CHAPTER EIGHT

G WENYTH CHEWED UPON a blade of grass as she read Queen Mary's letter.

"…the difficulty being that Maitland, bless him, though the finest ambassador possible—he served my mother well, you know—is still just that: an ambassador. In consequence, I am eager for the time when you reach England. I see the dilemma that Elizabeth faces, for England sorely fears the hand of a Catholic monarch, yet I cannot sign a treaty that says I cede my rights to the English crown when I am awaiting her legal word that I am her heir. She has stated in public that she sees no one with a clearer right to the English throne than I, but she will not commit to such a belief legally. She claims she will not do so until I sign the treaty, and I cannot sign the treaty until she has so committed."

Gwenyth sighed, looking at the sky. It was so beautiful that day. In fact, she had found her own estates here on Islington to be far more beautiful than she had remembered. Perhaps she had forgotten the power of the sea and the passionate dash of the waves upon the shore. Or the valleys, those slim stretches of green with the sheep so white upon them. Even the ragged, defiant rise of the rocky castle above the earth was dear to her now.

It was not Castle Grey, by any means. There were far more drafts, fewer tapestries, and the fires never quite seemed to warm the bones. But it was a handsome castle, nonetheless, built entirely for defense, yet proud and regal while still well-suited to its purpose.

The master's quarters were hers; Angus had never taken them for his own, even when he had known that she would be gone for years. It wouldn't have been right; it wouldn't have been Godly.

And he was a Godly man.

Church services on Sunday were long, taking up most of the day. No one worked on Sunday. Indeed, even within the castle, they saw to themselves, just as Angus had insisted that while she was here she should go out with the fishermen on their boats, and learn what the shepherds did with their days, as well. Sunday was a day of rest, and Angus ordered the servants to observe it as such.

But in fact, she had not found Angus as much of an ogre as she had remembered. Perhaps it was because she had matured and seen something of the world, so she was no longer a child to be easily intimidated by him. He was stern—he reminded her of John Knox—but he had been gentle when she had arrived. He had greeted her almost lovingly—at least by his standards. He had offered no embrace, but there had been a smile and even kind words noting that he was proud of her, that he'd heard from Laird James that she had remained a Protestant despite the queen's papist ways, and that she had conducted herself at court with grace and intelligence.

He had read the letters from Rowan—including one that Rowan had carried from the queen—with a grim expression. She knew that Mary had informed him that her future would remain in royal hands, but she knew not what Rowan's letters had contained, other than the few points he had mentioned and, from her uncle's reaction, that he had recounted at least some of what had happened the night she encountered Laird Bryce MacIvey.

The giveaway had been her uncle's cry of fury as he had informed her that if a MacIvey so much as made landfall upon Islington, he would consider the man guilty of far more than trespass and see to it that he was conducted to Edinburgh for trial.

Gwenyth had to admit she was actually touched by his fierce determination to protect her. Almost.

"Such a man to pretend to greatness," Angus swore, his salt-and-pepper beard shaking as he enunciated each word. "When you are wed, it will be for the better of land and crown, a laird of my choosing, with the blessing of the queen. Ye'll not be sold so cheaply, ever!"

Sold.

What a word. Had he meant to use it?

"I thank you," she murmured, "for your vehemence on my behalf."

"Indeed," Angus agreed, and he was pleased, she realized.

She was glad to have pleased him, and she didn't mind continuing to do so.

She had enjoyed the rough waters and hard work of the fishermen—who had, she was certain, curtailed their language when she was upon their boats. And accompanying the shepherds, as she was doing today, was certainly not vile, either. She was able to relax, as she did now, with the rich scent of grass and earth around her, the sky above her, beautiful and ever changing, and read her recent correspondence from the queen.

And yet…

The queen's letter made her long for a return to Edinburgh. Mary wrote to her as if she knew everything that was happening at Holyrood, as if they had never parted, but Gwenyth was beginning to feel the distance. Months had now passed. A year had come and gone since she had first left Edinburgh. She had once believed that by this time, even with a long sojourn in London, she would have returned to Mary and her court. But though Laird Rowan's official time of mourning had certainly come to an end, he had never come to Islington for her. She knew from Mary's letters that the situation at home had caused her to order Rowan to return to court—without her. The plan remained, however, for Gwenyth to travel to London to meet with the Queen of England. But there was never a specific mention of when.

