In the Bed of a Duke (12 page)

But the priest wasn’t interested in the struggle between Gordon and Bruce. Instead, he surprised Tavis by asking, “What did you think of the Maddox? As a man?”

The picture of the Sassenach’s stubborn pride rose in Tavis’s mind. Something about him made Tavis uncomfortable.

“Well?” Father Nicholas prompted.

“I didn’t like him.” He pulled the sickle blade from the fire and began pounding the hot metal, an effective way to end that topic of conversation.

A moment later, knowing he was being ignored, the priest rose from his chair and went inside.

“Would your brother look exactly like you if he were your twin?” Charlotte asked from her side of the wall.

Darkness was only an hour or two away.

She’d let Phillip work but now, she wanted these moments to talk to him. And he was willing as well.

“I don’t know,” Phillip answered. “Some twins don’t look anything alike. And the MacKenna clan seems to have an aversion for the razor.”

She smiled in agreement, then asked seriously, “But isn’t there some sort of connection between twins? If he was physically close, wouldn’t you feel drawn toward him?”

“Like a magnetized rod?”

“Or brothers.”

Colster was silent a moment. “I don’t know…and I feel like an idiot for having to admit it. I’ve always been confident of what I should do in any circumstance, until now. Charlotte, if Justin and I ever meet, he would have every right to hate me.
Justin
. He probably doesn’t even know his Christian name, let alone he was born a duke. Who knows what MacKenna may have done to him?”

“None of this was your fault.
Or
his.”

“And yet
we’ve
paid a price. That is, if it is true. This could be another of MacKenna’s tricks.”

“You have to believe it isn’t, Your Grace,” she answered.

“I
want
to believe it isn’t,” he confessed. “I want him to be alive.” He paused, and then added, “And stop calling me ‘Your Grace.’ There’s been too much between us, Charlotte. Besides, if Justin is alive, then I must become accustomed to not hearing ‘Your Grace.’”

“Can you?” The idea was intriguing. Most men held on to what they possessed.

“I
will
.”

She heard the steel in his voice. It made her smile because
that
was the man she knew…although her opinion of him had changed drastically over the last two days. He was far more companionable and honest than she’d ever imagined he would be. He was as mortal as the next,
perhaps more so because of the weight of the title. He was not allowed to make errors. Not with everyone watching his every move.

“Phillip,” he said.

“What?” she asked, mystified.

“My name is Phillip. Say it. Let me hear it from your lips.”

His voice had dropped to a more intimate tone. Heat rushed to her cheeks and belly as she whispered, “Phillip.”

“Phillip and Charlotte,” he said from the other side of his wall.

Phillip and Charlotte.

If she had paper and pen, she’d write it down, wanting to see the names in physical form.

“Charlotte, are you there?”

She placed a hand on her belly, warning herself not to be giddy. “Yes, I am…
Phillip.
” She liked the name.

“I need for you to know, I’m sorry—” His voice broke off. She leaned closer to the stone.

“Phillip?”

He didn’t answer, but then she overheard male voices, too far away to be distinct.

They’d come for him.

She stood, wanting to stop them from taking him. Her door remained closed. She waited. Minutes passed. No one came. It was as if everyone in the world had disappeared and left her alone.

But MacKenna wouldn’t do that. Sooner or later, he would come for her. She’d crossed him, and she felt she knew enough of his character to believe such a slight would not go unpunished.

The hour was growing late. The sky was turning soft shades of pinks and purple.

If the laird of Nathraichean thought she would be a docile captive, he was wrong. She wasn’t going to shirk or beg. She was the Duke of Colster’s woman. Charlotte and Phillip.

Charlotte had on a serviceable day dress. It had seemed a sensible thing to wear considering the circumstances. However, her mind had changed.

She crossed to the dressing screen where her meager wardrobe was hanging and reached for a soft blue India muslin trimmed in gilt spangles. She had satin slippers to match. Her plan had been to wear this ensemble to impress Laird MacKenna.

Now, she would wear it to prove she wasn’t afraid of him.

For once, her hair cooperated, and she styled it high on her head with a sapphire blue ribbon woven through it. When she was done, the mirror over the washbasin showed she looked her best. A calmness settled over her. A sense of purpose, of destiny. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited to be summoned—and then remembered
Nanny Frye’s letter and Phillip’s coin purse in the hidden pocket of her skirts. They were both still there.

