CHAPTER SIX

A LMOST THREE WEEKS LATER , taken beyond the castle walls and gently cradled in her laird's arms so she could have one last glimpse of the Highlands, Lady Catherine breathed her last.

Rowan had ridden out with Catherine seated before him on his great stallion, and there, atop the tor, she had looked out over the beautiful landscape.

In the end, she was lucid. She whispered to him that she loved this valley, then looked up at Rowan, touched his face and closed her eyes for the final time. She was at peace.

Gwenyth was there, only a few feet away, for Catherine had decided somewhere in the recesses of her mind that she had found in Gwenyth both an angel and a true friend.

There had been nothing for Gwenyth to do but sit at Catherine's side, as bidden. Not that she minded. There was something gratifying about being so needed and able to perform some small service for another human being in pain. There was equally something agonizing in it, finding such a trusting friendship with someone she was destined to lose so quickly.

At the very end, Gwenyth had been pleased to see that Catherine had recognized Rowan and asked him to take her out into the countryside. Annie told Gwenyth that she'd seen such a change before, that, sadly, it often came right before death, a last shining reprieve before moving on to heaven, for surely there was nowhere else that such a sweet lady as Catherine might go.

Rowan spent the weeks leading up to Catherine's death in a cloud of rigid silence. If he had not kept such a cold distance from her, looking through her as if she were not there at all, she would have been unable to feel anything other than a deep sympathy for him, though she knew he did not want anyone's sympathy, most especially hers. He didn't want her there at all, she knew, and tolerated her only because Catherine desired her presence.

None of them had dismounted. Gwenyth was upon her mare, next to Tristan, the Reverend Reginald Keogh, Annie, Catherine's nurse, and several other members of the household. They held a silent vigil behind the laird of Castle Grey and his lady.

Rowan was silent for a long while, and then he turned to them. "It is over," he said simply. He was cradling the body of his wife tenderly, his gaze distant. He had nothing else to say, merely turned his horse and started down the hillside toward his home.

When they returned, Rowan carried Catherine back to her bed, leaving the others to await his word. Even Reverend Keogh was not asked to attend the laird's private prayers for his departed lady; like the others, he awaited his time to serve. Gwenyth could only imagine what demons taunted Rowan while he sat with Catherine. Though he had so often infuriated her, she didn't think he had done Catherine any wrong; he had seen to her care to the best of his ability.

As evening neared, Gwenyth could bear the potent silence of the castle no longer; she went down to the stables and sought out her mare. The stableboy, like all the other servants, wore a look of mourning, but he was quick to help Gwenyth and advise her on a path to take for her ride.

"M'lady, 'tis not always safe for one who does not know our forests," he warned. "Ours is a rough landscape."

"I will not go far," she assured him.

And truly, she did not mean to do so. But she soon found herself in the midst of a striking landscape, cliffs that rose high as if touching the heavens, valleys that were deep and beautiful. She passed tenant farms with workers in the fields, grazing lands so rich with sheep that they appeared as deep pools of white clouds. She reached a cliff traversed by a well-worn path and took it, aware that she was climbing higher and higher, but not entirely aware the sun was falling. From her vantage point, when she looked out, she could see the coast, the setting sun dazzling upon the water. On this day, when Catherine had died, there was no mist, no foul weather and no hint of rain.

Looking out, she could see the ferries returning to the shore. She realized she did hardly know her own home when she stared across the sea right then. Shading her eyes against the dying sun, she thought Islington Isle might be the very large spit to the far right. She could see the red rays strike an edifice there on the rock that made up most of her family's home.

Islington. Her home. She realized that she feared it, dreaded it. She had left when she was just fourteen. She had been schooled in Edinburgh under the care of Mary of Guise for several years, until she was sent to France when it was decided that Queen Mary must have a new lady-in-waiting, one more aware of the changing conditions in the queen's own realm.

