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The Queen's Lady
Shannon Drake
16th Century. She desired him above all others… Would he now be her executioner?Lady Gwenyth Macleod has staked her fortune and her reputation to help Mary, Queen of Scots take her rightful place on the throne. But her struggle to guide the reckless, defiant queen has put her at perilous odds with Rowan Graham, a laird dangerously accomplished in both passion and affairs of state. And the more Gwenyth challenges his intentions, the less he can resist the desire igniting between them. Now, with her country in turmoil and treachery shadowing her every step, will Gwenyth's last daring gamble lead her to the ultimate betrayal–or a destiny greater than she could ever imagine?



The Queen’s Lady
Shannon Drake

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Joan Hammond, Judy DeWitt
and Kristi and Brian Ahlers, with love and
thanks for always being so wonderfully supportive

CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART I: Homecoming
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
PART II: The Queen Triumphant
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PART III: Passion and Defeat
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY

PROLOGUE
Before the fire
GWENYTH HEARD THE SOUND of footsteps and the clang of metal, and knew the guards were on their way to her cell.
Her time had come.
Despite knowing since the beginning that she was doomed, despite her determination to die defiant, scornful and with dignity, she felt her blood grow cold and congeal in her veins. Easy to be brave before the time, but now, faced with the reality of the moment, she was terrified.
She closed her eyes, seeking strength.
At least she could stand on her own two feet. She would not have to be dragged out to the pyre like so many pathetic souls who had been “led” into confession. Those who had seen the evil of their ways through the thumbscrews, the rack or any of the other methods used to encourage a prisoner to talk, could rarely walk on their own. She had given her interrogators what they had wanted from the beginning, standing tall and, she hoped, making a mockery of her judges through her sarcastic confession. She had saved the Crown a great deal of money, since the monsters who tortured prisoners to draw out the truth had to be paid for their heinous work.
And she had saved herself the ignominy of being dragged—broken, bleeding and disfigured—to the stake.
Another clank of metal, and footsteps drawing closer.
Breathe, she commanded herself. She could and would die with dignity. She was whole, and she had to be grateful that she could walk to her execution, having seen what they were capable of doing. But the terror….
She stood as straight as a ramrod, not from pride but because she had grown so cold it was as if she were made of ice, unable to bend. Not for long, though, she mocked herself. The flames would quickly thaw her with their deep and deadly caress. Instead of adding to the agony of the punishment, further torturing the doomed and broken souls delivered to their kiss, the flames were meant to see that such damned creatures were destroyed completely, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Before the flames were ignited, the condemned was usually strangled. Usually.
But when the judges were infuriated, the flames might be lit too quickly, without allowing the executioner time to hasten the end and lessen the agony. She had made enemies. She had spoken up for others; she had fought for herself. Her death was unlikely to be quick.
She’d made too many enemies, and that had led to her conviction and impending death. It had been easy to put the pieces together—after her arrest.
There were many who believed in the devil, believed that witchcraft was the source of all evil in the world—including the queen Gwenyth had served with such loyalty. They believed that mankind was weak, that Satan came in the night, that pacts were signed in blood, and curses and spells cast upon the innocent. They thought confession could save the eternal soul, that excruciating torture and death were the only way back into the arms of the Almighty. In fact, they were in the majority, for now; in Scotland and most of Europe, the practice of witchcraft was a capital crime.
She was not guilty of witchcraft, and her judges knew it. Her crime was one of loyalty, of love for a queen who, with her reckless passions, had damned them all.
Not that the cause mattered, nor the sham of a trial and the cruelty of the judgment against her. She was about to die. That was the only thing that mattered now.
Would she falter? What would happen when she felt the scorching touch of the first flames? Would she scream? Of course she would; she would be in agony.
She had been right and righteous.
Little good that did now.
And beyond the fear of death and pain, she was sorry. She hadn’t realized how much she had traded away in adhering to her ideals. The pain of what she was leaving behind had become a ragged, bleeding wound in her heart, burning as if salt had been poured on the tender flesh. Nothing they were about to do to her body could be as heinous as the agony tearing at her soul. For once she was gone….
What would happen to Daniel?
Nothing, surely. God could not be so cruel. The trial, the execution…they were meant to silence her and her alone. Daniel was safe. He was with those who loved him, and surely his father would allow no harm to befall him. No matter what she had done or how she had defied him.
The footsteps came closer, stopped just outside her cell. For a moment she was blinded by the light of the lantern they had brought with them into the darkness of the dungeon. She could tell there were three of them, but nothing more. Then her vision cleared and for a moment her heart took flight.
He was there.
Surely he could not mean for her life to end this way. Despite his anger, his warnings, his threats, he couldn’t have intended this. He had told her often enough—accurately, she had to admit—that she was far too like the queen she had served, rashly speaking her mind and blind to the dangers inherent in such honesty. But still, could he really be a part of this charade, this spectacle of political injustice and machination? He had held her in his arms, given her a brief, shimmering glimpse of how the heart could rule the mind, how passion could destroy sanity, how love could sweep away all sense.
They had shared so much. Too much.
And yet…
Men could betray one another as quickly as the wind shifted. For their own lives, for the sake of position and wealth, property and prosperity. Was he indeed a part of this travesty? For she had not been mistaken.
Rowan was here in all his grandeur. His wheaten hair was golden in the flickering torchlight, and he epitomized nobility in every way—kilted in his colors, a sweeping, fur-trimmed cape adding to the breadth of his swordsman’s shoulders. He stood before her now, flanked by her judge and her executioner, chiseled features grim and condemning, eyes as dark as coal, cold and disdainful. Long fingers of ice reached up and gripped her heart. How foolish she had been to believe he had come to her rescue.
He had not come to help her but to further condemn her. He was not immune to the political machinations of the day. Like so many of the nobility, with skills honed through years of bloodshed, he was adept at straddling a wall, then landing on the winning side in battle, whether on the field or in the halls of government.
She stared at him without moving, the other men invisible to her. She forced herself to ignore her own filthy and disheveled state—clothing torn and damp, crusted with the dirt and mold of her dungeon cell. She refused to allow herself to falter beneath his stare. Despite the rags that clung to her now, she remained still and regal, determined to end her life with grace. He watched her, his scorching blue eyes so dark with condemnation that they appeared to her like stygian pits, a glimpse into the hell into which she would find herself cast once she had breathed her last in this life and endured the final agony of the fire.
She met his look with scorn, barely aware that the judge was reading the accusation and the sentence, informing her that the time had come.
“Burned at the stake until dead…ashes cast to the wind…”
She didn’t move, didn’t blink, simply stood quite still, with her head held high. She realized that Reverend Martin had come up behind the others. She was almost amused to see that they had sent their esteemed lapdog to try to force her into abject terror and a renewed confession, even at the stake. After all, if she were to assure the crowd that she was indeed the devil’s pawn, guilty of all manner of horrors, then the whispers that she was innocent, a victim of a political struggle, would not rise to become shouts that stirred resistance the length and breadth of the country.
“Lady Gwenyth MacLeod, you must confess before the crowds, and your death will go easy,” the rector said. “Confess and pray now, for with your deepest repentance, our great Father in Heaven may well see fit to keep you from an eternity in the very bowels of hell.”
She couldn’t tear her eyes from Rowan, who appeared so tall and indomitable among the others, though he was still watching her with such loathing. She prayed that her own disgust outshone the fear in her eyes.
“Take care, reverend,” she said softly. “I stand condemned, and if I speak now before the crowd, I will say that I am guilty of nothing. I will not confess to a lie before the crowd, else my Father in Heaven would abandon me. I go to my death, and on to Heaven, because the good Lord knows I am innocent, and that you are using His name to rid yourselves of a political enemy. It is you, I fear, who will long rot in hell.”
“Blasphemy!”
She was stunned, for it was Rowan who shouted out the word.
The barred door of her cell was flung wide with terrible violence. Before she knew it, he had seized hold of her, the fingers of one hand threaded cruelly through her hair, forcing her to stare up into his eyes, powerless to escape the touch of his other hand against her cheek.
“She must not be allowed to speak before any crowd. She knows her soul is bound for hell, and she will try only to drag others down into Satan’s rancid hole along with her,” Rowan said, his voice rough with hatred and conviction. “Trust me, for I know too well the witchery of her enchantment.”
How could such words fall from his lips? Once he had sworn to love her forever. Before God, he had vowed his love.
Her heart shattered at the thought that he had come not only to bear witness to her agony but to be a part of it.
His hand was large, his fingers long and strangely gentle, despite the fact that he was so accustomed to wielding a sword. She recalled with renewed pain how those fingers had once reached for her only to stroke with the greatest tenderness. And his eyes…eyes that had gazed at her with such delight, such amusement, even anger at times, but most of all with a deep, shattering passion that touched her soul as she could never be touched in the flesh.
Now they were nothing but dark, brutal.
As he stared at her, held her defenseless, he moved, and she realized that he was holding something. It was, she saw, a small glass vial, and he held it to her lips as he bent closer and whispered for her ears alone, “Drink this. Now.”
She stared at him blankly, knowing that she had no choice, and almost smiled, because she saw the flicker of…something in those eyes that were so blue a color that they defied both sea and sky. She saw desperation and something more. Suddenly she recognized what it was. He was playing a part. He had not forgotten her.
“For the love of God, drink this now,” he said.
She closed her eyes and drank.
In an instant, the room began to spin, and she realized that there had been mercy in him, after all, some memory of the sweeping passions they had shared, for he had given her poison to spare her the searing agony of the flames devouring her flesh, roaring until she was nothing but ash cast into the wind.
“She’s Satan’s bitch! She seeks to make a mockery of us all.” Rowan growled as she felt his hands tighten around her throat.
He wanted them to think that he had strangled her not as an act of mercy, but to keep her silent before the crowd.
Darkness began to encroach upon her vision, and a numbness invaded her limbs. She could no longer stand, and she sank against him, grateful that she would be dead before she was consumed by the fire.
And yet, in those last moments, she raged against the agonizing truth that the man she had once trusted, had loved above life itself, with whom she had shared ecstasy, known paradise, should be the one to take her life.
She saw his eyes again, bright like blue flame, and wondered if those fiery beacons would follow her even unto death.
Her lips moved. “Bastard,” she told him.
“I shall meet you in hell, lady,” he replied, his voice a whisper, and yet, like the fire in his eyes they would surely follow her into eternity.
Was there a smile curving his lips? Was he mocking her, even as she died? Her vision fading, she looked into his eyes for confirmation and saw both sorrow and something more, as if he were trying to convey something to her, something the others must not see.
For as long as she could, she continued to meet his eyes, trying to see all that was in them and to convey her own message to him.
Daniel…
She wanted to say his name, but she dared not. She knew—knew—that he would love their son, that Daniel would never want for anything. Rowan would see to that. Unlike her, he would never fall prey to the vicissitudes of power. He had always been a statesman; his enemies never underestimated his strength—or his popularity.
The darkness closed in more fully around her, yet she felt no pain, wishing she had learned the lessons of statesmanship more fully.
That the queen had learned them, as well.
She wondered if she, like Mary, had given way too often to passion and her own convictions, her own definitions of right and wrong. Had there been a better way to stand her ground, to help the woman who even now knew she was in grave peril? The queen, too, might well lose her life; she had already been forced to abandon everything that made life worth living.
How could she have known? How could any of them have known? It had begun with such power and grandeur, such a beautiful and glorious dream. Even as the light faded, she remembered how it had shone once, so long ago.

