Bedding the Enemy (22 page)

“This is preposterous. Edmund was my friend.”

“Then you should be relieved to know that I intend to make sure his death is investigated.”

Ronchford fell silent, his body becoming still. His face lost some of its color and the room became a compressed space full of tension. The guards looked at both men, uncertainty in their eyes. The king held his emotions behind a mask that spoke of too many similar times in his past.

“Convey both of these men to the Tower.”

“But sire!” The king flicked his fingers toward the blustering man, and Ronchford found himself hauled away by the royal guard. They dragged him from the room even as he shouted at the king to hear him out. His boots skidded on the stone floor.

Four guards surrounded Keir but they merely held their place while he waited for Ronchford's yells to fade down the hallway.

The king stared at Keir. “I've no choice, McQuade. Ye must be placed in the Tower if I am to maintain peace between English and Scots in this court.”

“Aye. I see the way of it.”

The king's expression lightened. A ghost of respect lit his eyes. Keir ground his teeth together to keep his temper in check. The idea of being confined sent his entire body into revolt. He wanted to fight, not to stand there agreeing that it was for the best. But the king was nae in the mood to be challenged.

“May I have a few moments with me bride?”

James nodded. “Aye.” He pointed at his captain of the guard. “Allow McQuade to bid his wife good-bye.”

The captain removed his hat and bowed before turning toward Keir. His gut tightened but he forced his body to bend in deference to his monarch.

“I bid ye good luck in yer search for young Raelin McKorey.”

The king's eyebrow rose. Keir straightened and stared at James Stuart.

“That's correct. I have no fear of the lass being found alive. But I think ye should find her a husband soon. That lass seems to attract trouble here at court.”

He turned and left, unable to maintain his poise any longer. Each step took tremendous amounts of discipline to force his feet to move. Every instinct made him want to smash his fist into the guard nearest him and escape.

But he was laird and the McQuades could not suffer another disgrace. He would go to the Tower and hope against hope that Raelin McKorey proved as strong as her Scottish blood, and was found alive.

If she wasn't, he might be joining her in death very shortly.

 

Helena wrung her hands. She didn't seem to have enough poise or control to remain in one place. She paced back and forth in an alcove outside the king's receiving room. Something was wrong. She could feel it permeating the air. Even in the dead of night the palace felt devoid of joy. Death's icy claw was creeping through the hallways. She saw it on the faces of the few people who passed. That gray cast to their skin and the way they looked at the ground the moment they recognized her. Keir's retainers stood nearby, their faces growing tighter and more tense with every turn she made.

She suddenly stopped. Footfalls echoed on the stone tile. They were extremely loud, echoing in the silence. She turned to face the most horrible sight she had ever beheld—her husband flanked by the royal guard. There could only be one reason for such a thing. The air grew even colder around her. She was certain that the cries of other unfortunates echoed from years past—such as Queen Catherine Howard, who had run screaming through the hallways to beg Henry the Eighth to spare her life.

He hadn't.

She suppressed a horrified whimper, forcing it down her throat lest she disgrace her husband in front of his retainers and the royal guard. She was a noblewoman. Her mother's lecturing voice grew louder than the icy screams of the condemned ghosts of the past.

Keir came to her, grasping her hands in a grip that hurt. The overuse of strength confirmed what she already knew.

“I'm sent to the Tower.”

“Why?” Her voice was a mere whisper. All eyes were on them but she couldn't waste the opportunity to touch him. Even so simple a touch as palm against palm was too sweet to forgo. His men glanced at one another, their bodies becoming tenser. The guards gripped their sword pommels and the tension grew even thicker.

“Yer brother was murdered.”

“Sweet mercy.”

The air rushed out of her lungs so fast, spots danced before her eyes. The only thing that kept her alert was the near-crushing grip in which her husband held her hands. Pain shot down her fingers but she did not wiggle them.

“A letter with my signature and a piece of McQuade plaid was found near his body.”

Her horror doubled, the screams of condemned ghosts growing louder in her head. She clamped her hands tightly around his, trying to hold onto him.

“Lies! English lies!” Farrell snarled.

“Be still.” Keir shot the two words toward his men in a tone that she had never heard before. It was solid steel and sharp with authority.

“My time is brief so I must be blunt.” His eyes swept his men before he returned his dark gaze to her; it was filled with the need to fight. She witnessed the battle he waged to conduct himself with noble bearing, thinking of his people instead of his own needs.

“I understand.”

“Yer friend, young Raelin McKorey, was swept away by the river. A piece of her gown was found in yer brother's grasp. Let us hope she is found alive and makes it here to the king, still able to testify as to the truth of the matter.”

Or he would stand accused of murdering a peer…

Helena fought back her emotions. She had to be as strong as he was. He looked past her shoulder at his men.

“I charge ye with keeping my bride safe. Even if she deems it unnecessary.”

There was no leniency in his gaze when he looked back at her. “Forgive me, lass, but I cannae suffer knowing ye are unsafe. Whoever killed yer brother did it to get to you. I have nae doubt.”

He kissed her, refusing her the chance to reply, his mouth taking hers with no concern for the eyes watching them. Time stood still for that moment, his kiss pulling her into a world where nothing existed but the joy that touching him produced inside her. It was a perfect utopia, but fragile, too. A harsh grunt shattered it, sending everything down to the ground in a shower of silver rain. Keir released her hands and she shivered. Bitter cold clamped around her as she watched her husband give a final look to his men before turning in a swirl of his kilt. The royal guards fell into formation around him, the light glittering off the deadly tips of their pikes. Their steps bounced between the stone walls, merging with the ghosts of other men and women who had been taken off to the Tower, so many of them noble, so many of them losing their heads.

She stiffened her resolve and walked down the hallway as gracefully as her mother had taught her. She didn't do it for her parents or their idea of what she should be to benefit the family name.