There was no pocket in the blue muslin. Charlotte searched through her belongings until she find the small purse designed for evening. It had a long, golden silk cord. She poured the coins out of Phillip’s purse into her own. He had four guineas, more than enough to take them where they needed to go at the moment. She folded them in Nanny Frye’s letter, and then put the purse around her neck, tucking it beneath her gown for safety. It made a strange necklace, but she doubted if anyone would notice.

At last, she was prepared to wait.

Shortly after sunset, a knock sounded on the door. “Yes?” she answered.

The door opened, and Gordon Lachlan entered, flanked by two guards. His sharp gaze flicked over her evening finery and his brows lifted in surprise. There was a note of respect in his crisp, musical brogue as he said, “Miss Cameron, are you ready to go downstairs?”

“I am, sir.”

“Then, please come this way.”

Charlotte stood and moved forward. She feared for herself; she feared for Colster. But she was ready to do battle.

T
he laird enjoyed ceremony. It was a testimony to his growing power and stature amongst the Scots, and he used it well, or so Tavis thought.

For this evening, Laird MacKenna had ordered a platform built beneath a silk canopy of green and gold. What seemed to be a thousand torches lit the night. They were all around the marching green, which could hold five hundred spectators or more.

It was crowded to capacity tonight. No one wanted to miss what the laird kept referring to as the “trial” of not only one of the despised Maddox…but of an English noble with Scottish roots. A noble who was like the other greedy bastards who had burned them out of their homes.

These were people who valued the old ways when the chieftain of the clan, be he duke or
laird, took care of them. Times when they all had known they’d have roofs over their heads because they lived in the same cottages their fathers and their fathers’ fathers had lived.

The Clearances had changed all that. Lives had been destroyed, and there was fear they would never recover. These people had come to Laird MacKenna because they wanted justice—and tonight, they may receive it…or some measure of it. For that reason alone, they wore MacKenna colors.

Tavis understood their anger. He hated feeling powerless and, like them, would have done anything he could to have his old life back. Of course, he never would have questioned his lot in life if the laird had not made him divorce Moira. There was anger in him. He felt betrayed.

And it gave him great pleasure to be standing on the platform beneath the silk canopy when Bruce moved to take his place.

“What are you doing here, Tavis? Go stand with the crowd.”

Before Tavis could answer, Gordon came up behind them, and in his quiet voice said, “The laird wants him here.”

Bruce turned, irritated as always to have Gordon interfere. Both were forceful leaders. Both were tested every day by the laird. Both wanted to succeed him.

If Bruce was named heir, Tavis
would
leave.
He’d not think twice. He had his trade, and he had his pride.

But he wanted to take Moira with him.

Bruce’s piggy eyes narrowed. “You’ve come into favor lately with the laird,” he observed to Tavis. “But I have no doubt you won’t disappoint him…just like you did your wife.”

Tavis took a step forward, ready to wipe the ground with the man, but Gordon stepped between them. He placed a warning hand on Tavis’s arm. “Ignore him,” he advised.

“It’s bloody hard when the man sleeps with your wife,” Tavis answered.

“She’s not yours,” Gordon said. “Not any longer.” He pulled Tavis away from Bruce, taking him off the platform to a quiet corner. “I can imagine how you feel. However, the laird has confided in me that he has plans for you. Our cause is growing, Tavis. Every day, more and more men come to our banner. I’ve talked to the laird. He’s pleased with your sword training—”

“He knows?”

“It isn’t easy to hide a big hulk like you doing anything, let alone working with weapons. Aye, he and I have both seen you practicing before dawn. You have a natural gift. He is pleased. He wanted me to tell you that.”

The laird had seen him? He’d sent Gordon to tell him?

“I want to become one of the warriors, Gordon,” Tavis said, daring to voice aloud his deepest dream.

Gordon didn’t laugh. Instead, Tavis read approval in the man’s eye. “Good. I expect you to ride beside me when we take on the English and reclaim our land. We are going to chase them out, Tavis. Every one of those who betrayed their own kind. They shall pay.” He held out his hand, an invitation for Tavis to join in not as a crofter but as an equal.

Tavis clasped Gordon’s hand firmly in his own. “I’m your man.”

“I know,” Gordon answered, “and proud I am to have you, Tavis.”

The laird climbed on the platform just then. The two men broke apart and turned in respect. The laird nodded to them as if he knew what they’d been discussing. It made Tavis feel important.

