X Marks the Scot (9 page)

What
if
he
won?

His mind raced. Ciaran had no interest in Castle Campbell and would be concerned with only the surrounding lands. Declan would have a home of his own and could finally be rid of his annoying brothers. This was indeed the opportunity he had been waiting for—a chance of a lifetime. The king waited for the men to answer.

Graham quickly accepted and the king shook his head in approval.

“Very good,” the king said, slapping Graham heartily on the back. Turning, he nodded to Declan. “And what of you, MacGregor? What say you? Do you accept the wager?”

Declan could feel all eyes upon him, and he swallowed hard, trying to manage a feeble answer. He knew he had a God-given gift, but he had never tried to shoot at that distance. What if he failed? Better yet, what if he won?

The king cleared his throat. “MacGregor, I will have your answer.”

“Aye, Your Majesty. I accept the challenge.”

Declan had to be dreaming. Castle Campbell was a rather steep reward for a mere archery contest. If he won, would the king expect something in return?

Turning, he searched for the healer in the crowd, but he could not see her through the masses. He wondered if she had heard the prize for winning the competition. The boards were now in position, and it was decided that Graham, the other contender, would shoot first. Declan was anxious to see how the man held up under the pressure.

As Graham released his shot, Declan held his breath. The arrow landed only a few inches to the right of the mark. The man closed his eyes and tilted his head back, no doubt saying a silent prayer of thanks.

The crowd roared with excitement.

Graham inclined his blond head in acknowledgment and watched as Declan analyzed the mark of his feathers on the target. He stepped forward and raised his bow with quiet assurance, assessing the target. Before he could draw a breath, he released the arrow. Then with deliberate casualness, he turned away and simply lifted his brow.

Graham paled.

“Graham shot to the right and MacGregor shot to the left. Both arrows are exactly the same distance from the mark,” shouted a man, examining the board.

King James smiled. “You both realize the winner is the one who hits the closest to the center mark. There are no ties. It appears we have a competition! Move the boards back twenty yards!”

The crowd applauded.

Declan briefly closed his eyes and calmed his racing thoughts. Castle Campbell was within his grasp and he could not, would not, falter. Once the healer was no longer a ward of the court, he would depart and not look back. Declan could not wait to observe his brother’s expression when he returned to Glenorchy with such a treasure.

The men called out when the targets were in position. After another prayer, Graham stepped into place and took aim. His arrow whizzed through the air and hit the board with a thump, only an inch above the goal. Elevating his bow triumphantly in the air, he cast Declan a smug look.

Declan stepped forward without hesitation. While the crowd still rallied for Graham, Declan lifted his bow and hastened his shot, releasing it within seconds.

The crowd fell silent as they waited to hear the winner declared. .

“Graham shot slightly above the mark and MacGregor’s arrow is below…
exactly
the same distance to the mark,” shouted the man, again examining the board.

The king threw back his head, his laugh rippling through the air. Graham did not find the situation as humorous, and with widened eyes, stared at Declan wordlessly.

“You both know that we are only able to crown one winner. If you two keep this up, we will be here all eve,” King James jested.

“If Graham is willing to yield and admit I am the better shot, we will nae need to be here all eve,” said Declan in a confident tone.

As the targets were once again moved back, Declan noticed the tense furrows on Graham’s brow and the sweat pouring down his face.

Graham grabbed his arrow and moved into position. Briefly closing his eyes, he murmured something under his breath. His eyes flew open and he shot—closer than all of his prior attempts, nearly hitting the mark.

Shouts of congratulation rang out among the crowd.

He approached Declan with an arrogant swagger and gave him a knowing grin. “Do ye wish to yield now, MacGregor, and admit I am the better shot?”

Declan chuckled, slapping him upon the shoulder. “I ne’er yield,” he said, ambling around him with confident strides.

Raising his bow, Declan briefly studied the location of Graham’s arrow on the board and then quickly released his own arrow, aiming higher than his previous attempts. The arrow soared through the air and then plummeted with lightning speed. The tip of Declan’s arrow struck Graham’s on the board, cutting off Graham’s arrow’s feathers and hitting the center mark with outstanding accuracy.