She had been glad to leave. She had grown up with kindly nurses, but they had been under the harsh control of Angus MacLeod. He wasn't a bad man, merely a grim one, and he had always begrudged the decision that she should bear her father's title, though the law would customarily have granted the title and lands to the male heir. Her father's death while fighting for JamesV had caused the Queen Mother, regent following her husband's death, to decree that the title went to Gwenyth, just as her daughter became the queen at so tender an age.

The rock edifice that seemingly rose straight from the rocks and the water appeared to shimmer for a moment, as if in welcome. Perhaps, she thought, it was not welcome but warning. She gave herself a mental shake. She was as filled with pain as the rest of the household. Such a sad fate never should have struck such a gentle lady as Catherine. Now she was gone, death having claimed her at last. There would be no more suffering and no more fear. And so, despite the beauty of the day, there was now a pall about them all, Gwenyth thought.

The sun fell, leaving the cold to wrap itself around Gwenyth, who realized suddenly that she was atop a dangerous tor in the near blackness of the night.

"Come, girl," she told her mare, keeping all signs of the sudden nervousness she felt from her voice. "It's time to head back."

The mare, despite Gwenyth's best efforts, sensed her unease. As she tried carefully to wend her way back down the path, the mare pranced nervously.

"One does not prance on such ground," Gwenyth informed the horse, but to no avail. "And I am not losing my seat again, my love," she announced firmly.

They made it down the first slope and came to a valley. There were no longer sheep everywhere. Where the herders had taken their flocks, she did not know. In the dark, everything about this rugged land looked alike.

She eased her grip on the reins, allowing her mare to take the lead. She heard the cry of an owl as they started back across a field and nearly jumped herself. The mare shied, but still Gwenyth kept her seat.

"Home, girl, home," she said softly, urging her horse forward again.

She rode through gentle fields, without seeing another human being.

After a few hours, she realized they were getting nowhere, either going in circles, or heading north rather than southeast. She stopped, desperately trying to get a feel for the position of the water, so she could regain her sense of direction. She thought that the breeze, which was making the night ever colder, was coming from the northwest, and having made that determination, she took control of the reins once again.

What had happened to all the farmhouses she had seen earlier? She had not come upon a single one since riding down from the peak. She chastised herself for her foolishness in getting so lost, though she knew that berating herself, whether in silence or aloud, would certainly do her no good.

At last she decided that she should find a copse, which would at least provide a place to sleep, and renew her hunt for a path back to the castle once it was morning. At the far end of the valley she could see a rising thicket of trees outlined in the moonlight, and she thought she could find a sheltered place there, a brook for water, surely, and a lumpy bed of pine needles.

There was little to fear, she assured herself, since she hadn't seen another human being in hours.

Laird Rowan would certainly not notice her absence that night, so she needn't fear she would worry him. And yet…

She felt a new sense of despair as she realized that Annie and Liza would certainly notice when she didn't return, and they would set up an alarm. With luck, Tristan would see to it that someone went out in search for her without disturbing Rowan's nightlong watch over his beloved Catherine.

As she headed toward the deeper darkness of the copse, she shivered and chastised herself again, mocking her own foolishness.

Then she saw a glow from somewhere in the trees.

She reined in the mare and narrowed her eyes. She could just make out a campfire burning, and she hesitated, but only briefly. True, the Highlanders were known for being a law unto themselves, but she was convinced that none would hurt her. She was the queen's lady, and she was under the care of one of their own, Laird Rowan of Castle Grey. She urged the mare forward, even when the horse protested, trying to wheel and run.

Later she would rue the fact that she hadn't allowed herself the good sense to follow the mare's instincts.

As she headed toward the light, the darkness suddenly filled with sound, a rustling in the trees before her, then behind her, at her side.

The mare shied, and Gwenyth tried to turn, to run.

But she knew it was too late.

R OWAN REMAINED WHERE HE had been for hours, seated, his head low, at the side of the bed. He didn't look at Catherine's beautiful features; he knew death had brought a peace to her face that he had not seen for far too long; she looked now as if she merely slept in great comfort.

He wanted to feel agony. He longed for pain. Anything…

Anything to banish the heavy burden of guilt.