She returned to the missive.

"Ah, that you were here. The nobles in Scotland are such a quarrelsome group, ever at one another's throats. I do thank God for my half brother, James. His advice is all that keeps me sane at times. There was a rumor that Aaron, the son of Chatelheraults, intended to abduct me, as he was so in love. James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, is feuding with the Hamiltons, and this is of a far more serious nature. Bothwell wanted revenge upon Aaron Hamilton for some slight, and he broke into the house of a certain Alison, known to be a paramour of Aaron's, and I'm quite disgusted to say that force was used. Thankfully, my brother was near, as there was nearly a riot in Edinburgh, and I had to have both men arrested. What shall I do with these Scottish nobles? They have a far greater power than the nobility in France, but I have sworn that I will not play one house against another, and that I will be just in all things. But I am the queen, and I will be respected, though it is difficult to practice wisdom, even mercy, and maintain the respect due this office. Scotland is lovely in so many ways, but it is not the refined and well-governed country I knew so well."

Gwenyth winced at that. There was little more to the queen's letter than a promise of her care and concern, so Gwenyth decided to destroy it on the spot, lest someone unscrupulous read the queen's comment regarding her people. She immediately tore it to shreds, letting the bits of paper fly in the breeze.

She rose, stretching, noting idly that her hair, which she had worn loose today, was now decorated by long stems of grass. It mattered little here, where no one was assessing her apparel. She was casually clad in a linen shift, a wool dress and her cloak. She couldn't help but think of being at court, where skirts lay over petticoats that lay over fine linen, where choosing which jewels to wear was a major decision every day. Mary, despite the excellence and richness of her long hair, had dozens of wigs and hairpieces, and dressing her could take far more than an hour. Mary loved clothing, jewels and pageantry, and when she was in the queen's company, Gwenyth found such display to be fun, as well. But here…

Here the lairds and ladies were one with their people, and life was simple.

As she stood there, waving to the shepherds who had gathered to dine on their midday meal of cheese on bread, she heard the sound of horse's hooves and spun around quickly, shielding her eyes from the sun.

She did not know the man who was riding toward her, but she didn't fear his arrival. Angus had at his service, always, twenty well-trained men-at-arms, and additionally there were the ten men, headed by Gavin, who had remained at the behest of Laird Rowan. She could roam this isle at will with no fear of any evil. And she had enjoyed exploring all the caves, beaches, nooks and crannies and tree limbs that had enchanted her as a child.

She had so dreaded coming here, but nothing had been so terrible as she had imagined. The only source of upset was the man who, against her conscious will, continually haunted her dreams.

There was a cold truth to life, though. She was of too fine a family to be considered a proper bride for a MacIvey, but Laird Rowan was of too fine a stock to consider her for marriage.

Mary herself had warned her not to fall in love with him. He was of royal blood and nothing more than a remote memory, she reminded herself as the horseman drew nearer.

"My lady!" The man spoke with a decided English accent. He seemed surprised, however, when he saw her.

She thought with amusement that he would not have expected to find the lady of the land in the grass, barefoot. "I am Lady MacLeod, aye," she said, waiting.

He wore a feathered hat, which he doffed as he dismounted from his horse and approached her. She knew that he was studying her with interest, despite the passive expression he attempted to wear. "I am Geoffrey Egan, sent by Queen Mary," he told her.

She frowned in worry. "The queen is well?" she asked anxiously.

"Indeed," he said hastily. "I am here because she has urged that you move on to England with all speed."

Gwenyth felt a slight tremor in her heart. She was to move on alone.

"I see," she murmured, though she didn't see at all.

"If I may offer my horse, we can return to the castle, my lady, and all will be explained as you make ready." He cleared his throat. "I have already spoken with your uncle, and your woman is even now seeing to your belongings."