Standing in awe, Graham watched pieces of his arrow’s feathers drift slowly to the ground.

“MacGregor hit the mark!” shouted the man inspecting the board.

“Very well done!” the king bellowed as he approached. Pulling out a purse, he tossed the pouch to Graham. “You did well.”

“Thank ye, Your Majesty,” Graham said with a slight bow. Standing to his full height, he held out his arm to Declan. “It was a fair game, MacGregor. Please accept my congratulations.”

Declan clasped his arm. “Ye are one hell of a shot, Graham.”

“As are ye.”

“Congratulations, MacGregor,” said Cranborne, giving him a nod.

“Thank ye.”

“MacGregor, I’ll speak with you on the morrow,” murmured King James before he turned on his heel.

Castle
Campbell
was
his!

Never did Declan think he would ever be able to achieve such stature. He’d be the master of his own home. No longer would he be scolded and reprimanded for living his life the way he saw fit. He would answer to no one but himself. Luck was most definitely on his side—or the gods—but either way, he would take it. The healer’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“I saw your last shot. Ye are quite skilled with a bow. I assume your reward was well worth your efforts,” said the healer.

Declan laughed richly. “Ye could say that. Ye didnae hear the prize, then?”

“Nay, I was too busy cowering from Lady Armstrong and Lord Dunnehl.”

He clutched her hand in his, not exactly sure how to broach the subject of his winnings. “Walk with me.” Inclining her head, she walked leisurely beside him as they headed toward the gardens. “I need to speak with ye about a few things. And I need ye to listen. There are tales spreading throughout court. Tales…that ye are a witch.”

Stopping dead in her tracks, she glanced up at him. “A
witch
?
Chan
eil
mi
a’ tuigsinn
,” she said.
I
do
not
understand.
“’Tis truly ridiculous.”

He glanced around cautiously. “Lower your voice.” When they made it to the hidden bench in the garden, Declan gestured for her to sit. “I said the same, but it still doesnae change what is being spoken.”

“Who speaks such untruths? Tell me.” She eyed him with concern.

“I donna know. Catesby said as much before the tournament, and I would ne’er have believed him, had I nae seen it for myself.”

The healer gave him a puzzled look. “What do ye mean?”

“A few times I have seen men and women looking upon ye with uncertainty and clearly making every effort to step out of your path…while warding off your evil intent,” Declan explained.

The healer shook her head. “Why would they think I was a witch? They donna even know me. Do ye think that was why the carrion flowers were spread in my chamber?”

“Catesby said there are rumors that ye healed Lady Cranborne with a potion and then ye brought her babe back from the grave.”

She gave a false laugh. “The
potion
was only some healing herbs that anyone could gather in the forest and Lady Cranborne’s babe wasnae dead. I cannae wait to be rid of court.” She threw up her hands, exasperated.

Declan placed his hand on her shoulder and they shared a smile. “I know it, but until then, I ask that ye are careful. Donna openly speak of your healing and be aware of your surroundings and who is listening.” When she rolled her eyes, he quickly added, “Lass, I donna think ye are treating this subject with the importance ye should.”

“MacGregor, I will be watchful of what I say, but honestly, who would believe such a tale? I am the Earl of Argyll’s sister. Ye know me and so do Viscount and Viscountess Cranborne.”

“And King James leads the witch hunts in Norway. Ye are only familiar with what the bloody Campb…er, Argyll wanted ye to know. Ye need to grasp what I speak, healer. Those accused of witchcraft are burned, drowned, stoned, or hung only because a man says ’tis so.”

“I donna understand how men and women can be so completely daft.”

“I donna think that will ever change, lass. I often wonder that myself. But until then…”

She held up her hands in mock surrender. “I give ye my word. I will be vigilant.” She rose from the bench and smiled. “If ye will excuse me, I escape to my chamber.”

“I will escort ye.”

How the hell was he going to tell her about the prize? He needed to think.

Just as they rounded the tree, Cranborne spotted them. The healer swore under her breath and then widened her smile.

Declan tried to mask a guilty look. What possible excuse could he offer for taking the healer behind the bushes alone? Damn. For the second time, he found himself in this predicament.

