Part 17 (1/2)
Davina followed Aileen's finger and took off toward her future husband. They met halfway across the hall and Rob's breath seemed to catch in his throat as he reached for her hands.
”I didna' think ye could ever be more bonnie than the day I took ye from St. Christopher's, but I was wrong.”
”Rob, where is Edward?”
The warmth in his eyes vanished along with his smile. ”Dinna' concern yerself with him any longer, Davina. I've taken care of it.”
”By killing him?”
”He isna' dead yet, but 'tis what he deserves.” He raised his voice an octave, then ground his jaw. ”We will discuss it later.”
”We will discuss it now!” She pulled her hands away from his and narrowly escaped him when he reached for her again. He was scowling in full force now. ”Release him,” she said nonetheless.
”Are ye mad? D'ye think I am?”
”Please, Rob.”
”Nae.”
”I beg you, please.”
She saw his resolve falter behind his dark expression. But just as quickly he s.n.a.t.c.hed it back. ”Davina, ye canna' ask this of me. He will leave Camlochlin and go directly to yer faither.”
”He won't. I know he won't. He did what he did a long time ago. Much has changed since then.”
”Aye, he loves ye,” Rob growled at her.
”Yes, he does, and that is why he will not betray me again. Spare him, please. I cannot bear the thought of him dying because of me. So many have already.”
”I canna'-”
She stepped into his arms and reached for his face, cutting off his refusal. ”I have asked you for nothing until now. Grant me this, Rob. I cannot stand before G.o.d with a merciless man.”
He stared into her eyes while her heart beat furiously against him, until she thought he would deny her.
”Verra well,” he said finally and caught her in the crook of his arm when she flung her arms around his neck and thanked him profusely with kiss after kiss.
”He's never to leave Skye, though,” he told her in the midst of her kisses. ”I'll have him shot if he tries.”
”Yes, yes, anything you want.”
He withdrew from her slowly, and with eyes that smoldered like brands, he said, ”I want ye to be mine, and then I want ye in my bed.”
The ceremony went smoothly, despite the tapping of Jamie's boot against the cold church floor and his constant turning to look over his shoulder, as if he expected the king's entire garrison to come cras.h.i.+ng through the doors.
Davina barely remembered the priest's soft benediction. Her gaze was fastened on Rob's throughout. Her vision filled with his handsome face and loving smile, while her thoughts overflowed with brand new hopes for her future. She would make him happy, this strong, determined man who gave her his heart, his home, and all that she'd ever wished for.
In the Great Hall, they feasted on roasted lamb (from which Davina and Maggie abstained), fresh breads and fruit pastries, a variety of soups and broths, and Camlochlin's finest ale and whisky. Rob moved about the guests with an ease that was bred into him as the clan's future Chief. But no matter who he spoke to, or what topic they engaged, his gaze found hers across the room. His smile was intimate and eager.
Davina knew he wanted her, and though her body still ached, she wanted him just as much. She wanted to be alone with him, to touch him, explore him, breathe him, taste him, and tell him how desperately she loved him.
She wasn't prepared though when, setting down his last drink, he reached for her and traced her lips with the pad of his thumb.
”Bid good eve to our guests.” His command was low, throaty, and riddled with desire.
She blushed and averted her eyes from the dozens watching as he kissed her. When he bent to scoop her up in his arms, Will's cheer rang through her veins and made her cover her face in Rob's fresh plaid.
Her mortification was soon replaced with awe and the sting of joyful tears when Rob carried her into his chambers-their chambers. Hundreds of candles lit the room like stars on a summer night. Lush bouquets of purple heather filled every corner and permeated the air with the soft, sweet scent of the Highlands.
”You picked all this yourself,” she said, remembering how good he smelled this morn.
”Finn and Will aided me.” He dipped his mouth to hers and carried her to the bed. ”Does it please ye, Davina?”