He gritted his teeth. He had never offered another woman what he had offered her. Once upon a time, she had ignited every breath of passion and loyalty within him. They had laughed; they had loved; they had shared deep discussions on the state of the realm, on horses, even on the improvements that must be made to the castle.

Once upon a time….

But it seemed so long ago now. And far too often since her accident, he had been eager to escape the castle, grateful for his duties because they had taken him away from the cruel specter of what was, compared to that of what had been.

And when he had returned this time…

Not only had she not known him, she had longed for the solace of a stranger.

And then, just hours before her death, she had known him and, sensing the approach of her own death, had bade him take her to the tor, that she might see the land and the sky one last time.

He had never offered another soul his love, but he had tarried often enough with other women while she had lived. Whores, strumpets, no one who mattered or could be hurt, no one who even engaged his mind, much less his heart. They had not mattered, had meant nothing….

Yet now, as she lay here, he felt he had betrayed her. He had left home not just for duty, but by choice.

He wanted to punish himself for deserting her, wanted to feel the pain, not the dullness, the cold, that had settled around him.

"Forgive me," he whispered, hands clenched before him. "Catherine, dear God, I pray you can forgive me."

At first he paid no attention to the commotion in the hallway; he knew no one would disturb him. Despite Reverend Keogh's opinion that he needed to allow the body to be preserved, set to rest in a coffin, prepared for services, he knew he would be left alone, that everyone would await the end of his personal mourning.

But finally the to-do grew so loud and so close that he could ignore it no longer, so he stood, frowning, and strode to the door, casting it open.

Tristan was a dozen feet away along the hallway, speaking anxiously—and loudly—to Annie and Liza. Both women were obviously upset, and even Tristan looked deeply concerned.

"What is going on?" Rowan demanded.

The three of them spun around, looking at him with surprise, concern—and dread.

No one answered.

"Tristan? God, man, has a cat got your tongue?"

Tristan cleared his throat. "Laird Rowan, we did nae mean to take ye from y'er lady. We've a bit of a problem here, but I'll deal with it, m'laird, I swear."

Rowan strode down the hall toward them, frowning. "What is this ‘bit of a problem'?"

"Lady Gwenyth rode out, my Lord Rowan!" Annie cried, distressed. "And she has not returned."

"She rode out," he repeated blankly.

"Aye."

"Who allowed her to do so?" he demanded, staring at Tristan.

"M'laird, I should have been far more attentive, but…she asked no one's permission, she simply left," Tristan explained. He stood tall, ready to accept his master's displeasure.

Oddly enough, Rowan felt no anger for Tristan. He knew Gwenyth far too well. But with her, he was furious. And, strangely, he was glad to be furious, to feel an emotion, to feel…

Alive.

"When did she leave?" he demanded.

"A few hours before dusk, I believe," Annie said.

"I'll rally the men. We will find her, I swear it," Tristan assured him.

"I will ride, as well," Rowan said grimly, then paused, inhaling deeply. "Inform the Reverend Keogh that the women may prepare my lady's body, and that we will set a vigil in the hall, so the people may attend to their prayers before her burial."

He turned and strode away to prepare.

He did not have to ride, he knew; his men were capable and could go in search of Gwenyth without his help. But he could not sit still. There were dangers in the darkness, but the little fool was far too self-assured to realize it. He wanted to throttle her. She was his responsibility.

As Catherine's death approached, he had written to the queen, to tell Mary that their travels would take longer, and she had replied to say that she understood the necessity of attending at the deathbed of a loved one. It was his duty, she had said.

Aye, his wife was dead, and it was his duty to pray by her bedside. No one would expect him to shirk that duty for another, and lesser, this night. He did not have to ride.

Then he thought of Gwenyth, alone in the darkness of the Highlands and knew that aye, he did.

"H ELLO ?" G WENYTH WHISPERED aloud, alarmed to hear a quaver in her voice. "Hello?"

It was then that a man leaped from the brush at her side, catching hold of the mare's bridle. The mare shied violently, but the fellow kept his hold.