PART I

CHAPTER ONE
August 19, Year of Our Lord 1561
“WHO IS THAT?” one of the maids whispered, hovering behind Queen Mary as they arrived, earlier than expected, at Leith. Gwenyth wasn’t sure who had spoken; Mary, Queen of Scots, had left her native land as a child with four ladies-in-waiting, all of them also named Mary: Mary Seton, Mary Fleming, Mary Livingstone and Mary Beaton. Gwenyth liked them all very much. They were all charming and sweet. Each had her individual personality traits, but they were known collectively as “the Marys” or “the queen’s Marys,” and sometimes it seemed as if they had become one collective person, as now, when Gwenyth wasn’t sure who had spoken.
They were all—including the queen—watching the shore, their eyes on the contingent awaiting them. The queen’s beautiful dark eyes seemed, to Gwenyth, as misty as the day itself.
Gwenyth didn’t think the queen had heard the question, until suddenly she replied. “Rowan. Rowan Graham, Lord of Lochraven. He visited France with my half brother, Lord James, some months ago.”
Gwenyth had heard the name. Rowan Graham was considered to be one of the most powerful nobles in Scotland. She seemed to recall that there was some strange tragedy connected with him, but she didn’t know what it was. She also knew that he had a reputation for speaking boldly and having the personal power and political strength to assure he was heard.
She sensed at that moment that this man was destined to haunt her life. He was impossible to miss, standing beside the queen’s half brother and regent, Lord James Stewart. Mary herself was tall, at five feet and eleven inches, taller than most of the men who served her. James himself was not as tall, but even if he had been taller than the queen, the man by his side would have towered above him in the mist that shrouded the land. The light was thin, but what there was of it gilded his wheat-gold hair, turning him into a golden lord, a warrior knight, akin to the Viking raiders of long ago. He was clad in the colors of his clan, blues and greens and, despite the fashionable raiment of the group assembled to greet the returning queen, he was the man to whom eyes turned.
Lochraven, Gwenyth thought. A Highland holding. Even in Scotland, the Highlanders were considered a race unto themselves. Gwenyth knew Scotland better than her queen, and she knew that a Highland lord could be a dangerous man, for she was from the Highlands herself, and very aware of the fierce power of the clan thanes. Rowan Graham was a man to be watched.
Not that the queen had a reason to fear any man in Scotland. Mary had been asked to return home, but there were things Gwenyth knew that the queen did not. Just a year ago, Protestantism had become the official religion in Scotland, and with fanatical men—persuasive men—such as John Knox preaching in Edinburgh, the queen’s devotion to the Catholic faith could place her in danger. The thought made Gwenyth angry; Mary’s intent was to let people worship as they chose. Surely the same courtesy should be extended to the queen.
“Home. Scotland.” Mary murmured the two words as if trying, in her own mind, to make them synonymous.
Gwenyth was startled from her own thoughts and looked at her sovereign and friend worriedly. She herself was delighted to return home. Unlike many of the queen’s ladies, she had been gone but a short time, only a year. Mary had left her home before the age of six. The Queen of Scotland was far more French than Scottish. When they had left France, Mary had stood at the rail of their ship for a long time, tears in her eyes, repeating, “Adieu, France.”
For a moment Gwenyth felt a surge of resentment on behalf of Scotland. She loved her homeland. There was nothing as beautiful as the rocky coast, with its shades of gray, green and mauve in spring and summer turning to a fantasy of white come winter. And she loved her country’s rugged castles, a match for the steep crags of the landscape. But perhaps she wasn’t being fair to Mary. The queen had been away for a long time. It couldn’t help that the French themselves considered Scotland a land where barbarians still roamed, possessed of nothing that could compare with the sophistication of their own country.
Mary was barely nineteen and a widow. No longer Queen of France but ruler of the country that was her birthright, a country she hardly knew.
The queen smiled at those around her. “We have won through,” she said with forced cheer.
“Yes,” agreed Mary Seton. “Despite all those wretched threats from Elizabeth.”
There had been a certain sense of nervousness when they had sailed, since Queen Elizabeth had not responded to their request for safe passage. Many in France and Scotland had feared that the English queen intended to waylay and capture her cousin. There had been a terrifying moment when they had been stopped on their journey by English ships. However, the English crews had merely saluted, and their vessels, other than those in Mary’s immediate party, had been inspected for pirates. Lord Eglington had been detained, but he had been assured of safe conduct after interrogation. At Tynemouth, Mary’s horses and mules had been confiscated, with promises of a safe return once proper documents were obtained.
“This is quite exciting,” Mary Seton said, indicating the tall Scotsman.
The queen looked out at the shore again, staring at the man in question. “He is not for you,” she said simply.
“Perhaps there are more like him,” Mary Livingstone said lightly.
“There are many like him,” Gwenyth said. They all turned to stare at her, and she flushed. “Scotland is known for birthing some of the finest warriors in the world,” she said, upset with herself for sounding so defensive.
“I vow we will have peace,” Queen Mary said, her gaze still on the shore, then she shivered slightly.
It was not the cold, Gwenyth thought, that caused the shiver. She knew that Mary was thinking that France was a far grander country than Scotland, offering far more comfortable accommodations along with its warmer weather. Much of the known world, and certainly the French themselves, considered the country to be the epitome of art and learning and felt that Scotland had been blessed to be tied to such a great power by marriage. In France, Mary had known the finest of everything. Gwenyth feared that the queen would be disappointed by the amenities her homeland offered.
Cheers went up from the shore, as Mary offered a radiant smile. Despite their early arrival after five days at sea, a good-sized crowd had mustered. “Curiosity,” Mary whispered to Gwenyth, a dry note in her voice.
“They’ve come to honor their queen,” Gwenyth protested.
Mary merely smiled and waved; radiant, she stepped from the ship, to be greeted first by her half brother James and then the milling court around him. The people were shouting joyously. Perhaps they had come out of nothing more than curiosity, but they were impressed now, as well they should be. Mary had never forgotten her Scots tongue; she spoke it fluently, with no trace of an accent. Her voice was clear, and she was not only beautiful—tall, stately and slender—but she moved with an unmistakably regal grace.
Gwenyth stood slightly behind the queen and Lord James. The towering blond man, Lord Rowan, slipped past her, bending to whisper in Lord James’s ear. “It’s time to move on. She’s done well. Let’s not take a chance that the mood will turn.”
When he moved to retreat, Gwenyth caught his eyes and she knew her own were indignant. He wasn’t, however, cowed in the least by her fury; instead was amused. His lips twitched, and Gwenyth felt her anger deepen. Mary of Scotland was a caring queen. True, she was young, and she had grown up in France, but since the death of her young husband—not just the King and her marriage partner, but her dear friend since childhood—Mary had demonstrated a firm grasp of statesmanship. That this man should doubt her in any way was nothing less than infuriating. And, Gwenyth decided, traitorous.
Soon they were all mounted, ready to ride to Holyrood Palace, where they would dine while the queen’s rooms were prepared. Gwenyth sighed softly. This homecoming would be a good thing. The people would continue to rally around Mary. Meanwhile, Gwenyth herself was content simply to revel in the familiarity of the truest home she had ever known. Though the day was a bit foggy, even what some might call dismal, the gray and mauve skies were as much a part of Scotland’s wild beauty as the rugged landscape itself.
“At the least,” one of the young Marys said, “it seems that Mary will be adored and honored here. Even if it isn’t France,” she added sadly.
Gwenyth was dismayed to feel a strange chill as they rode through Leith. There was nothing to cause her such discomfort, she assured herself. People were cheering the queen’s passage with great enthusiasm. She had no reason for uneasiness.
“Why the frown?”
She turned, startled, to see that Rowan Graham had moved up and was riding at her side—and regarding her with amusement.
“I am not frowning,” she said.
“Really? And to think I had imagined you might have the intelligence to worry about the future despite the fanfare.”
“Worry about the future?” she said indignantly. “Why should I worry that the concerns of the world might impose themselves upon a queen?”
He stared forward, a strange look of both amusement and distance in his eyes. “A Catholic queen has suddenly come home to rule a nation that has wholeheartedly embraced Protestantism in the last year.” He turned back to her. “Surely that is cause for concern?”
“Queen Mary’s half brother, the Lord James, has assured her that she may worship as she chooses,” she said.
“Indeed,” he said, and laughed aloud, which she thought quite rude.
“Would you deny the queen her right to worship God?” she inquired. “If so, perhaps you’d be best off returning to the Highlands, my lord,” she said sweetly.
“Ah, such fierce loyalty.”
“No more than you, too, owe your queen,” she snapped.
“How long have you been gone, Lady Gwenyth?” he asked softly in return.
“A year.”
“Then such pretense on your part is either foolish or you are sadly not as well-read or intelligent as I had imagined. You speak of loyalty, but surely you know loyalty is something to be earned. Perhaps your young queen does indeed deserve such a fierce defense, but she must prove herself to her people, having been gone so long. Have you been gone so long that you have forgotten how it is here? That there are parts of this land where the monarchy and government mean nothing, and devotion is given first and foremost to one’s own clan? When there is no war to fight, we fight among ourselves. I am a loyal man, my lady. Fiercely loyal to Scotland. Young Mary is our queen, and as such, she has not just my loyalty but every shred of strength I can provide, both my sword arm and my life. But if she wishes to gain real control as a monarch, she will have to come to know her people and make them love her. For if they love her…no battle in her name will be too great. History has proven us reckless, far too ready to die for those with the passion to lead us into battle. Time will tell if Mary is one such.”
Gwenyth stared at him, incredulous. It was a heroic speech, but she sensed something of a threat in it, as well. “You, my lord, haven’t the manners of a Highland hound,” she returned, fighting for control.
He didn’t lose his temper, only shrugged. She was further irritated when once again he laughed out loud. “A year in France has made you quite high and mighty, has it not? Have you forgotten that your own father hailed from the Highlands?”
Was that a subtle rebuke? Her father had died on the battlefield with James V, though he’d not left such a great legacy as the king. He’d been Laird MacLeod of Islington Isle, but the tiny spit of land just off the high tors barely afforded a meager living for those who lived upon it. Riches had not sent her to France to serve Queen Mary; respect for her father’s memory was all that had been left her.
“It’s my understanding that my father was stalwart and brave, and courteous at all times,” she informed him.
“Ah, how sharp that dagger,” he murmured.
“What is the matter with you, Laird Rowan? This is a day of great joy. A young queen has returned to claim her birthright. Look around you. People are happy.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “So far.”
“Beware. Your words hold a hint of what might sound traitorous to other ears,” she informed him coolly.
“My point,” he said softly, “is that this Scotland is a far different place than the Scotland she left so long ago—indeed, even from the Scotland you left behind. But if you think I am less than pleased to see Mary here, you are mistaken. It is my entire aim to keep Mary on her throne. I, too, believe a man—or a woman—must worship God from the heart and as seems best, not turning upon details that have so torn apart the Catholic Church and the people of this country. Men of power write policy and interpret words on paper, yet it is the innocents who so often die because of that simple fact. I speak bluntly and boldly—that is my way. I will always be here to guard your Mary—even against herself, if need be. You, my dear, are young, with the idealistic perceptions of youth. May God guard you, as well.”
“I hope He will start by helping me avoid the boors of my own country,” she returned, her chin high.
“With one so charming and dedicated as yourself, dear Lady Gwenyth, how could our Maker not oblige?”
Kneeing her horse, she hurried forward, keeping her place within Mary’s vanguard, but putting some distance between herself and the rough Laird Rowan. She heard his soft laughter follow her and shivered. He had managed to cast a pall over what should have been a day of unalloyed triumph. Why, she wondered, did she let his subtle byplay disturb her so deeply?
She turned her horse back toward him. Riding was one of her finer talents, and she wasn’t averse to displaying her abilities as she swerved her mount, covered the distance she’d put between them, then swerved once again and rode up beside him.
“You know nothing,” she informed him heatedly. “You do not know Mary. She was sent to France as a child and given a husband. And she was a friend, the best friend possible, to him. The poor king was sickly from the beginning, but Mary remained a dear and loyal friend—and wife. In the end, despite the wretched conditions of the sickroom, she never once wavered. She cared for him until his death, then mourned his loss with dignity. And as the world changed around her, she kept that dignity. As diplomats and courtiers from all over the world came with petitions and suggestions for her next marriage, she weighed her options, including what was best for Scotland, with deep concern and a full understanding of the statesmanship demanded by her position. How dare you doubt her?” she demanded.
This time, he didn’t laugh. Instead, his eyes softened. “If she has the power to earn such passionate praise from one such as yourself, my lady, then there must be deep resources indeed beneath her lovely and noble appearance. May you always be so certain in all things,” he said at last, softly.
“Why should not one be certain, sir?” she inquired.
“Because the wind is quick to change.”
“And do you, like the wind, change so easily, Laird Rowan?”
He studied her for a moment, almost fondly, as if he had stumbled upon a curious child. “The wind will blow, and it will bend the great trees in the forest, whether I wish it were so or not,” he said. “When there is a storm brewing, ’tis best to take heed. The bough that does not bend will break.”
“That,” she said, “is the problem with the Scots.”
“You are a Scot,” he reminded her.
“Yes. And I have seen far too often how easily great lords can be bribed to one point of view or another.”
He looked ahead. Whether she liked him or not, the man had a fine profile: strong, clean-shaven chin; high, broad cheekbones; sharp eyes; and a wide brow. Perhaps it was his appearance that allowed him to be so patronizing without fear of reprisal.
“There are things I know, my lady, and things I know about my people. They are superstitious. They believe in evil. They believe in God—and they believe in the devil.”
“Don’t you?”
He looked at her again. “I believe in God, because it comforts me to do so. And if there is good, then truly there must be evil. Does it matter to a greater being—one so great as God—if a man believes in one interpretation of His word or another? I’m afraid He does not whisper His true wisdom into my ears.”
“How amazing. From your behavior, one would assume He did,” she retorted.
He smiled slightly. “I have seen a great deal of tragedy and misery—sad old women condemned to the flames as witches, great men meeting the same fate for their convictions. What do I believe in? Compromise. And compromise, I propose, is what the queen must do.”
“Compromise—or bow down?” she inquired, trying not to allow the heat she felt into her words.
“Compromise,” he assured her.
Then it was he who moved on. Perhaps he had decided he was wasting his wisdom on a mere lady-in-waiting, that he no longer found her amusing….
“I shall tell the queen about you,” she murmured to herself, more worried than she cared to admit about the doubts he had planted in her mind. The barons here were indeed powerful men, men whose loyalty Mary needed to retain.
Lord Rowan, she convinced herself as the day wore on, was a man to be watched, to be wary of. There was no reason to expect anything but the best for both Scotland, and the queen. The nobles had come to greet her with full hearts, as had the common folk. The very air seemed alive with hope and happiness. And why not? Mary offered youth mixed with wisdom, an eagerness to be home and pleasure at the sight of her people—whether her heart was inwardly breaking or not.
Some things were true. Though Gwenyth did not believe her own beloved homeland was barbarous or uncouth, it could not be denied that the landscape was rough, wild and often dangerous. As could the Scottish nobles.
No, this was not France, but it was a land with much to offer its lovely queen.