Gwenyth smiled. "I have my own mount," she assured him.

Her long stay on the isle had made her very good friends with the wayward mare who had deposited her on the ground before the boar at Holyrood. She let out a soft whistle, no doubt shocking the messenger. But the mare, Chloe, instantly appeared from over the next hillock, obediently trotting straight to Gwenyth, who was sure that her visitor was equally shocked that the mare wore no saddle, and that Gwenyth instantly and yet modestly mounted astride.

"Are you ready, Geoffrey?" she inquired.

"Indeed, at your leisure, my lady."

She kneed the mare, delighted with the instant burst of speed, and was quick to put the no-doubt disapproving messenger far behind. She was amused as she dismounted in the courtyard, filled with chickens and other beasts, and tossed the reins to one of the stable hands with a quick smile and a thank-you.

The messenger arrived at last, huffing and puffing. "My lady—"

"Come into the hall," she told him, walking ahead.

But when she scampered up the outer stone stairs and straight into the castle's cold and barren great hall, she was quickly brought up short. Angus was there, along with Gavin, a few of the other men-at-arms, and a man she had not been expecting at all.

Rowan.

She was sure that her cheeks were instantly suffused with scarlet. She no doubt looked like a farmhand herself—or worse. She might well have given the impression of being a less than virtuous maid who had just spent a few hours tumbling in the hay with a stableboy.

She stood dead still on her bare feet—eyes far too wide, she was certain.

Rowan was anything but mussed or tumbled. Tartaned, his insignia brooch in place at his shoulder, his hat at a perfect angle atop his head, boots shined to a high gloss, face a bit leaner but still as ruggedly attractive as she remembered, he might have stepped straight from the queen's presence.

She felt the sweep of his eyes over her costume, saw the arch of his brow, the twist of wry amusement that lifted his lips.

Angus, tall, lean, grizzled and a bastion of dignity, stood by his side.

"My lady." Rowan swept his hat from his head, offering a deep and courtly bow. Such a display was certainly a mockery at this moment.

"My Laird Rowan," she murmured, her eyes moving quickly to her uncle's. "I was not aware of the impending honor of your arrival at our poor isle," she murmured.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Geoffrey was to have informed you."

Geoffrey chose that moment to come panting into the hall. "I'm so sorry. She…the Lady Gwenyth got…quite ahead of me."

"Ever forward into the fray?" Rowan said.

Was there a rebuke in his words?

She forced a smile, wishing that she couldn't feel one particularly large piece of grass tickling just above her brow. "On this isle, there is never a fray. In fact, with my uncle's good men and those you placed at our disposal, I dare say heaven itself could be no safer a place."

Perhaps she shouldn't have mentioned heaven. Something in his eyes hardened.

To her surprise, Angus instantly rose to her defense. "Lady Gwenyth is aware that men and women serve their laird with far greater fervor when those who govern it know it as they do," he said. "I had asked her to accompany our shepherds into the fields today."

She flashed him a grateful smile, and he smiled in return. It was a shock, but a pleasant one.

Whatever other errors she might have made, she had definitely earned her uncle's approval during her time here.

"Perhaps," Rowan said, "but I believe that the lady will need a bit of time to prepare to travel in appropriate style."

"Really?" She could not stop herself from arching a brow in response. "This is a wild country, as well you know, Laird Rowan. I am quite capable of riding it in any style."

"You may, of course, suit yourself," he told her. "But then the queen, I am afraid, who is so fond of dress and pageantry, may well be disappointed."

"The queen?" she murmured.

"Aye."

She frowned, studying him. "Are we on our way to England?"

"In a roundabout manner. Mary has determined that the time is right to visit her Highlands so…"

Gwenyth turned to Angus. "Uncle, perhaps you would be so good as to see to a meal for our guests. I will be ready shortly to ride."

So saying, she hurried up the stairs to the rooms. She intended to get ready quickly; she did not want Rowan here long, did not want him judging her home.

Not when she had come to love it here so much herself.