"Why, 'tis none but a girl, entering the woods alone," he announced in the Gaelic of the Highlands.

Two other men stepped forward to flank her.

"I'm sorry to disturb your evening," Gwenyth said. "I'm Lady MacLeod of Islington. You are probably acquainted with my uncle. I'm traveling under the protection of Laird Rowan Graham, and am a guest at Castle Grey, where there has been a tragic loss. Perhaps you would be so good as to direct me to the proper path, that I might return before the night grows any later?"

"Lady MacLeod?" one of them said, stepping forward. Someone suddenly lit a torch, momentarily blinding her with its sudden light.

She knew she was being studied, and it made her uncomfortable. She hadn't liked the tone taken by the man who had spoken.

"Laird Rowan Graham will be looking for me," she said sharply.

"Really?" The question came from the same man.

She blinked against the light, trying to make him out. He was tall—and very hairy. His beard fell to his chest. He was about fifty, a massive, well-muscled man. There was a younger fellow at his side, also bearded, and so like him that she knew he had to be kin, probably a son. The third man was lighter than the other two, blond where they were dark. She noted quickly that his tartan was of a better quality and that he wore fine shoes, while the other two were clad in boots that showed signs of heavy wear.

It was the young blond man, clean shaven and more slender, who spoke up then. "Lady MacLeod?" he murmured.

"'Tis a gift," the older man said.

"Will you please help me find my way?" she asked nervously.

"A MacLeod!" the younger, bearded man said.

They all seemed amused, their eyes calculating.

"I am one of the queen's ladies," she said sharply.

"Aye, well, 'tis true the queen has returned," the blond man said.

"Aye, a Catholic," the older man said, and spat.

"And kind," Gwenyth said quickly. "She wishes all her people to worship as they choose."

"Come down, m'lady," the older man said gallantly. "I am Fergus MacIvey. Perhaps ye've heard of me."

She had not.

It didn't matter; he wasn't waiting for her reply. Without her permission, he reached for her, lifting her from the mare. She didn't protest; he was the size of an ox, and she already knew that she was in trouble here, though she wasn't at all sure why. She was a MacLeod, and that seemed to be a problem. Had there been some dispute between the MacLeods and these men?

Her heart sank. She knew she had to keep her wits about her.

"The queen is indeed a just and kind lady," she said, landing on her feet. "But she is advised by her brother, James Stewart, who can be a hard and punitive man, it is true."

The three exchanged skeptical glances.

"M'Lady," the blond man said, bowing slightly, "I'm Bryce MacIvey, thane of the clan. Perhaps ye've heard of me. "

She had not heard of him, either, so she simply remained silent.

"This is my kinsman, Fergus's son, Michael," Bryce MacIvey said. "Ye're upon MacIvey lands, y'see."

"M'lord, good men," she said, forcing a smile in acknowledgment, "I'm sorry to be trespassing, and sorry to have disturbed you. If you would just be so good as to direct me back toward Castle Grey…"

"We'd not have ye goin' off with no sustenance to see ye on y'er way, nor would we send ye off into the dark without escort," Bryce said.

"As it seemed Laird Graham allowed," Fergus noted.

"I'm a very competent horsewoman," she said.

"Mayhap, but ye should not be out in the dark alone," Bryce chided her.

She did not like the speculative way he watched her and knew she had to speak very carefully. "Laird Rowan's wife died today," she said softly. "He is in mourning…and his temper is both weary and foul."

Her words caused another exchange of glances.

"Come, we'll get ye some ale to slake y'er thirst, meat to settle y'er hunger," Fergus said.

She had no choice; Fergus had her mare's reins, and Bryce had her by the arm, so she allowed them to lead her over to the fire that burned in the night.

She was given a seat upon a rolled tartan before the flames and offered ale in a horn that was surely a relic of someone's Viking ancestor. She accepted the drink politely, realizing that she was, indeed, thirsty, though water would have sufficed much better. The ale was strong and bitter, and she had to force herself not to cough and sputter.