She nodded, unable to form the words without weeping. Yes, yes, it pleased her. Oh, G.o.d, yes! Everything he did pleased her. Every b.u.t.ton in her gown that he loosened, every tender kiss he pressed to her exposed flesh, pleased her. He saved her life and sheltered her in the safety of his capable arms. She didn't think anything could make her love him more-until he picked flowers for her!
”I love you,” she whispered as his body covered hers and he sank deep within her. ”Only you until I die.”
Chapter Twenty-six.
King James sat alone in the royal solar staring blankly into the hearth fire, a silver cup of wine dangling from his fingers. He paid no heed to the music or merriment wafting upward from the Banqueting House below. His coronation had drawn every n.o.bleman in England and Scotland to Whitehall Palace, as well as many Highland chiefs, all eager to pay their new king homage and kiss his royal a.r.s.e. But none of them could be trusted. Indeed, it was more than likely that one or more of them were responsible for the tragedy that left him in his present condition, drunk and heartsick.
She was dead.
Soon after the ceremony proclaiming him king, word had come with Lord Dumfries that St. Christopher's Abbey had been burned to the ground. No one was left alive.
Davina.
With no witnesses, it was impossible to know who had committed the terrible crime.
For over a se'nnight after the celebration had moved from Westminster to his new home at Whitehall, James had pretended good humor during the day. He'd greeted his guests, ate, drank, and smiled when the moment demanded it, but his thoughts were always on her. At night, like this one, he sat in his solar alone, too filled with grief and anger to feign anything else. Who was responsible for killing her? He racked his brain while he doused all his regrets with the finest wine in England. He had too many enemies to count, but none of them knew that Mary was not his firstborn.
Charles had known, of course. James had told his brother soon after Davina was born. At first, the previous king reviled the notion that his niece was being raised as a Catholic. But eventually, Charles stood by him, as he had done on so many other occasions, knowing his younger brother to be a rebel of sorts and a man of secrets. Indeed, James had wed Anne Hyde, a commoner, in secret. He had denounced Anglicanism and kept his conversion hidden for many years-a task he had hated, but one serving the throne. When Davina was born, he knew she would be raised in the Protestant faith, even against his wishes, so he removed her from court. An act of rebellion it might have been at first, but after years pa.s.sed with Charles producing no legitimate children, and with opposition to the Catholic faith growing steadily, it became imperative to keep his firstborn hidden from the world.
The nuns of St. Christopher's Abbey knew who she was, as did Captain Geoffries, and after him, Captain Asher and his men. His dear wife Anne had cried out for her daughter before she expelled her last breath. How many were in attendance at her deathbed? Mary and his youngest, Anne, had been there, along with the Bishop and Lords Covington and Allen of Parliament. Besides them, James had no idea who suspected that the child his wife wept for had not died at birth.
He took another swig from his cup, then let it drop to the floor. Little Davina. He had seen her only twice in her life after her birth, once when she was but two years of age, and then again when she was one and ten, a year after her mother left the earth. It was too dangerous to visit the Abbey, but he'd arranged for the Abbess to have his daughter brought out of doors while he and his troupe pa.s.sed St. Christopher's on their way to Edinburgh. James had wanted to bring her to Spain, or even France, where he'd spent many years before the Restoration, and where he had first been introduced to the Catholic faith. But Anne wanted to keep her close, so they kept her in Scotland, and left her in the care of nuns. Anne had never seen her daughter again.
Davina became another secret amid the many he had been forced to keep during his life. Now she was dead, and he grieved, not as a king whose hope in an heir to carry on his beliefs was lost, but as a father who never had the chance to know or love his daughter.
There came a knock at his door. He allowed entry and looked up as his young wife Mary entered the solar with three guards stationed around her.
”My lord.” She curtsied and bowed her head dutifully, the dark ringlets around her ears bobbing. ”One of your captains has returned from Scotland and requests an audience with you.”
He couldn't tell her. He couldn't tell anyone why he was here in his solar drinking his way into unconsciousness instead of enjoying the festivities in the Banqueting House.