A NGUS FROWNED , STARING at Rowan over a tankard of ale. "The queen has a dispute with Lord Huntly?" He shook his head. "The man is a Catholic now, is he? He has ever changed with the wind, whatever is necessary to improve his estates. He is all but king himself, nearly as strong a power on the mainland as the queen herself. But what is the argument? One would have thought he would have ingratiated himself with her—a Catholic monarch."

Rowan took a deep breath, trying to think how best to explain the situation quickly. "The queen has made it clear that she does not wish to impose her religion upon her people, only practice it herself in peace, as she would have others do. She does not take sides. John Gordon, the son of George Gordon, fourth earl of Huntly, seriously wounded Lord Ogilvie in a duel, and now Lord Huntly has refused to turn over his son for justice, acting as if his Catholicism somehow exempts him from justice. In addition, it's being said that he considers his son to be the proper bridegroom for the queen, and that, too, displeases Her Majesty. The queen had originally intended a journey north to enjoy the country and to hunt, but now her intent has taken a new direction."

Angus MacLeod shook his head. "'Tis a dangerous journey. Lord Huntly can call forth thousands of men."

Rowan looked up at the sound of footsteps and stood, politics no longer of interest in this moment, because Gwenyth had reappeared.

She was now properly attired for a journey, her bodice fitted, her hat jaunty and her skirt a rich green velvet drapery. Her hair was contained in a neat coil beneath the hat, and she was the picture of propriety. In fact, she was…

Stunning. A feast for the eyes and the senses.

But no more so than when she had first entered only a few minutes ago, cheeks flushed, feet bare, sweeping smoothly into the room, as if borne on air.

He found himself thinking that she was a witch. She walked into a room and heads turned. She looked at a man, and something in his muscles tightened. She…

She was so like Catherine in so many ways, so not like Catherine in others. She was swift to argue, so passionate for whatever cause she chose. She had a streak of stubbornness as wide as the country, and a quick wit that she didn't mind using against the slightest hint of criticism.

No, not a witch; he did not believe in the foolishness that so many learned men of his day saw as God's truth. She was simply young, beautiful, and possessed of a charm that lured and seduced. And she had somehow, from the moment they had met, decided to be his enemy.

While he….

And yet there was still something he could not bear. Something that had to do with the agony in his heart when Catherine had turned from him.

Rowan stood and straightened, looking at her, though he directed his words to Angus. "The queen intends to bestow the title of Earl of Moray on her brother, Laird James. Laird Huntly has been behaving as if the lands and revenues of Moray are his own, and now the queen means to wrest them from him."

Angus, noting Gwenyth's entrance, rose as well, but as he did, he groaned, lowering his head. "More war," he whispered.

"Let us pray not. Perhaps she and Huntly will come to an understanding."

Angus arched a skeptical brow. Then he frowned. "I cannot allow my niece to accompany you on this journey. It is not safe."

Gwenyth rushed forward. "Uncle Angus, please. The queen has asked for my presence. And were it not safe, do you think the queen herself would be traveling? If there is any threat, she can summon thousands of archers and men-at-arms. She is," Gwenyth reminded Angus, "the queen."

Angus sighed.

"I am commended with your niece's safety, Angus," Rowan said. "You must know, sir, that my men and I would lie down and die before allowing any harm to befall her."

Angus was still frowning as he turned to Gwenyth. "You will heed every word spoken by Laird Rowan?"

She hesitated noticeably.

"Gwenyth?" Angus persisted.

"Until the queen commands otherwise," she said.

Rowan lowered his head, smiling. She might be the lady here, but Angus had long ruled the land, and she knew she needed his support in any matter relating to her future when she was within his sphere of influence.

"Indeed, Gwenyth?" Rowan queried politely.

She stared at him with tremendous dignity and very cold eyes. "I would never seek to be any burden upon you, my Laird of Lochraven."

"What is your interest in this?" Angus asked him sharply.

"To serve the Crown," Rowan said wearily. "I do not fear the earl of Huntly. My holdings are far too strong for him to attempt to extend his feud to me. I have admired the queen's determination not to fall to his wild suggestion that she create territories where the Catholics might hold sway. She has honored her country's decisions. I can find no fault with her. She is intelligent, witty and ready to take the advice of learned and able men, such as her brother."