Fergus handed her a small piece of meat; he did not tell her what it was, and she thought she might well be dining on squirrel. She merely thanked him and began to chew. She had been mistaken; the meat was some kind of fowl, and not at all bad.

But once she was politely seated and fed, the three stepped away, and she knew they were discussing her, though they claimed they were trying to determine the best way back to Castle Grey.

By listening carefully, she could hear enough of what they said to send chills racing along her spine.

"…a MacLeod…" That from Bryce.

"…rich dowry…" Fergus.

"…revenge upon old Angus!" Michael said triumphantly.

"What of the queen's wrath?" Bryce asked.

"Laird Rowan…the more deadly," Michael advised.

Pretending to get more comfortable, she slid closer to where they were speaking, the better to hear their conversation.

Fergus began to speak in a heated whisper. "Aye, and what will they do, Bryce, if ye take the lady now, eh? Why not wait for a marriage come the mornin'? That can be no hardship, surely? She be a pretty creature, indeed. She has an alluring beauty."

"What of Laird Rowan?" Michael asked.

"The fool has let her loose. He is deep in mourning and will not even notice her absence until it is too late," Bryce pointed out logically. "And I do not care to wait for morning."

"Possession is indeed the greater part of the law," Fergus admitted.

Gwenyth kept her seat as she listened, pretending she didn't hear them. Panic had made ice of her blood and frozen her limbs, but she knew she dared not let on, not if she wished to have any chance of escaping this band. She was incredulous that they would dare to suggest violence against her in any way, and yet she knew she should not have been. She knew how apt the clans were to battle one another, and how eager to take justice into their own hands.

Clearly, her uncle had done something to make these men enemies to the MacLeods, and equally clearly, they meant for her to pay the price.

And her service to the queen was no protection, because Mary had just returned. She was a foreigner in their minds, and not in control of her country yet. They no doubt knew that if she moved against them, she might incite a revolt among all those who feared her religion and her ties with France.

Bryce MacIvey came strolling to her side, excitement in his eyes now, as well as speculation. She knew her fate had been decided. Tonight she would be the victim of rape, and come the morning, a forced marriage. It would be easy enough for them to find the proper minister. Once the deed was done, she would be trapped, the scorned wife of a laird who had done nothing but use her in revenge and for his own monetary gain. Her lands were far from the richest in Scotland, but they provided revenue just the same.

She had been a fool, such a fool. She could scream forever, and no one would hear her. She didn't even know where she was, other than on MacIvey lands. True, they would face the wrath of Laird Rowan and the queen, but still, once the deed was done, the vows spoken, what could anyone do? She would be tainted goods, and that would be the end of it.

And there was no one here to help her; there was not a chance of rescue. Therefore, she would have to rescue herself.

"Ah, m'lady, how is the pheasant?" Bryce inquired politely.

"A sweet morsel, quite delicious," she said. "I admit to a terrible hunger and thirst. The ale is fine, as well. I thank you sincerely for seeing to my needs."

"Naturally we, being men of honor, could do no less," Bryce said.

"We think it best to wait for the morning and escort ye home," Fergus said gravely.

"The dark is no time to be ridin'," Michael advised.

"Oh?" she said.

"The land hereabouts is rugged and fierce," Fergus told her. He seemed to be the leader here, though it was his blond kinsman who held the title. He was older, and the most powerful in build.

It was Bryce, however, who would lead her off into the woods. Bryce she needed to somehow best.

She must play innocent, must keep them all off guard. She must allow him to lure her deep into the woods, for getting him alone was her only chance of escape.

Bryce looked at her then and said politely, "The news you bring us is most tragic, that Lady Catherine has left this world at last."

She bowed her head.

"And ye are here with Laird Rowan," he said. There was speculation in his words.

"Aye. At the queen's command, I travel with the man."

There was silence. Were they wondering if the queen had decided that she would make the proper second wife for a man such as Laird Rowan? She found the very idea despicable when his loss was yet so new, but if it would help save her freedom for these men to believe such a thing she was more than willing to support the lie.