She did it for Keir, for the laird that he was and the man who refused to place his own desires above those of his clan. She was his wife, so she kept her chin level even when she crossed the great hall and heard the whispers begin.

She was Lady Hurst, and would not be seen as anything but worthy of that name.

 

News travels quickly, and bad news even faster still. The servants lined up for Helena's arrival, even in the dead of the night. Their lips bloodless from being pressed so tightly together, they cast their gazes toward the floor. Farrell didn't remain in the stable. The man followed her along with another at whom he snapped his fingers when she walked toward the front door.

“You must begin looking for Raelin.”

Farrell's eyes flickered with approval. But he shook his head. “I cannae. My laird charged me with yer well-being.”

“Very well. I shall accompany you.”

Farrell looked more approving but swallowed roughly. “I cannae take ye into harm's way. Wherever that poor lass is, there is sure to be trouble.”

“We cannot leave this to chance.”

Her voice rose and she shut her mouth to regain her composure. Farrell agreed with her. She could feel the man's impatience radiating off him. He looked at the walls of the house like a cage.

“I cannae place ye at risk. My laird charged me with yer safety, my lady.”

Plenty of people had called her
lady.
As far back as she could recall the title had been used by everyone, save her immediate family. She had learned to detest the word at court, but tonight it was different. Farrell spoke it out of respect and she had no doubt that she had earned it.

“Yes, you are correct. He did say that.”

Her mind was racing and her feet moving as she tried to think of some solution. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, one of the maids hurrying past her to open the door and light the way with a lantern. The candles in the chamber had died down and the fireplace was now cold.

A shiver raced down her spine. The room was as unwelcome as a cell. In fact it was a prison now that Keir didn't share it with her. Her belly tightened until it ached, the horror of the night digging into her like iron spikes.

The maid lit the candles and light flickered over the turned-down bed. Nausea sickened her when she looked at it. Understanding filled her, Keir's words replaying in her mind. She hadn't really grasped what she felt either, not until it was taken from her.

That was love.

The gripping claws raking along her belly at their separation was that most elusive emotion, the thing that playwrights tantalized their audiences with and physicians treated with bitter tonics. It was the thing that noblewomen were warned against because their marriages would not be forged on the rhythm of the heart.

Yet every now and again, fortune smiled on some. She was in love with her husband and it was a treasure that she had not the wits to see until treachery snatched him away.

Oh, Edmund…

Try as she might, there was no remorse in her for her brother—only a sense of pity that he had wasted his life on schemes that bore no true gain, not the sort of gain that truly mattered. She didn't think he had ever been happy, and that sent two tears down her cheeks. No one would weep for him sincerely; only out of noble duty.

“Shall I fetch you something warm from the kitchen, my lady?”

Her belly was in knots. Helena shook her head but glanced toward the door to see Farrell and the other McQuade retainer standing on either side of the doorframe. Each of them had a large sword tied to their backs and the lanterns were lit to illuminate the passageway. Their bodies were tense and set to stand guard just as their laird had charged them to do.

How very much like the Tower…

She was as imprisoned as Keir by this foul scheme. The only difference was the uniform of her guards.

She suddenly stiffened, an idea forming in her mind. The maid was still waiting for an answer, the girl fingering the edge of her apron.

“No. I am not hungry. If there is a chest somewhere, have it brought up.”

“Yes, mistress.”

She was gone in a rustle of wool skirts. Helena glanced at the bed. She would never be able to sleep in it but she moved toward it with determination.

 

Farrell wanted to know what she was doing. Helena avoided the burly Scot's eyes and hurried down to the kitchen. There were too many things to do and each task felt as though it took twice the time to accomplish. Her frustration grew as dawn turned the horizon a lighter shade of gray. The storm showed no signs of breaking. Rain fell on the city, and those who ventured out into the street huddled beneath their cloaks.

“I need a bath.”

The housekeeper looked at her strangely. “In this chill?”

“Aye. Here in the kitchen, it is warm enough.”

The housekeeper didn't agree but she snapped her fingers at two maids and Helena stepped into her bath within the hour. She forced herself into the tub, refusing to quibble over the lack of privacy. The two boys who helped in the kitchens were banished by another sharp snap of fingers, but the cook was busy watching her while she baked bread. The housekeeper brought her a piece of soap that was kept locked in the store cabinet. Only she held the ring of keys that unlocked the cabinet where valuable items were kept. She might be dismissed if even one linen was found missing. As the new mistress of the house, it would be Helena's duty to oversee the counting and marking of figures in the household books.

At least it would if she were not planning on departing.

Taking up the soap, she scrubbed herself from head to toe, even lathering up her hair before leaning over so that the maid might pour fresh water through it. She kept her mind on the task at hand, standing up before the water was completely cool. Now was not the time for soaking.

In the stormy weather her hair was slow to dry. She lost patience with it and had it braided while still damp.

“My lady, you'll catch a chill.”

“I must see the king before he retreats to his privy chamber and his council begins to bend his ear.”

Edmund's insistence that she study the court was finally going to be of service. The king kept a pattern to his days. Even with the matter of her brother's murder, the monarch would attend his private chapel for services before going to see his privy council. She would wait for him in the hallway or risk being one of a hundred waiting for the chamberlain to call her name in the outer hall. It was one advantage to being a woman. The royal guard would not stop her as quickly as a man. They would assume that she was on her way to the queen's chambers or running some errand for one of the ladies.

But it was a dangerous game that she played. James Stuart ruled absolutely. If the king was annoyed by her presence, his wrath would fall on Keir. But she squared her shoulders and finished dressing. She ordered spices and soap packed in the two trunks the staff had found in the stable. Both were difficult to close when she finished adding everything that she could think of.