"Then," said Angus, "there is nothing left but that you take your leave."

Gwenyth lowered her head. Rowan knew it was lest her uncle should see the excitement in her eyes.

"I took the liberty of sending Geoffrey to see that the stableboys outfit your mare with a proper saddle, my lady," Rowan informed her.

"How very kind of you," she murmured. "That will indeed save us time, and I know that you would reach the mainland while there's still light."

When they stepped outside, he saw her smile as she bade her uncle a tender goodbye. And then they were on horseback, riding swiftly for the ferry.

The seas were rough, as they so frequently were. She did not seem to notice. She stood at the wooden rail, her expression thoughtful as she looked back at her home.

"You're sorry to leave?" he inquired, having thought it best to keep his distance, yet finding himself unable to do so.

"Naturally."

"Perhaps I could explain to the queen—"

"I'm more anxious to see the queen," she quickly interrupted.

"Ah."

"You have seen her…since I have seen you," she remarked.

"At her bidding," he said.

She turned away from him, studying the sea again. He realized that she was disturbed that the queen had not sent for her before this.

"I'm sure Mary wanted you to enjoy time and peace at home," he offered sympathetically, then decided that sympathy—which might seem like pity—was not something anyone should offer the Lady of Islington.

"Indeed, some of us can find peace," she told him.

He straightened and walked away, then was startled when she ran after him, setting a hand upon his arm. When he looked down at her, he felt a tremor shake him. Her eyes were so wide, liquid.

"I am so sorry."

He nodded and moved away, but as he did, he found himself worrying anew. He loved his country dearly, but it seemed destined for bloodshed. And he did not want Gwenyth to be a part of it, because he feared that even if he were to lie down and die for her, it might not be enough to keep her safe.

T HEY RODE HARD , AND there was little chance for conversation as they hastened to cover ground during the daylight hours and were exhausted by nightfall.

It was best that way, Gwenyth decided. She shared a few words with Annie when they rested, and he spent his time with his men. She could often hear them speaking, sometimes tensely and sometimes with laughter.

They caught up with Queen Mary and her party at Aberdeen, a town in the sway of Lord Huntly. The queen was lodged in one of the manses of Sir Victor D'Eau, a man of mixed Scottish and French descent. They arrived while she was meeting with Lady Gordon, Countess of Huntly, in a parlor just beyond the great hall.

The doors had not been closed. Perhaps neither woman cared whether they were overheard, or perhaps it had been purposely arranged so, with both women seeing an audience as beneficial, whatever transpired.

The countess was a woman of great vigor and had aged far better than her lord, who had gown quite corpulent with age. She was attractive and well-dressed, and a multitude of her attendants were waiting in the hall as she could be heard pleading with the queen.

Mary, it seemed, was adamant. She was appalled by the scandal attending the duel, and deeply upset because she cared about Ogilvie, as well.

"Your son, dear countess, must turn himself in," Mary said gravely.

"I beg you, do not judge him too harshly," the countess urged.

Mary's tone softened. "He must turn himself in," she repeated. "I promise you, he will not come to harm. But the law must be obeyed."

There was silence. Then the countess agreed with a soft sigh. "I will see to it," she promised.

Words of farewell were exchanged, and then the countess swept into the crowded hallway, lifting a hand for her women.

She was quickly followed out by the queen, causing everyone to dip low in a curtsy. Mary didn't seem to notice. Her eyes came alight with pleasure at the sight of Gwenyth.

"My little Highlander!" she cried. "Oh, Gwenyth, you have reached me so quickly." She gave Gwenyth a fierce hug, then looked beyond her. "Laird Rowan, with what speed you have achieved your goal. I am ever so pleased."

Despite the queen's words and his pretense of pleasure at her greeting, Gwenyth thought Rowan appeared disturbed. Then she realized why. Everyone in the room was watching them.

"Little Highlander…" Lady Gordon, Countess of Huntly, repeated, then turned back to the queen, leaving her ladies to stand silently behind her. "Why, it's Lady MacLeod of Islington, is it not?"