"Laird Rowan needs no more power," Fergus muttered, staring at Bryce.

Her heart sank. Perhaps the lie wouldn't help her after all.

What now?

The time had come for a decision. Bryce approached her, extending his hand. "Come, m'lady, and I'll show ye a bit of the sweet forest here. We'll find a place where ye can rest for the night, a place where ye'll be safe as we guard ye through the darkness."

"Thank you," she said, accepting his hand with what she prayed was an expression of innocence and gratitude, and stood, taking her time, dusting off her skirts. She weighed the pressure of Bryce's grip. He was more slender than the others, but hardly without power. Her one hope was to trick him, giving her a chance to inflict a blow that would render him immobile.

He led her some distance away, which told her that he knew these trails well.

"What about the beasts in the forest?" she whispered, clinging to his arm.

"Ah, ye needn't fear. 'Tis mainly deer here, though we occasionally see a few boar, but they disturb none that do not come after them."

He stopped, and she worried, because they were still too close to the other men.

She let go of him, striding almost blindly along the path, wishing her eyes would accustom themselves to the darkness.

"M'lady, where are ye going?" Bryce demanded, his tone developing a slight edge.

"Just further into the woods," she said.

"But I know these woods and where it is safest to sleep."

"I am a member of the royal court," she said. "I must have my privacy, Laird MacIvey."

"Ye need go no deeper."

"But I must." She didn't dare run, but she quickened her pace.

He fell in behind her, so she hurried all the more. And at last, when she was a good distance from the fire, she began to run.

He caught up with her, grabbing her arm, the vise of his fingers very strong. She stared at him, forcing herself not to fight in any way.

"My Laird?" she said.

Any pretense fell from his features. "This may be sweet and easy, m'lady, or more difficult. The choice be y'ers."

"This…?"

"The MacLeods owe me," he said softly.

"Ye've a feud with Angus?" she demanded, still pretending innocence.

"Aye. Y'er uncle caused a bitter fight that led to the loss of Hawk Isle, taken by y'er own kin, lady. Ye owe me. Ye owe me the income of that land, and of Islington."

"If an injustice has been committed by my uncle, I will rectify it," she said.

"Indeed, you will."

He was done talking and started to pull her to him.

Despite the ice in her veins, she bided her time, listening to her instinct for self-preservation.

Only when he was certain that she was cowed, pliant in his arms…

Only then did she strike.

She kneed him ferociously. When he doubled over, she struck him atop his head with her doubled fists, using all her strength. When he fell, screeching in agony, she knew it was time to run again.

She tore through the forest, ruing the fact that Bryce MacIvey was making enough noise to wake the dead as far away as York.

No matter. It was done. And now, if she was caught again, she would be tortured, she was certain. That left escape as her only option.

So, despite the darkness and the unknown trails, she kept moving as quickly as she could. She ran and ran. At last she heard the sound of a brook ahead and made her way there, paused, drank deeply of the cool water, then hesitated.

She was stunned when the sound of rock against rock suddenly split the night and light burst to life in the darkness.

Fergus was there, lit by the glow of a torch.

She backed away, aware that Bryce MacIvey was still somewhere behind her.

"Aye, y'er a MacLeod, all right!" Fergus lashed out furiously as he started toward her, his face a distorted mask of fury.

She turned to run and, to her horror, plowed straight into a body.

Even in the shadows, her heart sank. She had landed in the arms of a fiercely scowling Bryce MacIvey, and Michael was coming up beside him, moving to flank her.

She backed away, wrenching free. She was surrounded on three sides, and still, there was nothing to do but run.

This time Fergus was ready, leaping toward her with speed and fury. Just as he would have grabbed her, he suddenly went still, an odd look on his face.

Then, to her absolute amazement, he fell face forward at her feet.

A voice rang out in the darkness from beyond, harsh and filled with such authority that it seemed as if the very forest went still.

"Touch her again, MacIvey, and I vow upon my late wife's soul, you and your kin will all be dead men!"