“Lady Campbell…” Cranborne’s coolly impersonal tone broke the stillness.

The healer stiffened at his side and Declan stepped between them. “Listen, Cranborne.” There was a cold edge of irony in his voice. If the man accused him of another improper dealing with the lass, he might see Declan’s fist.

“The babe comes and Elizabeth is calling for you. Could you please come with me at once?”

“Of course.”

***

“Push, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth screamed out in pain. “I can no longer push. I simply cannot,” she cried. Her face was pale and pinched as her maid wet a cloth and gently wiped her brow. “I think I’m dying.”

“Ye arenae dying. Ye can do this. Now I want ye to take a deep breath and then give me one more strong push,” Liadain ordered as the bairn’s head was crowning.

“I can’t. Why would Robert do this to me? Why? If he
ever
touches me again, I swear…” Elizabeth cried.

“Elizabeth,” she spoke calmly. “Ye are in childbirth. ’Tis normal to have such feelings and ye can kill the viscount later, but right now, I need ye to push.”

“I can’t,” she moaned, turning her head from side to side.

“The only way to cease the pain is to bring the babe into the world. Now push, Elizabeth, push!” When she had made one more straining attempt, the bairn’s head was through. Liadain gently pulled him out. She barely had to lift him before the babe gasped for air on his own and began to wail. “Ye did it. Ye have a bonny son.”

Elizabeth cried out joyfully.

Liadain reached for the knife and cut the cord. Grabbing a towel, she wiped off the bairn and then swaddled him in a blanket. He had a full head of honey-colored curls, and his eyes were the color of the bluest sky. He was a delightful little treasure. She carefully placed the bundle in the arms of his mother. She never ceased to be amazed at the look of pure wonder upon the faces of new mothers. Every child was simply a miracle. All her pain forgotten, Elizabeth smiled in delight at her new son.

“Would ye like me to seek your husband now? If ye arenae still planning on sending him to his maker,” Liadain said, raising a brow.

Elizabeth nodded, her gaze never parting from her son.

Liadain swung open the door to find Robert clearly distraught. “Elizabeth?”

“Is well and so is your bairn.” She gestured him into the chamber and Robert immediately looked relieved. With brisk steps, he moved to Elizabeth’s side and smiled at her tenderly.

“We have a son, Robert.”

He closed his eyes, but not before a lone tear escaped down his cheek. He pecked a kiss on the top of his child’s head and then kissed Elizabeth tenderly.

Not wanting to impose on their private time together, Liadain cleared her throat. “I will be taking my leave.”

“Wait, Liadain!” Elizabeth called out. “Robert, could you please hold your son?”

He chuckled at her question. “Dearest, you do not need to ask me that twice.” Robert picked up his bairn and gently rocked him in his arms, walking toward the window and making cooing noises under his breath.

“Liadain, please come here,” said Elizabeth, extending her hand.

Liadain grabbed her hand and smiled.

“I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me…for us. I don’t know what I would have done without you. You were truly sent from the gods and for that I am grateful. If there is anything that you ever require, please don’t ever hesitate to ask. I owe you much.”

“Ye owe me naught. The health of ye and your bairn are reward enough.”

She cast a glance at Robert holding his child tenderly. The sun bathed their features in a shimmering light. Perhaps if events had played out differently, that could have been their son, their moment. With a subtle ache in her heart, Liadain knew the past was best left that way.

Suddenly she felt so utterly exhausted that even her nerves throbbed. Murmuring her good-byes to the new family, she retreated to her room to get a few hours’ rest. After pulling off her dress and sliding under the covers, she was sound asleep in a matter of seconds.

What was that tapping noise? She stirred. Perhaps the unwelcome disturbance would cease and she could resume her blissful unawareness—well, she could if that incessant banging upon her door would stop.
Now.
She rolled over and grabbed her pillow, attempting to block the maddening pounding.

“M’lady?” called someone from outside her door.

Removing the pillow, Liadain raised her head. Perhaps he would take his leave if she remained perfectly still.

“M’lady?” the voice called again, more impatiently.

Liadain silently cursed. “Aye?” she answered reluctantly.

“His Majesty requests your presence and I am to escort you.”