"Indeed. Lady Gwenyth, I present Lady Gordon, Countess of Huntly. Countess, Lady MacLeod," the queen said.

Lady Gordon took a very long look at Gwenyth while murmuring some pleasantry. Then she noted Rowan's presence. "Ah, the Laird of the Far Isles," she said.

"Countess," he replied, bowing his head in acknowledgment.

"I can only imagine that you've traveled with a host of Highland devils," she said teasingly, but Gwenyth knew the words were seriously meant as the countess attempted to gauge the manpower Rowan had brought with him.

"That, my dear lady, from the princess of the Highlands herself," he replied politely and in kind.

Lady Gordon laughed uneasily, and Gwenyth saw that Mary was watching the exchange carefully.

"Well, we are indeed a breed apart from the Lowlanders," the countess agreed.

A law apart, Gwenyth thought.

"But the hour grows late," the countess went on, "And our good Queen Mary has had a long day. I will take my ladies and depart. No doubt we will meet again very soon. My queen…" She offered another curtsy, then took Mary's hand and kissed it. "Thank you," she said sincerely.

"Your Grace," Rowan murmured quickly, "surely you've men at your command, quite close. Pray tell me so."

Mary laughed, but the sound was weary. "Oh, aye, my fine Laird Rowan. I'd not trust the lady—nor her husband—without a strong body of armed men at my back. Now tell me, how many are in your company?"

He shook his head. "Thirty. Thirty fine men, adept with swords and arrows, knowledgeable about cannon and fire-power…but beware, for this is Gordon territory."

"Your men are a welcome addition, though I do not travel lightly." She smiled then. "Oh, it is so good to see you both."

As she spoke, James Stewart entered, looking anxiously at the queen.

"She has agreed that her son must turn himself in," Mary said.

James nodded grimly.

"James is recently married, you know," Mary informed Gwenyth.

"My deepest congratulations, my Lord James," Gwenyth said.

He nodded. "Thank you, my lady." He turned his attention to Rowan. "Well? What did you see along the way?"

"I wish I could assure you that there no forces would rise against the queen, but I cannot," he said bluntly. "I saw no sign of a large army massing, but that does not mean that the Gordons and their kin cannot raise one quickly."

"I don't know yet if we can control the Gordons as allies, or if their power must be crushed," Mary said.

James lifted his hands, shaking his head. "The countess relies on witches and familiars to advise her."

"Witches?" Gwenyth laughed aloud. "Oh, dear. I can't—"

She broke off, realizing that both Mary and James were staring at her.

"You mustn't underestimate the powers of such harridans," he told her.

She looked at Mary, who nodded sadly in agreement.

"But…you can't believe that…that…"

"I think that the countess would gladly call up the aid of demons," James said, and he meant it.

"Brother, I've a greater fear at the moment," Mary said.

"What is that?" James asked.

Rowan shrugged, then looked at Mary and answered for her. "I fear the power of the Gordon clan. There has been talk of abducting the queen. Remember, John Gordon is a handsome young fellow. I believe he may well feel he has quite enough charm to…woo the queen, even if he has to force her hand first. You are in grave danger here, Mary."

She smiled, nodding. "I know. I will not fall into any traps, I promise. And John Gordon will soon be in prison in Edinburgh."

"Aye," Rowan said, but he sounded doubtful.

"You are still disturbed?" Mary asked.

"It seemed to me that despite her pretense of amicability, Lady Gordon was laying plots even as she spoke. I do not think she would be averse to kidnapping Your Grace, or the Lady Gwenyth."

"Me?" Gwenyth said in astonishment.

"If one cannot have gold, one is often happy with silver," the queen murmured.

"And there is something else you must keep in mind," Rowan reminded her.

"And that is?" Mary inquired.

"I know that you don't intend to send John Gordon to trial immediately, nor was his offense such that he would lose his head or face the hangman's noose," Rowan said.

"Go on." Mary urged.

"If he escapes, he'll be dangerous indeed," Rowan said.