AS THEY CONTINUED ALONG the road to Edinburgh, Rowan was pleased to see that prudence was evident in the populace’s welcome to the queen. People lined the streets, many among them costumed and employed to both welcome and amuse. Fifty men were dressed as Moors, turbaned, wearing ballooned trousers of yellow taffeta, and bowing the procession along as if offering tremendous riches. Four young maidens representing the virtues greeted the queen from atop a hastily erected stage. A child walked up shyly to present Queen Mary with a Bible and Psalter.
There had been heated arguments before the queen’s arrival, with several of the Protestant lords desirous of presenting an effigy of a burning priest for Mary’s viewing. Many among their own number had furiously decried such an idea. There were some subtle hints as they rode past that this was no longer a Catholic country: burning effigies of biblical sons who had worshiped false idols, and a slight hint in the child’s speech that the queen should embrace the religion of her country. But none of it was heavy-handed, allowing the new queen to ignore what she might not like. And the festive tenor of the day was real; people were ready and willing to welcome back such a beautiful monarch.
As Rowan carefully watched the activity surrounding the queen, he found his eyes frequently straying to her maid, the Lady Gwenyth, whose eyes were fixed upon the queen and those around her. The young woman was strikingly beautiful. In fact, all the queen’s attendants were attractive—something, he mused, that the queen probably allowed because she herself was so regal and lovely, so she did not fear the glory of those around her. It was something that spoke well of her, Rowan thought.
But what was it about Lady Gwenyth that drew him so strongly? Certainly she was lovely, but the same could be said of many women. There was something, he realized, about her speech and her eyes that he found most provocative. A fire simmered within her, a fire to match the color of her hair—not really brown, not really blond, streaked with shades of red. And her eyes, a tempestuous mix of green, brown and gold. She wasn’t as tall as the queen, but as even few men equaled Mary’s height, it was not surprising that her maids were all diminutive in comparison. Still, Gwenyth was of a respectable height, perhaps five-foot-six. She gave her loyalty, and did so fiercely. She had shown herself ready and able to argue her point lucidly and with an effective command of language. She had a sharp wit. He smiled, thinking that when she disdained someone, she would do it with a cutting edge. When she hated someone, it would be with fervor. And when she loved, it would be with a passion and depth that could not be questioned or mistrusted.
A strange searing pain suddenly tore at his heart. Strange, for he had long ago accepted the tragedy of his own situation. He could not forget, would never truly heal. Yet he could not deny the carnal reality of his nature, though he allowed it free rein only when circumstances conspired to provide an acceptable mixture of time, place and partner. This girl in the queen’s retinue was never to be taken lightly, and therefore…
Never to be taken at all.
He should keep his distance, yet he smiled as he recalled the joys of debating with her. She was far too amusing. Far too tempting.
Her eyes met his suddenly, and she didn’t flush or look away. She gazed at him instead with defiance. Understandable, given that he had dared to express his wariness about this homecoming. A homecoming that, he was forced to admit, was going exceptionally well, at least so far. He was surprised to find himself the first to look away, and to cover his feelings, he rode forward, nearer to James Stewart. Nearer to Queen Mary. The people continued to boisterously cheer her, but….
He would be the last to deny that there were fanatics in Scotland, and he was relieved when the queen’s party at last reached Holyrood Palace.
Perhaps appearances could be trusted and the queen was going to be accepted and loved—maybe even revered and adored. He didn’t understand the deep feeling of dread that had settled over him when the day dawned for the young queen to arrive. Lord James, her half brother and, in essence, ruler of Scotland, had seemed pleased enough that his sister had been bound for home. Having accompanied James to France, Rowan had met her briefly already. She had been everything a country could long for in a monarch—elegant, poised and tactful. She was also beautiful, and her unusual height simply added to the impressiveness of her appearance. He simply found it worrying that she had spent virtually her entire life in France.
He himself had nothing against the French. He found their nobles’ more than occasional slurs against the Scots to be amusing—and almost complimentary. Yes, theirs was a remote and rugged landscape. Yes, there were those among the Highland lords who were not only rightfully proud but fierce. They were not a dandified people, were fighters more often than courtiers, but their hearts were strong and true. And he knew that when his people accepted a belief into their hearts, they did it without stinting. Such was the case now, with the Protestant cause.
And the queen was Catholic.
He laid no blame upon her for that; in fact, he admired her loyalty. She had spent her life living with the God of the Catholic Church. She was constant in her beliefs. Throughout the years of his own life, he had seen far too much brutality committed in the name of religion.
Elizabeth now held the throne of England, herself a Protestant monarch. But though the Queen of England was judicious, not one to order executions lightly, she was not afraid of doing what must be done. Against the odds, she had created a realm in which no one needed to die for choosing to worship in his own way.
But here in Scotland, it had been only a year since the fever of Protestantism had taken hold, and Rowan knew his people. What they embraced, they embraced with abandon. He could not help but dread what was to come.
When they at last arrived at Holyrood Palace, he felt some of his forebodings ease away. Holyrood was magnificent. Set outside the city walls of Edinburgh, it was surrounded by magnificent vistas and delightful forests. Holyrood had been established as a tower, but in the days of the queen’s father, it had been extended and improved upon in the style of the Scottish Renaissance. French masons had been brought in to do much of the work. Rowan thought proudly that Holyrood rivaled many a continental palace. Both Holyrood itself and the neighboring abbey had been burnt seventeen years earlier by the English, but in the years since, everything had been lovingly restored.
He saw Queen Mary’s face as they arrived, and was glad to see her obvious pleasure at the sight of her new home as Scotland’s queen. She had been nothing since her arrival but tactful and diplomatic, but he himself had played the game of diplomacy for many a year, and he knew that her delight in seeing the palace was genuine.
Rowan noticed that Gwenyth was anxiously watching the queen, as well, and he diverted his attention from the monarch and directed it toward the maid.
The Lady Gwenyth was an enigma. It was evident in her words and manner that she did not take her position in the queen’s court lightly; she seemed to feel something for Mary that was precious even among kings and queens: real friendship. And yet here she was clearly no fool. She had not been gone long from the country of her birth and, though she loved Scotland dearly, she could not help but be aware, as the queen who had been so long away could not be, of the dangers here, perhaps more aware than she was willing to admit, even to herself.
The steward and servants assembled in the courtyard as Queen Mary and her noble entourage arrived, activity tempered by awe as the household staff awaited a greeting from their queen and mistress. Mary did not fail them. Once again, Rowan had to admire her charisma and character, for she remained every inch a queen while offering courtesy and even affection. Lord James took charge of his half sister, leaving the others of lesser station to discover their quarters for themselves, leading to a state of some confusion. He heard several among the French escort muttering with relief that the palace seemed to offer surprisingly comfortable accommodation, while clearly lamenting the lack of art, music and poetry in this sadly uncultured land.
“Rowan?”
He heard his name familiarly spoken and turned. Laird James Stewart was at his sister’s side, glancing Rowan’s way in question. Rowan nodded, aware that the northwest tower had been chosen for the establishment of the royal apartments, and that his help was being requested.
“Ladies of the court, if you will…” he suggested.
With a nod to one of the housekeepers, he led Mary’s ladies toward their apartments. There was a great deal of tittering and whispering in French as he walked ahead. He shook his head, amazed that they weren’t knowledgeable enough to realize that many Scottish nobles were well-versed in the language. He was well aware that they were discussing his attire and his derriere, and speculating as to what might lie beneath the wool of his kilt.
He chafed a bit at their company, his interest lying far more in the manner with which Mary conducted herself with both staff and statesmen. He was unsure whether even James was aware of these first hours as the queen was duly greeted and settled in Holyrood.
As he showed the ladies the magnificence of the palace, and pointed out where the queen’s quarters, as well as their own, would be, the Marys flirted with him. They were lovely and charming, cheerful and full of life—and yet, he knew, as chaste as their young mistress now was in her widowhood. One day these ladies would marry well, with the approval of their families, but for now they simply longed to have fun, as was natural at their age. He did his best to be gallant to them in turn.
There was, however, one among their group who did not laugh and certainly did not flirt. She simply followed and listened in silence. The Lady Gwenyth.
He knew she was watching him, and he had to secretly smile at that knowledge, even though he knew she was wary, that she did not trust him. He was quite certain she did not give a damn what might lie beneath his kilt. She disliked him intensely—or thought she did.
“Are you happy with your situation?” he asked her at last, having shown the women the way to their chambers. “Will you be able to discover your way?” The hallways were long, the layout complicated, though certainly nothing when compared with some of the grander palaces of France. Still, they were arriving in a new home and might feel some confusion.
“I believe we can manage just fine on our own,” she assured him.
He had noticed that she seemed to hold herself slightly apart from the other women, which was, perhaps, natural. She hadn’t left Scotland as a child, as so many sons and daughters of Scotland had, the bonds with France having been long established. Many noble sons of Scotland attended school in France. Trade between the two countries flourished.
She stared at him now through narrowed eyes, her expression deeply distrustful. And yet so beautiful, as well, he could not help but think. She was well-spoken, certainly well-read and, despite her words, he believed that she shared his concerns for the queen’s safety. At the same time, despite her intelligence and dagger-sharp wit, there was an air of naiveté about her.
He stepped away from her now, nodding curtly in acknowledgment of what amounted to a dismissal. Striding the length of the hall, anxious to return to James and the new queen, he found himself pausing to look out a window.
From his vantage point, he could see the great stone edifice of Edinburgh Castle. The sky was as gray as the castle’s stone, the recent weather having been wet and cold, and mist, a common enough occurrence, had settled around the stark battlements. There was a tinge of mauve in the gray, lovely to one who knew this as home. Foreboding, perhaps, for those accustomed to blue skies. He shifted his gaze to the Royal Mile, a fine thoroughfare offering shops that sold goods from around the world. Holyrood was a fine palace, Edinburgh a fine city. Surely the queen would find much to love here and in her people, people who had cheered for her arrival.
Perhaps he was being too defensive, worrying for naught. And yet…He knew that many members of Queen Mary’s French escort mocked this land. It was cold, they said. Hard, like the unyielding, rugged rock of Edinburgh Castle. French shops were finer, French palaces far more beautiful—even if French laborers had worked on Holyrood.
Rowan forced himself to look on his city as others might see it. In the gray, foreboding day, the castle rose like a bleak and terrible fortress. The people themselves were as rough and hard.
Rock versus marble. Wool versus silk.
He gritted his teeth. They simply needed time. Time would bring the changes the young queen and her entourage needed.
The ties Scotland had shared with France were long-lived and strong. And yet….
No alliance was founded purely on friendship. Both the Scots and the French had fought the English, and that shared enmity had made them allies, even friends. But friendship was so often only on the surface, easily broken when more selfish needs intruded. And therein lay the dilemma.
What really simmered beneath the deeper waters of that alliance now that the French-raised queen had come home?