The MacKenna walked to the front of the platform. The crowd had quieted at his first appearance, but when he raised his hand in greeting, they gave a great shout. He signaled Dougal and Wills, who escorted Miss Cameron, the Maddox’s woman, onto the platform. Tavis and Gordon had to step back to make room for her. Bruce was on the MacKenna’s other side.

Miss Cameron was a lovely woman, and a fitting mate for any warrior. Her spirit told Tavis
that the Maddox was not some cosseted noble. She had not gone off into a fit of hysterics when captured and even now appeared as regal as a queen.

For the briefest moment, their gazes met, and she stopped so abruptly Dougal almost bumped into her. Her eyes widened in disbelief. She took a step toward Tavis, her lips mouthing a name.

Dougal, thinking she may be attempting an escape, blocked her way with his arm. She frowned at the arm, and then looked up at the guard as if surprised to find him there, before turning back to Tavis.

The laird saw all of this. “Tavis, step back,” he ordered, moving forward to take Miss Cameron’s arm. “Come,” he ordered.

She stared at Tavis, and then shook her head as if dismissing something from her own mind.

“I believe our blacksmith is frightening Miss Cameron,” the laird said to everyone gathered close enough to hear. They laughed.

Her brows came together, and she lowered her head.

The door to the main house opened again, and Tavis dismissed Miss Cameron from his mind as Moira and two maids led Lady Rowena out of the house.

Lady Rowena had never married—nor seemed as if she wished to. Everyone knew that she’d
suffered an “unfortunate tragedy” in her youth, but no one, to Tavis’s knowledge, knew what her misfortune had been. Over the years, her mind had deteriorated. One day her wits could be sharp, her memory intact, and in the next, she would not even remember her brother’s name.

It made no matter. The laird was devoted to his sister. Now, he directed her to a chair beside his.

Tavis waited for Moira to notice him. She was unusually lovely tonight in a gown of green trimmed in lace. The wind caught tendrils of her hair, which was held back in a gold-and-jeweled band.

Her first action was to smile at her new husband—but then she caught sight of Tavis standing beside Gordon. The corners of her mouth tightened in disapproval.

The solemn wail of a piper cut the air, calling those gathered to attention. The crowd quieted.

The doors to the house opened again, and Tavis turned with everyone else. He expected to see the Maddox led out. Instead, John Rae, one of the laird’s closest confidants, stepped out onto the step holding high with both hands the weapon known as the Sword of the MacKenna.

Torchlight caught the sword’s golden scabbard as Rae walked past the platform to take a place on the ground in front of the laird. Tavis, like everyone else, was in awe of this weapon. He’d
held it once, years ago when it had been bought to his late father-in-law Angus for repair. It was perfectly balanced, a piece of craftsmanship like no other.

This had led MacKenna men into battle since time remembered. Few had ever seen it, but every lad from the age of three and up knew of its handle covered in scarlet leather and hilt set with rubies.

Solemnly, Rae bowed to the laird, who nodded in return before raising his hand, a signal for the drummers to start.

Again, the doors to the house opened. Two of the McKenna’s strongest men marched out, with the Maddox between them. He carried himself well. Like Tavis, he was a tall man although not as muscular. He wore the shirt, breeches, and boots he’d been captured wearing. A beard shadowed his jaw, but his head was high, the set of his shoulders straight. In spite of his hands being tied together in front, he appeared every inch a duke.

As the piper joined the drummers, the crowd erupted into hoots and challenges of the sort any good Scot would use against an enemy as the Maddox was marched to the front of the platform and a position to the right of John Rae. The duke took it all in stride. He surveyed them coolly, showing no fear.

“You know, Tavis, he looks enough like you to be your brother,” Gordon whispered as if surprised.

Tavis frowned. He saw no resemblance.

And then he felt Miss Cameron staring at him. He turned and frowned his displeasure, but she didn’t look away. Instead, her eyes slid back to the duke…and he knew she was drawing comparisons. Was that the reason she’d acted so surprised earlier?

Every fiber of his being rejected any comparison between himself and the dreaded enemy of the clan.

Laird MacKenna lifted his hand, and the music stopped, the last note of the bagpipes drifting around them.

In a ringing voice, he said, “Phillip Maddox, Duke of Colster, you have been charged with crimes against Scotland. You have betrayed your heritage and your country. You have stolen the lands of honest folk and burned their houses. How say you?”

