterical tears. She, too, seemed to be numb.

"Dearest Gwenyth!" she cried, rising as Gwenyth dipped low in her curtsy. Then the queen drew Gwenyth to her in a fierce hug, as if there had been no harsh words between them.

And Gwenyth held her in return.

"Murder," the queen whispered. "My life is plagued by murder."

Gwenyth didn't dispute the fact. As they had ridden hard for Edinburgh, more and more news had reached them. There had been some kind of plot to do with gunpowder, and an explosion. Laird Darnley—who had been ill and resting at the queen's house at Kirk O'Field, planning to return to Holyrood the following day—would rightly have died in the explosion. But he had not. He had been found outside the abode.

Strangled.

It was certainly an irony. The queen had grown to despise her husband. She had tolerated the man, while letting her displeasure with him be known, only for the sake of world-wide recognition that James, her babe, had been born indisputably legal.

"It might have been me! I might have been with him. I had to attend a masque, else I might have been there with Henry."

It was true. No matter how hard Mary tried to be both strong and fair, she had made enemies. And the ever-fickle lairds were changing once again. After all, Scotland now had a male heir, duly proclaimed the child of Mary and Henry. Legal and accepted—and only a few months old.

Now Darnley was dead.

They were indeed living in dangerous times.

R OWAN REMAINED IN THE Highlands, though not staying in his own domain, lest he bring down the wrath of the powers surrounding the queen upon those he loved. It was easy enough for him to find support there, and due to family loyalty, his location would be protected. For the moment, he and his men had taken up residence with the MacGregors of High Tierney, a place with a barren rock fortress and many farms. They were surrounded by hills catacombed with caves in which many a Scottish noble had found refuge throughout the centuries.

Now, having climbed the rugged outcropping of high hillside lands that rose over the sea, he sat atop a tor, brooding. The wind was wicked, but he barely felt the force of it. In the distance, snow covered the mountains, but beneath him, the earth was green. He chewed upon a blade of grass, knowing that he should have been planning an appeal to the queen, because whatever message he sent must be very carefully worded.

But the thoughts that should have ruled his mind did not.

She risked my arrest, he thought in fury. Risked my men.

He could not believe it. But he had been there. He had no choice but to believe it.

She had said she intended to marry the man the queen had chosen for her.

One voice warned him about the fickleness of women. Another reminded him of how passionately they had made love, and told him that she had acted as she had out of fear, and in his defense.

They hadn't talked before he fell into her bed, and that was a mistake. Yet maybe what they had shared was more meaningful than any words.

Then again, maybe it had just been the meeting of two sexual beings long starved of contact.

He rejected that thought. He'd had his days of seeking simple physical pleasure when Catherine had become so ill, when he had longed for something that meant nothing, that hadn't tainted his love for his wife. What he and Gwenyth had shared in that bed was far more than mere physical pleasure.

He gritted his teeth, standing to face the whipping wind.

For the moment, he would bide his time. Every day, he gained greater and greater respect here, though he wasn't sure why. He might have been named a conspirator by the queen's consort and damned by the queen, but he was becoming a folk hero nonetheless. He had refrained from murder, he thought wryly, though he had been accused of it.

He turned his thoughts at last to the best way to approach Queen Mary.

She would be in official mourning for forty days. In that time, Gwenyth would be at her side, and nothing that wasn't of immediate importance would be decided.

And then…God alone knew in what direction the wind would blow.