CHAPTER TWO
“I AM EXHAUSTED,” MARY sighed, throwing herself onto the bed in her chamber. She stared up at the ceiling and laughed softly, sounding for a moment like any young woman. “Actually, this is quite lovely,” she said, surveying the room. She rolled to stare at Gwenyth, who was standing nearby. “It is, isn’t it?” she whispered, and Gwenyth knew she was missing France.
“It is magnificent,” Gwenyth assured her.
Mary leaned back on the bed again. “Crowns,” she murmured. “They do weigh heavily.”
“My queen—” Gwenyth began.
Mary rose to a sitting position, shaking her head. “For now, I beg of you, please drop the formality. We are alone, and I must trust in you. You’ve not been gone so long from here, and you’re not after any reward, nor testing me, weighing me. Use my given name, as if we were nothing more than a pair of friends. For you truly are my friend, and that is what I need now.”
“Mary, I believe your arrival here was a complete success. Your people are delighted to have their young and beautiful queen returned.”
She shook her head. “These people seem so forbidding”
“They’re…” Gwenyth paused, not sure what to say. She shrugged. “They’re forbidding,” she agreed. She hesitated, then went on. “It’s due to John Knox and the way they have embraced their church.”
“Right. They can’t follow the English, heaven forbid, but they don’t want to believe in the old religion, either, so they must have their own church.” She sighed, then patted the side of the richly canopied bed to urge Gwenyth to join her. As soon as Gwenyth sat down, Mary gave her a fierce hug. “It’s cold here, have you felt it?”
“There’s a lovely fire burning,” Gwenyth said.
“You’re right. And it will be warming soon. This is so strange a place, though. In France, while my husband lived, there was such a marvelous sense of security in being queen. And here…it is as if I am being tested because I am queen.”
“You must remember, your half brother, Lord James, has been the power behind the throne since the death of your mother. Time has passed, and things have changed. But now, both lords and churchmen have gathered to welcome you home. You must remember that. Everything is going to be wonderful.”
“Is it?”
Mary rose and walked toward the fire to warm her hands. For a moment she looked lost, even tragic. “If only…” Then she steeled her shoulders and swung around. “I have barely arrived, we’re all dressed in the grays and blacks of our mourning, and do you know what was on the mind of those great and noble lords who greeted us and rode as our escort here to the palace?”
“What?”
“My remarriage.”
Gwenyth smiled. “My dear queen—”
“Friends, we are friends here tonight.”
“Mary, I’m sorry to say this, for I know your heart and know that you were deeply grieved by the death of your husband, but from the instant the king of France died, nobles and monarchs across our world were discussing your next marriage. You are a queen, and your alliances, both personal and political, can change the face of history. This is a sad truth to face when the soul is in pain, but it is the way of the world.”
“I am a commodity,” Mary said softly.
“You are a queen.”
Again, Mary paced. “You are right, I know. I scarcely had time to bury my husband with the honor that was his due before I, too, realized my future had to be decided. Today, when we stepped ashore, I had to wonder if perhaps I made a grave error. There were offers, you know, offers from Catholic royal houses. There is no right step to take, I fear. Were I to marry into such a house, I would turn Scotland against me. But here, today, I learned the minds of these men. They want me to choose one of their number as consort, a man who honors all that is Scottish, who bleeds pure Scottish blood, who will compensate for what they consider the disadvantage of my upbringing. Oh, Gwen, what is the matter with the people? How can I be anything less than true to what I have been taught all my life, to what I have read, to God as I know Him?”
“No one expects that of you.”
Mary shook her head in denial, and Gwenyth thought that, sadly, she was most likely right.
“They expect everything of me. But I am not an inconstant queen. I will honor and worship God as I see fit. But…” She turned away, lowering her head.
“But?” Gwenyth started to smile. She thought she had seen something in Mary’s face.
“Well…” Mary inhaled deeply. “I loved him, but my late husband…he was never well.”
“There was no romance,” Gwenyth whispered.
Mary spun and rushed back to the bed. “Am I terrible? I have seen someone who…well, I was newly widowed when I saw him. He is a distant cousin, in fact.” She looked at Gwenyth mischievously. “He is most handsome.”
“Who is he?”
“Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley.”
“Ah,” Gwenyth murmured, looking away, thinking that Mary deserved some genuine happiness. She had spent her life doing what was expected of her, performing her duty. To hear that whisper of excitement in her voice was, Gwenyth thought, most gratifying.
Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, was, like Mary, a grandchild of Margaret Tudor, the sister of the late English king, Henry VIII. Gwenyth did not know him so much as know of him. He was living in England currently, a so-called guest of Queen Elizabeth, due to what that monarch considered his Scottish father’s sin in standing against her. His mother was an English peeress, however, so his stay could not properly be considered incarceration.
Gwenyth had met Lord Darnley only briefly, at the same time as the queen, when he had come to bring condolences on the death of King Francis. He was indeed handsome, as Mary had said, and he could be charming. Other nobles, she knew—especially many of the Highlanders—did not like him. He was fond of drinking, gambling and all manner of debauchery. He had Stewart blood, but he had English blood, as well. Then again, so did many of the Scottish nobility.
Gwenyth looked at Mary then with a definite sense of unease, though happily Mary did not take that look to mean personal dissatisfaction with the one man who seemed to appeal to her on a sensual level.
“Don’t look at me like that! Why may I not enjoy the fact that I have seen a man who is both acceptable in the minds of many and appealing? Fear not, I have not lost my senses. I am in mourning, and despite everything, I did love Francis, dearly, though it was…it was perhaps more a deep and tender friendship than a passionate love. I remain in mourning, and I will not be rash in my decisions. I will be careful, and I will be listening to my advisors. No decision can be made for some time. I am still considering negotiations with Don Carlos of Spain and other foreign princes. My greatest strength lies in where I will cast my die. I shall not forget that for me, even more so than most, marriage is a matter political alliance, not love.”
“Mary, I know you will do what is right, but you certainly must allow yourself to dream of what will make you happy, as well,” Gwenyth said.
Mary, so tall and elegant in her robe trimmed with fur, looked at her with wide, beautiful dark eyes. “I am frightened,” she whispered. “Frightened that no matter how hard I try to do the right thing, I cannot make my people happy.”
“Oh, Mary! You must not feel so. It was a wonderful homecoming. And you’re going to be a wonderful queen. You are a wonderful queen.”
“It is so…so different here.”
“These are your people. They love you.”
“They’re so…” Mary paused, then offered a smile. “So Scottish.”
“True, this is not France. But, Mary, it is a wonderful country, filled with wonderful people. Who do outsiders look to when they seek military assistance? They offer rich rewards to entice Scotsmen to fight in their battles, because we are fierce and strong and loyal.”
“But I seek peace.”
“Of course. But peace is often obtained through strength.”
“Not in Scotland.”
“Ah, Mary. That’s not true, not always. Think back. We are a country because of the determination and courage of men such as William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, your own ancestor. Scotsmen are also poets and scientists. They go to schools elsewhere, and they learn about the world. You have only to love the Scots and they will love you.”
Mary let out a soft sigh. “I pray…yes, I pray. And I thank you—my friend. My four Marys are most dear to me, but they do not know this land as you know it. They, like me, have been away too long. Tonight I dearly needed your friendship and understanding, and you have not disappointed me.”
“Mary, anyone who knows you is aware that you have a great heart, that you are both kind and wise. You don’t need me. You need only to believe in yourself and to be willing to understand your own people.”
“I intend to try. For I intend to be a great queen.” Mary hesitated. “Greater, even,” she said softly, “than my cousin who sits on the throne of England.”
A chill snaked along Gwenyth’s spine. Elizabeth was proving to be a very powerful monarch. She was ten years older than Mary and had been queen of England for several years now. And she was Mary’s opponent in the political arena, for when Mary Tudor had died, the French royalty had declared Mary Stewart not just Queen of Scotland and of France, but Queen of England and Ireland, as well, considering Elizabeth to be Henry’s bastard and therefore lacking the right to rule.
Politics could be a very dangerous game. Gwenyth knew Mary did not wish to oust her cousin from the throne, but she was loyal to her religion. It had become quite apparent that not only did the English not wish to have anyone other than their own Queen Bess, they wanted nothing to do with a Catholic monarch, and therein lay the seeds of potential—or perhaps inevitable—conflict.
Throughout the centuries, wars with England had torn Scotland apart. None wished to have more bloodshed to be forced upon them by the English, yet every alliance was like a dagger in the heart of some other nation. The English warily watched Scotland’s friendship with the French, and the Spanish watched them all, so they watched the Spanish in turn. Such concerns would have a crucial impact on Mary’s future marriage. She could bring an ally to their cause—and create a wellspring of enemies, as well.
As if reading Gwenyth’s thoughts, Mary said softly, “I do believe it will be best if I marry within this realm in time. And he is good looking, isn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Lord Darnley.”
“Ah, yes.”
Mary narrowed her eyes in amusement. “I gather you think someone else is also handsome? I believe I know of whom you speak.”
“You do?”
“Laird Rowan.”
Gwenyth started, and could feel her spine stiffening. “He is very rude.”
“He’s blunt, and as you’re the one teaching me about my people, you should know that such a laird, well-versed in both battle and politics, will be blunt. He is the epitome of a perfect Scottish nobleman.”
“In that case, why don’t you have your eye on Laird Rowan?”
“Now you are joking with me, are you not?”
Gwenyth frowned. “I’m not joking at all.”
Mary laughed. “Well, then, I suppose rumor is not as rife as one would imagine.”
“Mary, please, whatever are you talking about?”
“My father had thirteen recognized bastards, you know. Some of them lovely people, actually. Like my dear brother James,” she said, and Gwenyth wondered if she heard a touch of bitterness in the queen’s voice.
There had been talk at one time of having James Stewart legitimized, though it had come to nothing in the end.
Gwenyth’s frown deepened. “He isn’t one of your father’s bastards, is he?” she asked incredulously.
Mary let out a small dry laugh. “No. Though he is the son of one of my father’s bastards. His mother was the first issue of one of my father’s first dalliances.”
“Is this true—or rumor?” Gwenyth asked.
“Don’t be so concerned, my dear friend, or you will furrow terrible wrinkles into your brow. Laird Rowan’s lineage is considered quite acceptable, I assure you. However, to find one’s nephew to be attractive is quite another. Besides, he is married.”
“Oh,” Gwenyth murmured.
“Quite sad, really. He is married to Lady Catherine of Brechman.”
“The daughter of the Lord of Brechman—but…those are English lands,” Gwenyth said, realizing that she was about to hear the truth about Laird Rowan’s mysteriously tragic past.
“Yes. And how do I know all this and you do not?” Mary inquired, seemingly pleased to be able to share what she knew. “I suppose, in the last months, I have had quite a lot of communication with my brother James, and he has told me the story. It’s terribly sad. They were madly in love, and Rowan boldly declared himself to the lady’s father. They were granted permission for the union by both my brother, James, and Queen Elizabeth. She became with child immediately, but shortly before the babe was due to be born, she was in a coach accident on her father’s lands. She was badly injured and fell into a raging fever. The child did not survive, and Lady Catherine has not been of sound mind since, nor has her health ever improved. She is now quite insane and lives in Laird Rowan’s castle in the Highlands, where she is tended by a nurse and the Laird’s steward, who is both kind and loyal. She is very frail and, most fear, soon for the grave.”
Gwenyth simply stared.
Mary smiled sadly. “Close your mouth, my dear.”
“I…I…how sad.”
“Yes.” Watching her carefully, Mary said, “Don’t fall in love with him.”
“Fall in love with him? He’s a…wretched, uncouth boor!”
Mary smiled. “I see. Well, though this may be of no interest to you, I must tell you that he no longer cohabits with his wife, which would be pure cruelty, since she has the mind of a small child. And he has maintained a certain dignity in his situation.”
“Dignity?”
“I know this only from James, of course, but they say that though Laird Rowan has not become celibate, what affairs he has are…discreet and with women who cannot be hurt. And I would never want to see you hurt, my dear friend,” Mary said gravely.
“You needn’t worry,” Gwenyth assured her. “Ever. I’ve no intention of falling in love. It does nothing but make dangerous fools of any of us. And if I were to be idiot enough to fall in love, it would never be with a Highland savage such as Laird Rowan.”
Mary looked at the fire, smiling distantly. “There, you see, is the difference between us. How I long to fall in love, to know such great passion…. Ah, well. Marriage for me is a matter of contracts. Still, to once know that kind of love…”
“Mary,” Gwenyth murmured uneasily.
“Don’t worry, dear friend. When I marry again, I shall not forget what I owe to my people. Still, even a queen may dream.” She waved a hand dismissively in the air. “This has been a long, and difficult day, and there will be many more such to come.”
Aware that the queen had clearly declared that it was time to sleep, Gwenyth hastily headed for the door. “Good night, then, my queen.”
“Gwenyth…”
“I am on my way out. Now you are my queen.”
“And you remain my friend,” Mary said.
Gwenyth lowered her head, smiling, and departed, eager for her own bed in this great Scottish palace that would now be her home. As she hurried down the long hall toward her chambers, she heard voices and paused. She realized she was overhearing a conversation from one of the smaller chambers reserved for state occasions.
“There is nothing else to be done. You cannot go back on your word.” The words were spoken in a deep, masculine—and recognizable—voice. Laird Rowan Graham.
“We are asking for trouble.” She knew the second speaker’s voice equally well. James Stewart. Was the queen’s half brother really her friend? Or did he, in secret, covet the crown and believe it should have been set upon his own head?
“Perhaps, but there is no other option. We can only hope that the queen’s determination to avoid religious persecutions will prevail.”
“Then, as you have said, we must be prepared.”
“Always.”
Gwenyth was stunned when the door swung open and Laird Rowan exited, and she was caught standing, quite obviously eavesdropping, in the hall. She blinked and swallowed, as he eyed her gravely.
“I’m…lost,” she managed.
“Are you?” he inquired skeptically.
“Indeed,” she told him indignantly.
He offered a smile of grim amusement. “The ladies’ chambers are there—you should have turned. If you were seeking your own bed, that is.”
“And what else would I have been seeking?” she demanded.
“What else?” he repeated, then bowed mockingly but did not answer. He simply turned and left, and she was startled to feel a deep anger that he had dismissed her so easily.
Good God, why?
She disliked him intensely. True, she was sorry for the poor man’s wife, but it did not sound as if he led a very Christian life, and he was rude and annoying and presumptuous and…
She was exhausted. She was going to bed, to get well-deserved sleep. And she would not think of him at all.
Her room was small, but it was all her own. Not that she cared so much. Traveling with the queen in France, she had sometimes had quarters of her own, and sometimes, she had shared a bed with one or more of the Marys. That had led to much laughter, for they loved to imitate the esteemed princes, nobles and diplomats they met. Like the queen, they loved to dance and also to gamble, and they deeply enjoyed music. They had been together so long that they were like a family, and they had kindly accepted her into it. Still, she would never entirely be one of them.
And here at Holyrood she would sleep alone, she thought, as she surveyed her new home. She had a tiny window and even a tiny fireplace. The glow from the fire lit the window, and though it was small, she saw that it was stained glass. The firelight played across the image of a dove alighting on a tree. Below it was the Stewart coat of arms, the colors beautiful in the muted light.
She decided that here, back home in Scotland, she was glad for her privacy. The Marys had forgotten too much about Scotland. She loved them and did not want to lose their friendship, but she did not want to hear the country constantly vilified in comparison to France.
If she grew angry with someone, she could come here and rant into her pillow.
If she needed to think, she could find solitude.
If she needed to hide….
From whom would she need to hide? She mocked herself.
It didn’t matter. This lovely little place was her personal sanctuary.
Her mattress was comfortable, her pillow plump. Next to the fireplace was a very narrow door. When she opened it, she discovered that she even had a private necessary room. Amazing.
All in all, it was lovely to be home.
She carefully discarded her travel clothing, storing everything in her trunk; the room was far too small for clutter. Clad in her soft woolen nightgown, she was warm and comfortable. And exhausted. Yet when she lay in her bed at last, cozy and comfortable, she lay awake.
Thinking about Laird Rowan.
Her disturbing thoughts were broken when a clatter arose from the courtyard.
She leapt out of bed as if she had been singed by the fire. Panic, dreadful fear for the queen, seized her, and heedless of shoes or robe, she burst out into the hallway, the din from below continuing. She heard an incoherent screeching sound, followed by voices.
Along with many others who had been roused by the noise, she raced down the hall toward Mary’s rooms, where the door to the hall stood ajar. As Gwenyth and the ladies and guards rushed in, they found the queen awake and standing at one of the windows, looking down.
“It’s quite all right,” the queen assured them, lifting a hand and smiling at those who all but tumbled one over another in their headlong rush into her bedroom. “My subjects are greeting me. I am being serenaded,” she called cheerfully. She appeared wan and very tired, and yet she kept her smile in place. “Listen.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Pierre de Brantome, one of Mary’s French escorts. “That is not a serenade. That is a like the sound of a thousand cats being stepped on.”
“Bagpipes,” Gwenyth heard herself say irritably. “If you listen, the sound is quite beautiful.”
“I have heard them before,” Brantome said with a huff, and stared at her, his eyes narrowing, as if he had just remembered that she’d been raised in what he clearly considered a benighted backwater.
“They have a lovely quality,” she assured him. “Which Mary, Queen of Scots, quite obviously appreciates.” She had never been quite sure what Pierre de Brantome’s role was in the household, though he considered himself a diplomat and courtier. Gwenyth wasn’t fond of him; he was too mocking of everything for her taste. But he did love Mary Stewart, and so, Gwenyth decided, he must be tolerated.
“Oh, yes, I love the cry of the pipes,” Mary said. “My dear Pierre, you must acquire a taste for this form of music.”
“It’s certainly loud,” Brantome commented drily.
That much was true. It seemed as if a hundred of her people, at the very least, were outside, that the cry of the pipes was mixing with the efforts of an off-key chorus.
Mary looked strained, clearly weary, but she was ever the queen. “How lovely,” she said simply.
And so they all listened until the impromptu concert ended, the French ministers muttering beneath their breath all the while, and then there was chatter and laughter as the household slowly returned to bed.
Gwenyth was the last to bid Mary good-night, and this time she headed unerringly down the hall to her own chamber.
Back in her own bed once again, she slept, but in her dreams she pictured Laird Rowan’s poor mad wife singing along to the plaintive call of a pipe, her laird, no longer her lover but her keeper, towering somewhere in the distance.
“Don’t fall in love with him,” Mary had warned.
How absurd.
If anything, she would have to fall out of loathing, if she could bring herself to do so.

