Part 21 (1/2)

”Twenty, perhaps thirty, no more.”

”Covenanters, perhaps,” Maarten offered.

The sound grew louder until it shook the ground and silenced the birds above. Gilles held his breath as the riders came into view. They wore no military regalia, but their tight formation, and their size, suggested otherwise. They could belong to any one of the Lowland barons, but what were they doing in the Highlands? Their pace was not urgent, but not leisurely either. As they pa.s.sed him, Gilles spotted a younger man, too young to belong to an army, dressed in the unsightly garb of a Highlander. But it was the rider beside him, his face partially hidden behind his hooded cloak, that held Gilles's cool gaze.

”Men,” he said with a smile, keeping his eyes on James of York. ”We have found her.”

”Where?” Hendrick peered at the riders through narrowed lids.

”There.” Gilles tugged his earlobe, directing Hendrick's line of vision in the right direction. ”That man is her father.”

”The king?”

”Yes, the king.” Gilles sneered at the troupe as they rode away. Clever of James not to travel with his entire army lest he draw more attention to himself, but risky, as well.

”Why don't we just kill him now then?”

”Because, imbecile, James still has many supporters. If we kill him first and then kill two of the men who have outwardly claimed his t.i.tle, suspicion will fall to the prince and his succession will be difficult, if not impossible. My lord has a grander plan, one that will bring more support to his side, not less.”

”A Dutch king,” Hendrick grinned.

”Yes, if we do this right.” Gilles smiled back at him and patted his cheek. The man could not match wits with a cricket, but he could fire a pistol with almost perfect accuracy-and he didn't mind killing women or children when the need arose.

”James's Highland companion has obviously told him that his daughter lives, and is leading him to where she is hiding. All we have to do is follow them.”

”And then what?” Maarten asked as Gilles straightened and strode to his horse. ”How do we kill her with not only MacGregors guarding her, but the king's men, as well?”

”Let's find her first, Maarten.” Gilles grinned at him as he placed his hat on his head and brought the rim down low over his brow. ”We can discuss ways to kill her after that.”

Was it possible that he was finally going to see her? Meet her? Perhaps even kiss her blessed cheeks? James tried to remember how many times he had prayed for mercy from G.o.d in the last several days. G.o.d, the only One who could understand how a king could grieve so over the loss of his child. But no, Colin MacGregor had understood also. How could a mere boy show so much compa.s.sion when men twice his age and a hundred times more cultured than he would think a king odd for his sorrow?

”I have something to tell ye,” the young MacGregor had told him four days after his father had gone home. ”But ye must swear first on yer kingdom and on yer faith that after I tell ye, my kin will always find mercy with ye. Ye must swear never to bring them harm, nor any shame.”

James had grown fond of Colin since he'd arrived at Whitehall. He was quiet and agreeable while the king answered his many questions about everything from his battles in France and Spain to his views on the Covenanters. Their conversations had helped James through the worst days of his grief. The king had even found himself smiling while he watched Colin practice in the list with Connor Grant and some of his finest men. He was not only quick with his mind, but with his arm as well. The boy would make a fine soldier, if only James could convince him to remain in his garrison.

”You have my solemn oath,” the king had promised him easily, already trusting the stranger more than any man in his Great Hall.

What MacGregor told him next proved that he trusted his king, as well.

”Yer daughter is alive.”

They were words James would never forget hearing, though he could not remember what he said in response. How? Where was she? Who was she with? Was it possible that she had been given back to him as Isaac had been returned to Abraham?

Colin told him everything while James laughed with joy and then wept, then laughed again. She had been rescued... rescued at the very last moment by Colin's brother, Robert MacGregor. She had spoken of the king often and not with anger or resentment, but with admiration. Admiration! Oh, what had he done to deserve such mercy? The sisters had been kind to her but-and this made the king weep all the more-Colin told him there was an emptiness in her eyes, haunting and so very quiet that it had nearly broken all their hearts.

”Where? Where has your brother taken her?” James had asked, and this was when the boy looked like he might change his mind and tell him nothing more.

”We didna' know who she was at first, but my brother knew that whoever wanted her dead could be here with ye. He wanted to keep her safe. We all did.”

”Where, son?”

”Robert took her home.”