“Not guilty,” the Maddox answered, his voice calm and sure.

In answer, the crowd hooted their opinions.

Tavis had to admire the duke. The laird enjoyed holding these “courts.” Many a man had broken down crying at this moment, afraid for his own life and with good reason. In Nathraichean, Laird
MacKenna was the law. He held more power than the king, and no one would gainsay him. Few in Britain cared about the comings and goings of this distant part of Scotland.

Of course, if they had, the laird could not have built his army. He was often fond of saying that someday, all of Britain would know the name MacKenna—and Tavis believed it would be so.

But the Duke of Colster was not like the laird’s usually frightened victims. With a spirit that was admirable, he said, “In fact, I
welcome
a trial. The time has come for us to speak as men about the problems our great country. If you have a complaint, you don’t take the law into your own hands. You carry it to London. You carry to the king.”

“The king won’t hear us!” a man shouted from the crowd. “He only listens to his lords.”

“The MacKenna is
our
king,” another threw out, and his words were quickly seconded.

“Then try and be damned,” the Maddox answered. “But know that the eyes of God are watching here. That Justice exacts a price on those who are cowardly.”

His was the sort of bravado the Scots liked, and Tavis noticed it had no small impact. Many yelled what they thought should be done with the duke, but others were impressed.

“And try me, too,” Miss Cameron declared
suddenly. She shoved Dougal aside to say to the people, “His Grace is innocent of all those charges, and you all know it.”

The duke turned to her, shaking his head. “Charlotte, no—”

“Yes,”
she answered, cutting him off. “I can’t stand to watch this mockery of a trial without speaking out.”

Laird MacKenna stood. “Silence, Miss Cameron, or I shall have you carried away, forcibly if I must.”

The duke immediately seized the moment to be contrary. “She has the right to be heard,” he said. “Or do you censure that, too?” He turned to the crowd. “You’ve put yourselves in the hands of a tyrant. He’s preparing for a very foolish and costly war. Do you not see that? Do you not fear for your children and their futures?”

The laird, too, addressed the crowd. “You came to me because there was no one else. ‘Those who have great power have an obligation to see to the welfare of the less fortunate,’” he quoted. “Do you know those words, Your Grace.”

The duke frowned. “Those are my words.”

“Yes, you gave a speech I had the privilege of hearing. When I returned to Nathraichean, over five hundred of these people had arrived at my gates. They’d lost their homes, their livelihoods, and their dignity—all while
you
were making a pretty speech. Tell us, Your Grace, you are one of
those in power. Have you seen to the welfare of those less fortunate?”

Soberly, the duke said, “My estates are well taken care of—”

“That is not enough,”
the laird said. “You’ve had opportunity to address the Scottish question, haven’t you, Your Grace? It has been brought up in the House of Lords. What was your response?”

For a moment there was silence, and then the duke answered, “I don’t recall.”

“Of course not,” the laird said, his disdain clear. He turned to his audience. “I spoke. I took our cause to the House of Commons. Only five men cared enough to attend and hear what I had to say. After all, who was it but some ‘farmer’? That’s what they called me, clansmen. I was introduced as a farmer from the north, and the five in attendance fell asleep. I spoke of children with no food in their bellies, and
they
”—he swept a hand to include the duke—“slept.”

The laird paused to ensure everyone was with him. He was a dramatic speaker and not a soul moved as he looked down, and asked, “Your Grace, Duke of Colster, have you ever been so hungry that your stomach is cramped from it?”

The duke didn’t answer. There was no purpose to it.

But he appeared surprised when the laird
continued, “When only last week, you were challenged by one of your peers to end the Clearances, what was your response, Your Grace?”

The lines of the duke’s face tightened as if he were surprised by how specific the laird was in his charges. In a quieter voice, he said, “I said that Parliament must not tell individual landowners what they can and cannot do with their property.” He faced the crowd, unafraid to plead his case to them. “What belongs to a man is rightfully his. If Parliament can take what they wish when they wish it, then all property rights are no longer sacred.”

The silence from the people as they listened was deafening. They shared the laird’s opinion. They were the ones who had been betrayed when the old way gave over to the new.

Laird MacKenna turned and looked at his sister and smiled. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her expression one of concentration. He turned back to his people. Quietly he asked, “What do we say to those who believe their power gives them right?”

The crowd burst out in angry cries.

“Is he guilty?” the laird asked.