CHAPTER THREE
IN THE FIRST DAYS THAT followed their arrival, Gwenyth began to feel with relief that the forebodings that had plagued her had been absurd. The Scots clearly loved their queen.
The Frenchmen among their party—and even those Scots who had lived so long in France that they seemed to think of themselves as French—began to cease their complaints. Holyrood was not just a beautiful palace but peopled with a household eager to serve the young queen, who was unceasingly kind to those around her. The forest surrounding the palace was thick and wild, and soon became a popular spot for the court to go riding, and there was always an impressive view of Edinburgh Castle, high upon its rocky tor.
The view of the stalwart stone fortress even had its effect on those who had been less than happy to leave France behind. Gwenyth had taken the Marys on an afternoon shopping expedition along the Mile, and they had commented on the very unique charm of the Scottish capital. Everything seemed to be going well.
Then came the first Sunday.
“This would not happen in France,” one of the French retainers declared.
Though she was herself a Protestant, Gwenyth had vowed that she would attend Mass at the queen’s side while they resided in Scotland, in support of her choice, and then observe her own rites, as well. The queen was now ready for church, having been assured by her half brother that she would be free to celebrate Mass just as she had in France.
Mary’s French mother had been a devout Catholic, and when Mary had left as a child, the outcry against Catholicism had not yet begun.
Gwenyth had come to know enough about James Stewart, himself a son of the reformed Scottish church, to believe he intended to honor his vow to Mary. He was a dour and stalwart Scotsman by nature, but she had no cause to doubt his word. Perhaps he felt somewhere in his heart that he should wear the crown, but though he bowed to the Church of Scotland, he was like Mary in many ways. Like her, he abhorred the concept of violence over religious differences, and he proved it now.
A rumbling, threatening crowd had formed outside the small private chapel directly in front of the palace. The priest who was to say the Mass was shaking, afraid to walk forward to the altar. The servants carrying the candles were in terror, and their fear grew when some among the crowd laid hands upon them.
Shouts rose from the courtyard.
“Kill the priest!”
“Shall we suffer the worship of idols again?”
“Dear God,” the priest prayed, eyes rolling.
Then James Stewart, with the imposingly tall and broad-shouldered Rowan Graham at his side, stared at those gathered in the courtyard and roared, “I have given my word.”
“You will honor the promises given to your queen,” Rowan announced.
“Ye’re not of them. Ye’re not Papists!” came a cry.
“Queen Mary had decreed that no one shall be persecuted for choices that lie between God and a man or woman,” Rowan replied harshly. “Would you see the wretched fires burn here as they did in England during the days when heresy was at the whim of the monarch?”
There was more muttering, but the crowd subsided, and, with James, Rowan and a troop of their trusted men as escort, the royal party entered into the chapel.
The priest shook throughout the Mass and spoke so quickly that the service was over in what seemed to Gwenyth like mere moments.
Mary was clearly shaken, but she managed to wave to the people and return to her apartments, and then James dispersed the crowd that had gathered in the courtyard.
Gwenyth had expected Mary to be deeply disturbed by what had occurred, but the queen was surprisingly resilient. “They’ll understand soon enough,” she told her ladies, as they all sat with her in her chambers, “I will not tolerate violence against Catholics—or those who have chosen any faith, including the Church of Scotland.”
Though she loved embroidery, which was occupying her other ladies, Mary was also an avid reader. She was able to read in many languages; at the moment, she was reading the work of a Spanish poet. But she looked up suddenly, oblivious of the volume she held. “It’s Knox!” she said vehemently, and stared at Gwenyth. “He is the very personification of fanaticism and violence.”
There was silence in the room, and for a moment Gwenyth thought that the queen’s eyes seemed almost to condemn her—as if, because she was more familiar with recent events in Scotland, she should somehow have been able to avert the morning’s trouble.
Gwenyth drew a deep breath. She knew that Mary couldn’t intend violence or even punishment against John Knox, for if she were to take such a position, not only would she be contradicting her own stance against religious persecution, she would be inviting her people to rebel. Gwenyth shook her head, a rueful smile curving her lips. Mary didn’t want violence; she sought an understanding of the man. Gwenyth suddenly realized that the queen meant to debate him.
“My queen…John Knox is well-traveled and well-read. Despite that, he is of the opinion that women are inferior to men.”
“Though they do need us, do they not?” Mary Livingstone said, a sweet grin upon her face as she looked around at the other Marys—Fleming, Seton and Beaton—and at Gwenyth.
Gwenyth offered a swift smile in return but looked back to the queen and spoke in all seriousness. “Most men here believe women to be inferior, but they are willing to accept a queen as…a necessary evil, if you will. They also believe that an ill-suited ruler is best off removed. Or…dead. Knox is an excellent speaker, filled with fire, and though the new church took hold with the masses first, Knox swayed the nobles to accept it, and it was certainly his influence that caused the legal formation of the Church of Scotland just a year ago. He is an intelligent man, but a zealot. You must…you must beware of him.”
“I must meet him,” Mary said.
Gwenyth thought she should protest, but what could she say? If Mary was determined, she was the queen.
But Mary had never seen Knox speak. And Gwenyth had.

ROWAN ACCOMPANIED LAIRD James Stewart on the appointed day when John Knox was to have his audience with the queen. He was not surprised, when they greeted Knox and brought him into the reception hall to meet the queen, to find that she was with only one attendant, Lady Gwenyth MacLeod of Islington Island. Gwenyth, he gathered, had heard Knox speak at some time during her young life. And of all the queen’s intimate circle, though her many ladies might be Scottish by birth, Gwenyth was the only one who knew at first hand about the recent mood of the country.
Rowan was afraid that this day would bring fireworks, because Knox was a very dangerous man. All fanatics were.
John Knox was in his late forties, and had a fevered and intense gaze. The minister of the great parish church in Edinburgh held tremendous sway among the people. He was, however, courteous enough, behaving with decorum and civility upon meeting the queen, who was cordial in return, indicating that they might speak privately, while her brother James, Rowan and Gwenyth took up chairs some distance away, closer to the fire, in attendance but not close enough to interfere with a private conversation.
“Foul weather, eh, lass?” Laird James said kindly to Gwenyth as they took their appointed positions.
“It does seem as if fall has come with a vengeance, my lord,” Gwenyth replied.
James smiled, but Rowan didn’t venture a word, only watched her intently. In truth, they were all attempting to listen to the queen’s conversation, despite their pretense of holding private conversation of their own.
Things seemed to begin well. Knox was courteous, if brusque, and Mary firmly stated that she had no intention of disturbing the Church of Scotland. Then Knox began offering his views. And they were blunt.
While Mary felt it was possible to allow people to choose their mode of worship, Knox vehemently believed there was but one true way. There was a constant danger, he insisted, that, as she was a Catholic monarch, Catholics would rise up in revolt and foreign princes and armies would attempt to stamp their own Catholic religion back on the surface of Scotland.
“One Mass,” Knox informed her in righteous tones, “is far more frightening to me than ten-thousand armed enemies, madam.”
Mary again tried to show reason. “I offer no threat to what is established. Do you not see that I was taught by great scholars, that I know the Bible, that I know my God?”
“You have been misled by misguided scholars.”
“But many men, great in learning, do not see the word of God as you do,” Mary protested.
And they began again to go around.
“It is right for men to rise up against a monarch who does not see the light of God,” he said.
“That most certainly is not right. I am God’s choice as your queen,” Mary snapped in turn.
“It is not fitting that so frail a creature as a woman should sit upon a throne. It is a hazard of circumstance, and a true hazard indeed,” Knox replied.
“My dear man, I am hardly frail. I tower over you,” Mary retorted.
Their voices dropped again.
Rowan was startled to see that Gwenyth was smiling. He arched a brow to her in question.
“She is enjoying this,” she said.
Even James appeared proud of his sister. “She is deeply intelligent and has the weapon of words at her disposal.”
Rowan nodded, aware that Gwenyth was staring at him. “Aye, the queen holds her own. But Knox will not stop, and he will not bend.”
Even as he spoke, they could hear Mary’s voice rising again.
Gwenyth started to stand, alarmed. Rowan shook his head imperceptibly. To his amazement, she appeared uncertain and sat again.
Knox went on to tell Mary that, despite his misgivings, he would accept her, just as the apostle Paul had lived under Nero’s rule. He lamented her lack of learning, for surely that was what kept her so stubborn. She assured him that she had read a great deal.
In the end, it was an impasse.
But when they all rose, Rowan was certain that Mary had discovered much about Knox—and that Knox had learned a new respect for the so-called lesser being who was his queen.
When Knox was gone, Mary spun to face them. “What a horrid little man.”
“Your Grace, I tried to tell you—” Gwenyth began.
“I actually did enjoy sparring with him,” Mary said. “Though he is stubborn as an ox, and misled. But, James,” she said, addressing her brother, “doesn’t he see I mean him no harm? I intend to rule with respect for my people, and I will honor the Church of Scotland.”
James sighed, at a loss. Rowan stepped in. “Your Grace, men such as Knox are fanatics. There is but one way to salvation in his eyes, and you do not follow his way.”
“Nor will I.”
Rowan bowed his head in acknowledgment.
Mary looked at Gwenyth. “I did match him, argument for argument.”
“You did.”
Mary offered them a wide smile. “Now we must hunt.”
“Hunt?” James said in dour confusion.
“My dear brother, there are times to work hard, and there are times to play.”
James rolled his eyes.
“Do not be dour,” Mary commanded. “If there were no hunts, how would we eat anything beyond mutton and beef? I long to ride today, to hunt.”
“I will see that it is arranged,” Gwenyth promised. “Shall I call your ladies and the noble French gentlemen of your retinue?”
“No, I would prefer a small hunt today. We will take a fine meal with us of meat and cheese and wine, and we will dine in the fresh air.”
James was still staring at her. “Mary, there are grave matters to be dealt with. There is the matter of the treaty you have refused to sign with Elizabeth.”
“There is the matter that Elizabeth still refuses to acknowledge me as her heir,” Mary informed him, her tone slightly sharp. “There are indeed many serious matters ahead—and I will devote my full attention to every one of them. I will be the queen you wish to see upon the throne, brother. But not this afternoon. I will meet you in the courtyard in an hour. We must let no more of the day go by.” When it looked as if James would protest once again, Mary continued quickly. “Why did God place this wondrous forest near the palace if it is not to be appreciated? Remember, brother, all men must eat. And we will also discuss an order of business…Laird Rowan.”
James Stewart’s bushy brows shot upward. He had been taken by surprise. Gwenyth, however, smiled, and Rowan was more aware than ever that she did indeed know her queen. What she didn’t know, he realized as he looked at her more closely, was what the queen wanted with him.