And that was where they were headed now. To a remote part of Skye hidden in the mists-a place called Camlochlin-a place the boy asked the king to forget the moment he left it. Colin had a.s.sured him that the only way to reach his home alive was if he accompanied the king and his men. Even if James found Camlochlin on his own, the MacGregors were not expecting them, and since the king did not carry his banner-lest his enemies find him on the road with only a scant number of his men in his company-the MacGregors might attack before they realized who he was. So James had taken Colin with him when he and his men left England in the cover of night. He told no one where he was going, not even his wife, lest someone question her. At Colin's request, he did not tell Captain Grant, either. He thought about it now and turned to his young companion.

”I must confess I am disappointed in my captain for not telling me about Davina.”

”Captain Grant left everything he loves to serve ye,” Colin told him and cast the dark heavens an even blacker look. ”He even broke my sister's heart, fer which I will never fergive him.”

The king smiled. Such a serious lad, he was.

”My brother asked him no' to tell ye until he was certain there were no traitors in yer midst. If word got oot that she lived and she was traveling with MacGregors, 'twould only be a matter of time before they found her.”

”And yet you told me.”

Colin nodded but said nothing more. It was clear to James that the boy had misgivings about what he'd done. Was he worried that his father would be angry with him for bringing the king to his misty home? Or was it something else? Someone else?

”Your brother went to much trouble to see to my daughter's safety,” James said vaguely, looking around at the landscape. ”Since he didn't know who she was at first, I must a.s.sume that he did not do so for me.” He slipped his gaze to Colin when the boy remained silent. ”Does he care for her then?”

”We all do,” Colin muttered through his teeth, averting his gaze from the king's.

”I see,” James said with a heart almost as heavy as when he believed Davina was dead. The promises Colin had asked him to make made more sense to James now. This Robert MacGregor cared for her. Perhaps, he'd even fallen in love with her, and every king before him knew firsthand how possessive Highlanders were.

Dear G.o.d, he should have taken more men.

Chapter Thirty-two.

Despite the fact that Callum MacGregor's smiles were often laden with worry when he set them on her, Davina was happy the laird was home. It gave Rob a reprieve from seeing to everything himself, giving her more time to help teach him how to have fun and less time for her to think about her father ever coming for her.

Unfortunately, her husband was a terrible student.

He knew how to swim, but flatly refused to follow her into the water. He didn't even s.h.i.+ver when she scooped some of the freezing water into her hands and splashed him thoroughly. He didn't crack a smile either. When one of Maggie's beloved piglets escaped from its pen, Rob simply watched, arms crossed over his chest, while she, Finn, and little Hamish chased it around in circles until they collided with one another and sank to the ground laughing. He gave dancing a valiant effort during the celebration of the birth of little Alasdair MacDonnell, but after stepping on Davina's foot and sending her reeling into Tristan, he decided it was safer for all involved if he watched from his seat. He did try to teach her how to play chess, but after she yawned a dozen times, he gave up.

When Davina tried to watch what he did for sport, she ended up missing half of it with her eyes squeezed shut. She'd seen men practice swordplay before, but none of the men at St. Christopher's had ever wielded a blade with such raw power that she could feel the sting of clas.h.i.+ng metal from a hundred paces away. Rob was brutal on the field, merciless against his opponents, including Will. He parried with impressive speed and dexterity for a man his size, and swung his giant claymore with a single purpose-to devastate. It was only when his father brandished his blade against him that Rob grew winded. The rest she could not watch and sneaked off, without Finn's notice, to pick some flowers.

Thanks to the frequent spring rains, the hills were bursting with color. Above her, the sun vied with the clouds for supremacy, casting the tall gra.s.s in lush golden-green hues.

She almost stepped on Tristan, lying on his back within the purple heather and wild daffodils. His eyes were closed, his hands canted behind his head, buried beneath his silken mane of tousled waves, boots crossed at the ankles. He looked like a handsome prince who'd stumbled into a faerie patch and fallen under a sleep spell so some mischievous queen could have her way with him. In fact, he appeared to be waiting for it. Davina quirked her brow at him and rested her blossom wielding fist on her hip. She'd barely seen him doing any work in the few days since he had returned home. Now that she thought of it, she'd hardly seen him at all. He wasn't spending his days-or his nights-with Caitlin. That privilege had fallen to Edward, and Davina couldn't be happier. The wicked scoundrel-as so many of the young women of Camlochlin were wont to call Tristan-had not chased one skirt, as far as Davina could tell.

”Tristan, are you ill?”

His smile flashed, but he did not move or open his eyes. ”Would ye think better of me if I was?”

What an odd thing to ask. ”Of course not. Why would I?”

He shrugged his shoulders. ”'Twould provide me with a suitable reason fer no' doing something else.”