MARY WAS AN EXCELLENT rider and hunter; she had a fine kennel of sporting dogs, as well as the many smaller lapdogs she so loved. She had an exceptional air of happiness about her as they set off into the forest. She had been desirous that they go alone, though neither James nor Rowan was at ease with that, and Gwenyth understood why. They could not be comfortable, not when men such as Knox were preaching from the pulpit that a man had a right to remove a ruler who was ungodly. In his narrow mind, ungodly meant anything that did not precisely match his teachings, so the queen could well be in danger from religious zealots.
Mary could not believe that anyone would dare to harm a royal, so she chafed at their restrictions, but at last she agreed that guards could be posted around the section of forest where they would be hunting. And so, with the hounds baying around their horses’ hooves, they began.
Scotland might not be as lush and rich as the continent, but the forest did have an almost eerie and beckoning beauty. It was barely fall, yet it seemed that under the green canopy, darkness came quickly. At first Mary rode ahead with James. Gwenyth, riding behind with Rowan, could not hear their conversation, though the two of them rode in silence, which seemed a strain to her.
Laird Rowan did not seem to notice, being caught up in his thoughts. Then, suddenly, he turned to her. “Will you go home soon to visit?” he inquired.
She stared blankly back at him. Amazingly, she had come here and not even thought about returning to her home on Islington Isle. She didn’t answer with the first thought that came to her mind.
I am not wanted there.
“I…have not thought so far ahead.”
“So far ahead? But you’ve known for some time that you would be returning to Scotland.”
“I’ve been worried about the queen, I suppose.” She found herself adding in a rush, “You don’t understand. This has been a difficult time for her. She is, despite her rank, an extremely caring and kind woman. She nursed King Francis through terrible times. She was with him when he breathed his last. Suddenly, despite her youth, she was the dowager Queen of France, and there were so many problems to be faced, so many people to be seen…. She was in mourning, but there were emissaries, strangers, coming to offer messages of solace from royalty and nobility, all of whom had to be seen and greeted courteously. All the while, she had to decide on the best course of action for herself and others.”
He was smiling as he watched her—sardonically, she thought.
“One would think that you, of all men, would not judge her but would have some understanding of what she felt,” she snapped.
His smile faded slightly, and he looked ahead. “I was thinking again, Lady Gwenyth, that our good Queen Mary is lucky to have such a staunch friend as you.”
She felt like a fool. “Thank you,” she murmured stiffly, then talking to cover her confusion. “Those who know her well truly love her—all those who know her, not just me.”
“Then she is very lucky indeed,” he said softly.
“Are you coming?” Mary called back to them then.
As she spoke, something thrashed in the woods ahead of them.
“Boar,” James said. “Let it be. We haven’t the men to cope if the hunt goes badly.”
But Mary never heard him; she was off. She was an excellent archer, and Gwenyth knew full well that she could make the kill. But James raced after her, concerned, and Rowan, muttering beneath his breath, followed.
Gwenyth kneed her mount, ready for the chase, as well, though she didn’t particularly like the hunt. Once she had seen a hart die a slow death; she had watched the glow go out of the beautiful beast’s eyes, and she had never desired to be part of the hunt again, though there were times, such as now, when she had no choice.
Ahead, the unfamiliar path twisted and veered. Gwenyth found herself alone and realized that the others had apparently taken a different turn. She wasn’t concerned; she did love riding. But as she slowed her horse, wondering where she had gone astray, she heard a thrashing sound.
Her horse heard it, as well, and began to shy. She talked soothingly, her hands firm on the reins.
All her experience did her no good. The mare suddenly shot straight up in the air, then flipped over, snorting and screaming, a blood-curdling sound. The next thing Gwenyth knew, she was on the ground, lying several feet from the mare, which struggled to its feet and bolted.
“Wait! Traitor!” Gwenyth shouted.
She stumbled to her feet, testing her limbs for breaks. She was sore from head to foot, covered in dirt and forest bracken. At first she was aggravated with both the horse and herself; there had been no way to keep her seat, but she should have been up more quickly, soothing the animal, keeping it near her.
Then she heard the noise again, and the boar appeared.
Arrows stuck out from its left shoulder. Blood oozed down the maddened animal’s side. It had been hit and badly wounded, and now it was staggering but still on its feet.
And it saw her.
It stared at her, and she stared into its tiny eyes in return. It was immense; she couldn’t begin to imagine its weight.
Die, she thought. Oh, please, die.
But it wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. It pawed the ground, staggered, snorted—and began to race toward her.
She screamed and ran, looking desperately for a clear trail—and a tree she could climb.
Was it the pounding of the creature’s hooves she heard, or the rapid thunder of her own heart? If she could just keep ahead of it long enough, it would have to die, given that it was losing so much blood. It seemed as if she ran for eons, and still she could hear it coming behind her.
Then she stumbled on a tree root and went flying into the brush. Despite being certain she was dead, she rolled, desperately trying to jump to her feet and run again.
The boar was almost upon her.
Then she heard a new thundering drawing near and heard the whistle of an arrow cutting through the air.
The boar wasn’t ten feet from her when the arrow caught the creature cleanly in the throat. It seemed to back up a step, then wavered and fell dead.
She inhaled deeply, hunched down on the forest floor, shaking like a leaf. She blinked, and was barely aware when strong arms came around her, lifting her to her feet. She had never thought of herself as a coward, yet her knees gave way. She barely registered that it was Laird Rowan who had come for her, who had so unerringly killed the boar with a fraction of a second to spare, and who now lifted her cleanly to her feet, holding her close, soothing her as gently as he might a child. “You’re all right. It’s over.”
She clung to him, her arms around his neck, and as she leaned against the powerful bastion of his chest, she was all too aware that she was continuing to tremble.
“She should not have shot as she did,” he muttered.
“She” was the queen, Gwenyth knew. He was criticizing the queen.
She felt her indignation grow and gained strength from that. Her trembling ceased, and she realized Laird Rowan was shaking, as well, and she almost kept silent, but in the end she had to speak. She stiffened in his arms and said, “The queen is an excellent shot. Laird James should not have raced after her. He no doubt distracted her.”
“He was concerned for her life,” Rowan retorted instantly. “Apparently he should also have been concerned with yours.”
“Set me down, please, this instant,” she demanded, offended that he so clearly saw her as a useless fool.
He did as she demanded, and she wavered, then fell against him again. She really was a fool, she thought. She had not realized that her limbs had remained as weak as jelly.
He steadied her, not allowing her to fall. She fought desperately for strength and finally found it. “Thank you,” she enunciated, stepping back on her own at last. Of course, she must have made a sadly ridiculous picture, she thought, her riding hat gone, every pin lost from her hair, wild strands of it flying everywhere and filled with leaves and twigs. There was dirt on her face; she could feel it. Her riding costume was completely askew.
Embarrassed by her appearance, she knew she was defensive, and she even knew she had been wrong to take offense, when he had so clearly saved her life. As he stared at her, she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and she wanted desperately to open her mouth and speak, yet something—pride? shame?—kept her from it.
She saw disappointment seep into his eyes as she remained silent, and that made it all the worse. Why did she care so much what he thought of her?
She managed to whisper words at last. “It wasn’t the queen’s fault,” she said, but she knew those words were not enough. He’d saved her life. She needed to thank him.
It didn’t help that he just kept staring at her.
At last she dredged up some dignity, as well as her manners. “Thank you,” she said primly and quietly. “You saved my life.”
He bowed low to her courteously, as if her words had not come shamefully late. “Perhaps you’ll learn to ride with greater authority now that you are home,” he said, and turned away, heading for his mount.
Naturally his horse had obediently awaited him.
She followed him, moving with swift and certain strides. “I ride quite well,” she informed him.
“Oh?”
She flushed again. “My horse shied and fell,” she told him.
“I see.”
She could see that he didn’t believe her. “She reared straight up, and then went over,” she elaborated.
“Of course.”
“You are impossible!” she exclaimed.
“I’m so sorry. Why is that?”
“You are not listening to me.”
“Of course I am.”
“You do not believe a word I say.”
“Did I say any such thing?” he demanded.
She tried very hard not to grit her teeth as she gathered up her torn riding skirt so she would not trip. “Again, I thank you for saving my life,” she said, and started down the path.
Unaware that he had followed her, she was startled when he grasped her arm. She spun around and stared up at him, her breath catching, her heart beating too quickly. Like him or not, he was imposingly tall and strong. He was also aggravating beyond redemption. But there was nothing repulsive about his touch.
“Where are you going?”
Where indeed?
“To find the queen.”
“On foot?”
She exhaled. “My horse, as you may have noticed, is nowhere to be seen.”
“Come.” When she continued to stand stiffly, he smiled at last and said, “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not.”
“Perhaps not, but you’re wary.”
“You haven’t learned to love the queen. Maybe you will now,” she informed him.
“I serve Queen Mary with all that is in me.”
“But it’s Scotland you love,” she informed him.
His smile deepened. “If it’s Scotland I love, she is the persona of Scotland, is she not? Now come along. Join me in the saddle, so we can find the others.”
“You’re horrible, and I don’t think I can sit a horse with you.”
He laughed out loud then. “I agree with you, and you attack me.”
“You are not at all agreeing with me.”
He reached out and touched her forehead, brushing a strand of leaf litter from her forehead. It was an oddly tender gesture. Suddenly she didn’t want to argue with him, she wanted to…
Feel his fingers brush her flesh again.
She stepped back quickly. He had a wife. One he adored, though she was so gravely ill.
“Come,” he said again, this time impatiently, then gave her no choice, picking her up easily and setting her atop the tall stallion before jumping up behind her. There was no help for it; his arms came around her as he managed the reins. She swallowed deeply, wondering how this person who could be so blunt and rude seemed to arouse something in her that she had never felt before.
It was absurd. And wrong.
Keeping her seat was not difficult. His horse was an immense ebony stallion, but completely under his control. The animal’s gait was smooth, even and swift. Gwenyth leaned back in an uncomfortable combination of misery and arousal, more aware of a human touch than she had ever been in her life.
At last they returned to the copse where James and Mary awaited them. The queen cried out, upset, rushing over to Gwenyth and pulling her close the minute Rowan set her on the ground, hugging her fiercely, then withdrawing to search out her eyes and look for any injury upon her person.
“Are you hurt? My poor dear, it was my fault.” She accepted the blame while casting an angry eye toward her brother. “What happened? You found the boar. No, obviously, the boar found you. Oh, dear God, to think of what might have happened…”
“The creature is dead at last. We’ll send someone for it, Your Grace,” Rowan said.
Mary cast him an appreciative glance, then looked back at Gwenyth. “You are all right?”
“My dignity is sadly shaken, but in all else, I am fine,” Gwenyth assured her, then drew a deep breath. “Laird Rowan arrived with miraculous timing. He—” Why, she wondered, did she hate so to say it? “He saved my life.”
“Then we are beyond grateful to Laird Rowan,” Mary said gravely.
He nodded in easy acknowledgment of her words. “Your Grace, I am pleased to serve in any way that I can.”
James said gruffly, “Let’s return to the palace. Lady Gwenyth needs care and rest.”
“Your horse?” Mary asked Gwenyth.
“I dare say the mare has returned to the stables. I’m certain she knows the way,” Rowan said. “Styx is broad and strong,” he added, indicating his horse. “Lady Gwenyth and I will reach the stables as easily as we rode here.”
To protest in the circumstances would be futile and she would merely look the fool, so Gwenyth acquiesced with no more than a murmur.
Later, when they returned, and stablehands and servants ran about shouting and hurrying to assist in whatever ways they could, she heard Laird James speaking softly with Rowan. “If they are to prowl the forests seeking diversion, then they must learn to ride.”
Gwenyth longed to turn and confront the man, but then, to her surprise, found she did not need to do so.
“James, I believe the lady rides as well as any woman, perhaps as well as any man. No one can stay atop a falling horse. If the horse is flat upon the ground, so shall the rider be.”
Startled by Rowan’s defense of her, Gwenyth was not prepared when one of the large, bulky guards came to take her arm and escort her within.
“I can stand on my own, please,” she insisted. “I am not hurt, merely wearing much of the forest floor.”
She was not released on her own say-so. The guard looked to Mary, who nodded, and only then was she allowed to stand on her own.
She fled to her apartments, anxious to escape being the object of so much concern.

ROWAN WATCHED GWENYTH GO, surprised by the tugging she could so easily exert upon his heart. He didn’t know if it was the look in her eyes, the passion in her voice, or even the ferocity of her manner combined with the innocence that lay beneath.
“Laird Rowan,” Mary said.
“My queen?”
“I did wish to speak with you away from the palace, but the opportunity did not present itself. And so, if you will attend me in chambers…?”
“Whatever your desire.”
He realized that she and James must have spoken while he was rescuing Gwenyth, for the other man now clearly knew exactly what Mary intended to say to him. Indeed, James was the one to lead the way to the small reception chamber near the queen’s apartments.
An exceptional French wine was brought for their pleasure. Rowan preferred good Scottish ale or whiskey, but he graciously complimented the queen on her choice. She did not sit in the regal high-backed chair she would be expected to take when receiving foreign ambassadors but rather chose one of the fine brocade upholstered chairs grouped before the fire.
James didn’t sit. He stood by the mantel as Mary indicated that Rowan should join her, which he did, his curiosity growing by the second.
“I have it on good authority that you are on friendly terms with my cousin,” Mary said.
He sat back, caught unprepared. “Queen Elizabeth?” He should not have been surprised, he chided himself. Mary had very able ministers who had served her for years.
“Yes.”
“My wife’s mother is distantly related to Queen Elizabeth’s mother,” he said.
“Relationships are a good thing, are they not?” she inquired. “We are taught to honor our fathers and our mothers, which makes it strange that, in matters of politics and crowns, so much evil may be done to those we should love. But that is not of import now. We are engaged in quite a complicated game, Elizabeth and I. I have never met my cousin. I know her only through her letters and the reports of others. Serious matters occupy us now. I have not ratified a treaty between our countries. And that is because she has not ratified her will.”
This was something that he already knew. “I suppose,” he replied carefully, “that Elizabeth still considers herself to be young and is not eager to contemplate what will happen upon her death.”
Mary shook her head. “She must agree that I am the natural heir to her crown.”
Rowan held silent. He was certain that Mary was aware of why Elizabeth was hesitant. England was staunchly Protestant now. If she were to recognize a Catholic heir to the crown, it could create a tremendous schism in her country. He knew the Protestant powers in England were not looking to the Catholic Queen of Scotland. Though the line of sucession would most probably recognize her claim, there were other grandchildren of Henry VIII, among them Catherine, the sister of poor Lady Jane Grey, known as the Nine Days Queen. The Protestant faction had set Jane upon the throne following the death of Henry VIII’s one son, Edward. The forces behind another Mary, this one the daughter of Catherine of Aragon, a Catholic, had easily routed Jane’s defenders, and in the end Jane had lost her head upon the scaffold. She had died not because her family had urged her toward the throne, but because she had refused to change her religion at Mary’s demand. It had been Mary’s legitimate right of succession to the throne that had won her so many followers, and it had been her order that so many Protestant leaders be executed that had earned her the title “Bloody Mary.” At her death, when Elizabeth had ascended the throne of England, she had put an end to religious persecution, but the memory of blood was still rife in the hearts and minds of the English, and they wanted no Catholic ruler now.
“We all know why Elizabeth stalls,” he said.
“But here is the thing. You know, Laird Rowan, that I have no intention of forcing my beliefs on my people, who are so set now in the ways of the Church of Scotland. If Elizabeth knew this, believed it as you do, I don’t believe she would balk. You are on friendly terms with her. You can seek an audience to wish her good health, and during that audience, you can tell her what you have learned about me.”
“Rowan, you’re being sent to London,” James said bluntly.
Rowan looked at James. The man was so often an enigma. He knew so much about the people of Scotland, having served as regent. He knew the law, and he had asked his sister to return, ceding the crown to her. And yet there must have been times when he thought that this country would be in a much better position had he been his father’s only legal issue.
“Naturally I am willing to obey your every command.” Rowan hesitated. “Though I was planning a trip to my estates,” he said huskily. “There are matters to which I must, in good conscience, attend.”
Mary set a hand on his arm. He saw the deep sympathy in her eyes, and he realized that one thing her supporters said of the queen was very true: she had an enormous heart. She was kind and cared deeply for those around her.
“You certainly have leave to travel home and to take whatever time you need there. But then I would have you journey westward as escort to Lady Gwenyth, then on to London.”
“Escort to Lady Gwenyth?” he repeated questioningly.
“I have received a letter from Angus MacLeod, great-uncle to and steward for Lady Gwenyth’s estates. He is anxious that she return to visit, to greet her clansmen and allow herself to be seen. You will do me great service if you act as her escort, bringing her to Islington Isle before you yourself travel onward to England.”
He was startled by the request, and dismayed, though he was not certain why. “Perhaps, as speed is of importance, I should simply ride to my estates and then on to England without even attendants of my own,” he suggested.
Mary frowned slightly. “No, Laird Rowan. I think not. I would prefer that the Lady Gwenyth should travel the full journey with you, accompanying you to the English court once she has visited her own home. I shall have you serve as guardian for her, and it will be known that I sincerely wish for her, my dearest lady, to know more about the English way of things, that she may tutor me in understanding my close neighbors, in the interest of the continuing peace between our two countries.”
Trapped.
There was little he could say or do. For how could a man tell the queen that she was asking him to be escort to far too great a temptation?
No. He would be expected to be the staunch guardian, whatever his thoughts or desires.
“Rowan, Mary asked my advice on this matter,” James informed him. “I think your friendly visit to Elizabeth will mean much, and bringing Lady Gwenyth along will help matters. She attends Mary but remains Protestant herself. She loves Mary dearly, but her blood and her ways remain far more Scottish than French. Unofficially, she will serve as an ambassador for our queen’s cause.”
“Does Lady Gwenyth know about this?” Rowan inquired.
“Not yet,” Mary said. “But she will understand perfectly what I want from her. I am newly here, though not newly queen, for that has been my title since I was but days old. My desire to bring only good to my country must be understood, as must my desire for peace. You, sir, are the man who can hold out the true hand of friendship in what is most important, an unofficial capacity. I will not be bound to words you exchange, while, if my ministers and ambassadors make foolish statements in the heat of the moment, I am held to them. You will bring Elizabeth some personal gifts from me, and I know that she will be enchanted by Gwenyth. I have yet to meet anyone, commoner or king, who has not found her to be charming and intelligent. Her nature will serve me well.”
“When did you intend that I begin this journey?” Rowan asked.
“After the next Sabbath,” the queen informed him gravely.

CHAPTER FOUR
GWENYTH WAS STUNNED.
She couldn’t believe that Mary would send her away. Of course the queen had her ladies, her Marys, but Gwenyth had believed that Mary depended on her for her friendship. As well, they had just arrived. Surely Mary needed her for her knowledge of Scotland.
Though she realized she was being presumptuous, Gwenyth told her thoughts to the queen. “I can’t leave you now. You need me with you.”
At that, Mary smiled. “Please, Gwenyth, have you no faith in me? I have been away since childhood, but I am extremely well-read, and I am also fortunate to have my brother James to advise me in all things. I intend to move very slowly and carefully. I’ll be journeying to many cities within the country soon, so I can meet more of my people. Gwenyth, I am not sending you away. I am placing the dearest desire of my heart in your hands.”
That was a staggering thought.
Elizabeth was more than a decade older than Mary. She had taken the throne at the age of twenty-five, after bearing witness to turmoil, battle and death for many years. She had even been incarcerated—in royal conditions, it was true, but incarcerated nonetheless—because there had been times when her older half sister, Bloody Mary Tudor, had feared a Protestant uprising. In time, Mary had died a natural death and Elizabeth had duly taken the throne. She was neither young nor naive, and she had gained a reputation as a powerful and judicial monarch. Mary of Scotland still believed in the heart—in her emotions—in the belief that wishing could make things right.
“I fear you set a task before me that I may not be adequate to achieve,” Gwenyth said.
“I ask of you what I can ask of no other person. Gwenyth, it will not be for so long. A few weeks in the Highlands, a few weeks journeying south, perhaps a month in London, and then you will return. You are perfect for what must be done. I am not expecting an official reply from Elizabeth. I am seeking merely to lay groundwork for the future, for all that the ministers and ambassadors hope to accomplish.”
“What if I fail you?”
“You will not,” Mary said, and that was that.
They were due to leave after services on Sunday.
Mary had already informed Laird Rowan of her intent, something that, Gwenyth was certain, sorely aggravated him, as well. Surely he could not welcome the task of being responsible for her safety. Her determination to attend two services, both the Catholic Mass and her own Protestant rite, was intended at least in part to irritate him, as it would no doubt make their departure later than he had intended.
However, her plans went immediately astray.
She had wisely known she mustn’t attend the great kirk in Edinburgh where the fiery John Knox was the preacher, so she rode out with several other Protestant members of Mary’s court to the smaller, very plain chapel that lay just a few miles to the southwest of the city.
The minister’s name was David Donahue; he was a man of about fifty, and appeared to be soft spoken and gentle. But as he began his sermon, Gwenyth knew that she was in trouble. He was what the Marys laughingly called a pounder.
From the moment he began his vindictive tirade against the taint of Papists in the land, he was pounding his lectern. And he stared straight at Gwenyth as he did so. Then he pointed at her.
“Those who worship false idols are blasphemers! They live in blasphemy, and they are like a curse upon this land. They are akin to the witches who call upon dark evil and rancor and death.”
Shocked at first, Gwenyth sat still. But as his words reverberated, she stood.
She pointed at him in return, seething with fury. Her mind seemed to be moving at a maddened pace; she wanted to choose her words carefully, but that proved impossible, for she was inwardly burning, as if she were about to combust.
“Those who believe that God is their friend, and their friend alone, who dare to think He whispers what is right and wrong in their ears alone, they are the taint upon this land. None of us knows for a fact what His divine purpose may be. Those who condemn others and see no fault in themselves, they are dangerous and evil. When a land is blessed with a monarch who sees clearly that no one will know God until called before Him, who wants to allow her people to see goodness as they will, then the inhabitants of that land should bow down and be grateful. Sometimes, I fear, it may well be a pity that she is so kind and wise that no blood will be spilled.”
After she finished speaking, she stared at him for a moment longer, then swung around and stumbled over her neighbors in her haste to exit the pew.
The whole congregation reacted with shocked silence. She felt it keenly as she walked with as much dignity as she could muster down the aisle.
Just as she was about to exit the church, she froze, for fierce pounding was coming from the podium once again.
“Satan’s witch!” the reverend bellowed.
She turned. “I’m very sorry you think so, reverend, for you have impressed me as being a servant of Satan yourself,” she said with far more calm than she felt.
“This will stop now!”
Gwenyth was stunned when she saw Laird Rowan Graham rise from a pew toward the front of the church. He stared at the reverend, then at her. “There will no casting of vindictive accusations by any party within this house of God. Reverend Donahue, speak to our souls, but do not let the pulpit become your venue for personal attack or political arousal. Lady Gwenyth—”
“He attacked the queen!” she raged.
“And he will no longer do so,” Rowan declared. He turned back to the reverend. “Our queen shows nothing but tolerance for other beliefs and encourages the Scottish Kirk. She has asked only to be left to cleave to the religion she has known since a child. She will never tell others what they must feel or believe in their hearts. Let us respect her mind and steadfastness, and worry about our own souls.”
Gwenyth could only imagine how all the parishioners would be talking that evening. At the moment, however, they were all simply sitting, shocked and perhaps a bit excited, as they awaited the next lines of the scandalous scene unfolding before them.
But the show was over, Gwenyth thought with relief, as she virtually stumbled out into the day. Amazingly, the sun was shining.
She hurried along the broken stepping stones that led from the church and wound between the long rows of graves, both ancient and new. At the low wall that enclosed the church-yard, she paused, grasping the stone for support, gasping for breath.
The next thing she knew, brisk footsteps were heading her way. She looked up and saw without surprise that Rowan had followed her from the church.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” he demanded heatedly.
“What was I doing?” she repeated incredulously. “Reverend Donahue was attacking your queen.”
“And many ministers throughout the land will be doing so for some time to come. She is a Catholic. When Scots embrace something, they do so with a reckless abandon, and such is their feeling now for the church that bears their country’s name. You are but adding flame to a fire that already burns far too high. You attend Mass with the queen, then come to this church.”
“I have chosen the Protestant faith,” she said indignantly. “I attend Mary when she goes to Mass because I am sworn to accompany her wherever she goes.”
“She would understand if you did not.”
“It would show a lack of support for her choice.”
“You would show that you honor hers but have made your own.”
“You’re telling me every man, woman and child in this country is a Protestant?” she said. “So suddenly? It is but a year since the edict went through. What are we, then, sheep? Does no one think for him or herself? This morning we honored the Church of Rome. Tonight we honor that of Scotland. Tomorrow, good God, will we begin worshiping the goat gods of the ancient past? You, Laird Rowan, did nothing to speak up in defense of the queen.”
He folded his arms over his chest, staring down at her and shaking his head. “Do you think I have the power to force people to change their minds? Should I have demanded to meet an elderly white-haired preacher in the churchyard for a duel?”
“You should have spoken up.”
“And added fuel to his fire? Don’t you see? He wants a fight. If you ignore those who would degrade Queen Mary, you give them nothing with which to support their savage anger.”
“He pointed at me,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You should have listened quietly and pretended to find his words unworthy of response.”
“I can’t do that,” she said flatly.
“Then it is good that we are leaving.”
“Are you such a coward, then?” she asked, still seething as she looked up to meet his eyes.
She saw them narrow with a fury he nevertheless controlled. “I am not young, and I am not reckless. I know the mood of the people. I know that trying to silence a minister at his pulpit will only make him cry the louder, and his cries will then enter into the souls of his congregation, for they will believe his words. Your outburst will be seen only as proof of what he said. There are others inside who would have spoken later, quietly and with thought. They—and I—would have said the queen is proving herself to be a font of kindness, justice and the deepest concern for her people. Our measured words would have echoed far more resoundingly and effectively than your angry retort.”
She looked away. “He called me a witch. How dare he?”
Rowan sighed deeply. “If we can all rise above what is said by those who seek to disrupt the country with their own fanaticism, all will end as it should. The queen will not be swayed from her stance, I am certain. And, yes, there are other Catholics in the country—that is what angers men like the reverend. They fear there will be a revolt, an uprising.” He hesitated. “Pray God, Mary does not continue her quest for a marriage with Don Carlos of Spain.”
Gwenyth stared at him, deeply troubled. She had thought Mary’s contemplation of marriage to the Spanish heir was not known—even by James Stewart. She shook her head. “She has stated that she believes a union with a Protestant in her own country would be best.”
“Let us pray, then, that such all alliance comes to pass. It will be best, however, if she establishes her own rule first. Now, there is your horse,” he said, pointing. “Let us return to Holyrood, then depart for the Highlands.”
He caught her hand and led her to her mare, Chloe—who had indeed headed back to the stables after the ill-fated hunt. She might have chosen another mount after what had happened, but Gwenyth was resolute that she and Chloe would become a team. She could hardly blame the horse for its fear; the boar had certainly given her cause for terror, as well.
She didn’t need assistance to reach the saddle, but as he was determined to give it, she decided not to opt for another argument.
“You did not defend me or the queen,” she accused him again, as he mounted and rode up beside her.
“I defended you both,” he told her curtly. “I am responsible for you.”
“You do not have to be responsible for me. I am quite capable of being responsible for myself.”
She was surprised when he offered her an amused smile. “Really? In that case, I think perhaps you are a witch.”
“Don’t say that!”
He laughed. “It was intended as a compliment—of sorts. You have the ability to sway and enchant—and certainly to create a whirlwind.”
He kneed his horse, moving ahead of her. She seethed, wishing she could drag the reverend out by his hair and tell him that he was small-minded and evil. She was equally angry at Rowan, and dismayed that she must now be in his company for days. Weeks.
Months.
“I think I should speak with Queen Mary once more before we depart,” she said as they reached Holyrood.
“Oh?”
“We shall surely kill one another in the time that stretches before us. I must ask her again to release me from your company.”
“Do your best,” he told her. “It certainly slows me down to have you in tow.”
It was true, and she knew it. It didn’t matter. Something about the offhand way he spoke made her long to rip his hair out.
“You could speak to her, too,” she reminded him.
“I tried.”
“You didn’t try hard enough.”
“Lady Gwenyth, I have been on this earth several years longer than you. I know how to go to battle, with a sword—and with words. I have learned when it is best to retreat, so that battle may be waged again. I’ve studied the history of this country that I love so dearly. I am not reckless, and I know when to fight. I have lost my argument with the queen. You are free to take up arms again. I, however, wish to be gone within the hour,” he told her.
Gwenyth tried. She found Mary in the small receiving chamber, where James was reporting to her about the sermon Knox had given that day. The man hadn’t accepted her or her ideals, but he had admitted from his pulpit that she was keenly intelligent and clever—misguided, and therefore still a thorn in the country’s side, but a ruler they must ever try to sway to the True Belief.
Mary seemed amused. And her smile deepened when she saw Gwenyth. “Ah, my fierce little hummingbird,” she said laughing. “Ready to battle the entire Church of Scotland in my defense.”
Gwenyth stopped in the doorway, frowning. How had word gotten back so quickly?
Mary rose, setting her embroidery aside, and walked forward to hug Gwenyth. “I will miss you so dearly,” she said, drawing away but still holding Gwenyth’s hands.
“I needn’t go,” Gwenyth said.
“Yes, you must,” Mary said. She flashed a glance at James. “Perhaps it is particularly important that you leave now.”
“I but defended Your Grace,” Gwenyth said.
“You are ever loyal, and I am grateful. I, too, am furious with the zealots who are so blind that they cannot see beyond their own narrow interests. But were I to forcibly silence them, I might well create an uprising, so I will just let them speak and hope to create a climate in which they are forced to silence themselves. Now, are you ready for your journey? Are you anxious to see your home?”
No, Gwenyth thought, she was not. She had neither father nor mother left to her, only a strict, dour uncle to whom duty meant everything in the world. Her home was a crude rock fortress virtually surrounded by the sea. The people there fished, eeled and tended a few rugged sheep for their livelihood, or eked out a living from the harsh, rocky earth. Usually they were happy. They had families, loved ones. In her uncle’s eyes, however, she deserved no such frivolity; she had duty to occupy her. Angus MacLeod was surely loved by the fierce John Knox.
“I am anxious about you, Your Grace,” she said.
Mary’s smile deepened. “I am blessed, truly. You must go.”
Gwenyth admitted to herself that she was not going to win the argument. Rowan had known it. Now she was going to have to hurry to be ready by his deadline. And she would not allow herself to be late, to give him any opportunity to wear that look of irritated, forced patience because of her.
“Then…adieu.”
“You’ll return quickly,” Mary assured her. “It seems long, but it will not really be so.”
Gwenyth nodded. They hugged, and then she was startled when Laird James came over to say a warm farewell to her. He was not a man prone to easy displays of affection, she knew, and she was pleased when he awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Go with God, Lady Gwenyth. You will be missed.”
She smiled and thanked him. Then she fled the chamber before the tears she felt welling up in her eyes could spill. This was life, she told herself brusquely. When Mary had been but a child, she had been sent overseas, without her mother, to meet the man she would wed whether she liked him or not. Women were sent from place to place constantly to honor marriage contracts—and often, it was as if they had been sold to horrid beasts.
Her heart froze for a moment. Customarily, despite the fact that her father’s title was hers, her great-uncle Angus had the power to decide her future. She could only thank God that because of her position at court, Mary had to approve any plan for her life.
Mary would never force anything heinous upon her. Would she?
No. Even now, Mary had but sent her on a journey to feel out the chance for a friendship with her cousin, the powerful English queen. She had never forced her will on any of her ladies.
Except now. Then Gwenyth chided herself for the uncharitable, even traitorous, thought.
In her room, the little private chamber she so loved, she found a middle-aged, slightly stout woman awaiting her. She had cherubic cheeks, a warm smile and an ample bosom. “My lady, I’m Annie, Annie MacLeod, actually, though any relationship is certainly quite distant.” She grinned, a rosy and cheerful expression, and said, “I am to accompany you and serve you, if you will grant me the honor.”
Gwenyth smiled. At last, here was someone who seemed to be nothing but cheerful and nice—and glad to be with her.
“I am delighted to have you, Annie.”
“I’ve sent your trunk down to our small caravan. I am ready, my lady, when you are.”
So this was it.
She had dressed for the long day’s ride when she had headed to the kirk, expecting to leave feeling refreshed and blessed by the word of God. Instead…No matter, will it or nil it, she was ready.
“Annie, it is time. We need to be on our way.”
She closed the door to her sanctuary within Holyrood. It was with a heavy heart that she hurried down the stone stairs and out to the courtyard where the packhorses, the small retinue of guards—and Laird Rowan—awaited.

AT LEAST THE LADY GWENYTH was not an elderly or sickly ward, Rowan thought. On his own, he could easily make fifty miles in a day. If he’d had to move with a coach and a great deal of baggage, he would have been slowed almost to a stop. As it was, the Lady Gwenyth had shown herself pleasantly capable of packing lightly. The cheerful woman chosen to accompany her was far greater a burden, actually, albeit through no fault of her own. She was a decent enough horsewoman, comfortable on her placid mount, but as she had not spent endless hours in the saddle before, Rowan was forced to stop regularly so they might stretch their legs, sup and rest.
On his own, he might have made Stirling on that first day. With the women, he thought it best to spend his first night at Linlithgow Palace, which sat almost midway between Edinburgh and Stirling.
At the gates, he was greeted by an armed guard, recognized and welcomed. The castle steward, knowing Gwenyth’s name and position, was both curious and charmed. Though they had arrived late, he and Gwenyth were ushered into the massive great hall, while their four-man escort was shown to berths above the stables, and Annie and his man were brought to the kitchen to eat and then given beds in the servants’ quarters. He and Gwenyth stayed awake talking with the steward, Amos MacAlistair, for the robust fellow was fond of telling how Queen Mary had been born at the palace, though alas her father had died just six days later. Rowan watched Gwenyth as she listened, rapt, smiling, as the old man talked about Mary as an infant. Rowan decided the day had gone well—especially considering the morning. He and Gwenyth had kept a polite distance for the long ride, and he hoped they could keep moving on in similar harmony.
The next evening was equally fine, for they were greeted by the steward of Stirling Castle, and accorded equal consideration and respect. Gwenyth seemed to love Stirling, and, indeed, the castle was impressive and the town beautiful. People whispered about their arrival in the streets; Gwenyth smiled as she saw the townsfolk, calling out greetings. She was, he had to admit, a charming unofficial ambassador for her queen, even here.
It wasn’t until the next afternoon, when they were on their way to the Highlands, that the journey took a foul turn.
They had come to the small village of Loch Grann, though the loch was really no more than a small pool. As they rode along, nearing the village, they could hear shouting.
Gwenyth, who had ridden abreast with Annie most of the way, trotted her mare forward to reach his side. “What is the commotion?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
She kneed her horse and rode ahead of him.
“Will you wait?” he called in aggravation.
Following Gwenyth, he passed several charming cottages, a kirk and the unimpressive building that passed as the thane’s manor here, and then reached the village center, where a narrow stream trickled through.
Gwenyth had reined in, horror evident on her face.
He immediately saw why. The shouting was coming from a mob of townspeople, urged on by what appeared to the local thane’s men-at-arms. The object of their derision was a young woman bound to a stake, with faggots and branches piled at her feet. She was stripped down to a white gown of sheer linen; her long dark tresses were in sad tangles; and the look on her face was one of utter defeat and anguish.
“They are going to burn her!” Gwenyth exclaimed in horror.
“She has probably been convicted of witchcraft, or perhaps of heresy,” Rowan informed her.
She looked at him, those immense golden eyes of her alive with indignation. “Do you believe in such ridiculousness?” she demanded.
“I believe that even your precious queen believes in it,” he said softly.
“But…tried here?” she demanded. “Not in Edinburgh? By what law? Whose law?”
“Local, I daresay.”
“Then you must stop them.”
He had to wonder what he would have done had she not been with him. He was frequently appalled by the harshness of the Scottish laws. As a lad, he had seen a young man hanged at St. Giles in Edinburgh, his crime no greater than the theft of a leg of lamb. His father had told him sadly then that such was the law; he could not stop the execution.
He did not believe in superstition, or that certain women had the evil eye, and before God, he certainly did not believe it was possible to make a pact with the Devil. But there were laws….
“Do something!” Gwenyth cried. “Please, Rowan, they are about to light the fires.”
“Hold, and watch at the ready,” he told Gavin, head of their escort.
She had never before called him by his given name, Rowan realized, and in her eyes there was nothing but honest and sincere entreaty. Emotions, he thought; they become the downfall of us all.
He spurred his horse forward, a display of power as he raced through the townspeople to confront the churchmen. “What is this mockery of justice?” he demanded angrily. “What right have you to impose the sentence of execution?”
As he had hoped, the size and evident breeding of his horse and the colors he wore indicated his association with the royal house. Most of the crowd fell back in silence, but one black-clad minister stepped toward him. “I am reverend of the kirk here, my laird. She has been duly tried and found guilty.”
“Duly tried? What manner of court do you have here? Is it authorized by the queen?” Rowan demanded.
“It was a local matter,” the man protested.
He looked around. The crowd had remained silent. The only sound came from the young woman at the stake, who was sobbing softly.
“Release her,” he said quietly.
“But…but she has been tried.”
“By no proper court. In a matter of life and death, according to the dictates of both law and conscience, my good man, you surely know you should seek higher authority.”
The pastor looked more closely at Rowan, noted his colors and the presence of his armed escort, and took a small step back. “You are Rowan Graham, Laird of the Far Isles?” he asked uneasily.
“Aye. Sworn to the Stewarts of Scotland.”
The pastor arched a brow. “The French Stewart?”
“The Queen of Scotland. And I have long ridden at the side of James Stewart, Earl of Mar, the greatest law of our land, our regent following the death of the queen’s mother.”
A woman stepped forward. She was middle-aged and stout, and despite the set look of her jaw, he felt sorry for her. She was worn, looking to be a bitter woman whose life had held little joy.
“Ye do nae understand, great laird. She looked at me. Liza Duff looked at me and gave me her evil stare, and my pig died the next day,” the woman said.
A man found courage and joined her. “My babe took sick with the cough after Liza Duff looked at me.”
“Did no one else look at you?” he queried sharply. “Good people! Life is God’s domain. Do you so easily feel it your right, without seeking the highest authority in the land, to condemn any woman or man to so heinous a death because misfortune has befallen you?”
He reached into his sporran, seeking a few gold coins, which he cast down before the two who had spoken. “Buy more pigs,” he said to the embittered matron. “And you,” he told the man. “Perhaps there is some medicine that you can buy.”
They scrambled for the gold coins, clutching them. The pastor stared at him.
Gwenyth rode forward, staring down at the pastor before turning to Rowan. “She cannot remain here,” she said. “If she is so despised,” she said softly, “they will take your gold, then try her again tomorrow, and we will only have delayed her execution.”
She was right.
He looked down again at the pastor. “I will bring this woman, Liza Duff, to my homestead, where she may serve in my household. Should we find there is truth in your accusations, she will be brought to Edinburgh to stand trial before the proper authority.”
He wasn’t sure he needed to have added the last; his gold and status seemed to have turned the tide in their direction.
“That sounds a fair and solid proposition. She will no longer be here to torment the tenants of this village,” the churchman said.
“See her brought down,” Rowan said. “Now.”
“And,” Gwenyth added quietly, “see that she is given a decent dress for traveling, and I believe we will need a horse.”
Rowan stared at her, surprised but also amused.
The pastor began to protest. “We’re to pay to see that a witch lives?”
“Laird Rowan has just cast before you a sum more than ample to purchase a horse and a few pieces of clothing,” Gwenyth said pleasantly. “Even after purchasing many pigs and the services of a decent physician.”
There was silence. Then the men nearest the pyre set about releasing the young woman from the stake.
As the ropes holding her upright were released, she started to fall. Gwenyth was instantly off her horse, racing forward. While the men might have handled her roughly, had they deigned to help her at all, Gwenyth showed an admirable strength mixed with gentleness, allowing the young woman to lean against her as she moved back to the horses. She looked up at Rowan. “She can’t ride alone. And we need to be on our way, I believe.”
Before someone changes his mind.
He could see the last in her eyes, though she did not speak the words aloud.
“A horse,” he said firmly. “For when she regains her strength. And clothing.”
A horse was brought, a bundle given to Gwenyth, and then the pastor and his flock all stepped back. Again Gwenyth looked at him, and Rowan could read her eyes. The girl would indeed need to regain her strength before she could ride on her own. They would lead the animal meant for her use until she could handle a horse on her own.
If she even knew how to ride.
If not…they would take the horse anyway.
He dismounted, took the young woman—who was looking at him with dazed and worshipful eyes—and set her upon his horse. He would have assisted Gwenyth to mount—as their guard of armed men continued to wait at a discreet distance at his command—but she was too quick, and was back on her mare before he could offer his help. “In future, take care what justice you decide to mete out on your own, pastor,” he warned very quietly. “I will be back this way.”
With that, he rode to Gwenyth’s side, the “witch” sitting before him like a limp rag doll.
They proceeded at a walk, lest any haste cause a change of heart and incur pursuit—something that he could see Gwenyth understood from the glance he cast her way—until they were well past the eyes of the villagers.
“Now let us put some distance between us,” he ordered once they had passed the limits of the village and, as they hadn’t yet reached the rocky tors of the true Highlands, they were able to make good time. Strange winds and early cold were bedeviling Scotland that year, but the wicked ice and snow had not yet fallen, and that too, helped them as they rode.
Finally he reined in near a copse of trees close by a small brook, lifting a hand to the others. The small party halted.
“Ooh, me aching bones,” Annie protested.
Gavin dismounted, helping the ungainly woman from her perch.
“They’ll nae be a pursuit, Laird Rowan,” Gavin said, shaking his head, his disapproval for the village obvious.
“I agree, Gavin,” Rowan told his man. “But it’s always best to get a distance from the scene of any trouble.”
After dismounting, he was careful to lift the girl down slowly. Annie, clucking in concern, went to help her, as did Gwenyth.
“Some wine, please?” Gwenyth said, looking to the men.
“Aye, my lady, immediately,” Dirk, one of the other guards, assured her.
Rowan set the woman on the soft pine-needle-covered floor of the copse, her back resting against a sturdy tree. She stared at Gwenyth, and Rowan thought his charge indeed looked like some angel of mercy come to earth, for in the dim light, with rays of sun arrowing through the canopy of branches and leaves, her hair was shimmering as if it were spun gold, and her eyes were alight with compassion. She had a leather skin of wine, and brought it to the young woman’s lips.
“Sip slowly,” Gwenyth said softly.
Liza did so, staring at her all the while. And when Gwenyth took the skin from her, lest she choke or become ill from too much too soon, she said, “God will bless you, for I am innocent, I swear it. Old Meg was not angry about her pig. She believed I cast a spell to seduce her wretched lout of a husband. I am innocent, before God, I am. And I owe you my life and my deepest loyalty forever,” she vowed brokenly.
“Well, let’s get you strong again…and into some decent clothing. You may use those trees over there for privacy,” Gwenyth said.
“I’ll be helpin’ the lass,” Annie assured her, and the two of them walked deeper into the copse.
Gwenyth knew Rowan was staring at her, and she flushed. “I believe she is innocent,” she murmured. “I find it ridiculous to believe that God has granted some people the powers to simply look upon another and cause evil.”
He sighed. “Ah, lass. You’d be surprised what evil can exist merely in the mind.”
“That woman is no witch.” She paused, then said softly, “Thank you.”
Would I have stopped such an obvious injustice had you not been with me? he wondered.
“I did as you wished today,” he told her, “because I don’t believe the trial was justly conducted or that the pastor had the right to condemn her to death. Such a grave penalty is held for the higher courts to dispense. But, my lady, I am sorry to say that people have often been put to death for the crime of witchcraft. Whether you believe in it or not, it is punishable by execution, for it goes hand in hand with heresy. And I will remind you again that the very queen you so adore believes in witchcraft, as does Lord James. As a rule, I believe the Stewart clan holds a belief in curses and hexes.”
She smiled. “Laird Rowan, you are, I know, a well-read and learned man. I know, as you do, that there are some who believe themselves able to create dolls, prick them and draw blood from others. Those who think they can brew up herbs and make magical potions. But you surely know, as well as I, that most of those accused of such evil craft are nothing more than healers who know the potency of certain herbs and flowers. Evil has too often been done to those who would do their best to help others, all because of what men believe, rather than what is known.”
“Be that as it may, if you brew a potion, you risk being accused of witchcraft, which means a pact with the devil. And heresy,” he said wearily.
“It is such foolishness—”
“It is the law.”
She nodded and said flatly, “Thank you. Our discussion has been most enlightening.”

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