Wild Hearts (30 page)

She gasped, regaining a little of her composure but only a little: "How dare you, sir, insinuate that I have been drinking!"

"No such thing." He flashed his wolf's grin. "I was merely quoting from Othello, knowing you have a fondness for poetry."

"I loathe the stuff!" she flared, and was instantly swept away by her next partner. For the next hour she remained seated for fear her legs would not support her. She was surrounded by all her admirers— Pembroke, Stephen Galbraith and Charles Percy— and though she responded enchantingly to them, she did not hear one word spoken to her. Though she willed them not to, her eyes kept straying to that elegant, wide-shouldered rogue who swaggered before the Queen. She and her maids-of-honor made much of him, as if renewing an acquaintance that was overly familiar and intimate.

Her thoughts were in chaos, and she longed for Patrick to appear to stabilize her world turned upside down. Why was Cockburn here? What was he up to? Her heart slowed to the speed of a triphammer as she decided his reasons could have nothing to do with her, because he ignored her with a total indifference.

When the men distributed their favors, it was traditional that they receive a kiss. She received a huge paper rose from Stephen, a gilt cage with a sugared mouse inside from Pembroke, and a clove-studded pomander from Charles Percy. She exchanged kisses upon the cheek and let out a great sigh as Patrick came across the room toward her. She gave him her prettiest smile as he handed her a box tied up with ribbons. She was enchanted with the gift he had brought her. It was a glass sphere with a couple riding in a sleigh. He showed her that when she turned it upside down and back again, it created a snowstorm. It occurred to her that this was the first toy she had ever had. She lifted her face for his kiss, and he bent his head to taste the honeyed sweetness of her lips. He whispered, "I came to you without first greeting the Queen. Now I must go and receive my punishment."

She let him go. She knew if they spent time together it would cause comment. It was enough that they were in the same room. Almost, she felt safe. She watched with slight alarm as Patrick and Paris sat down together at the Queen's card table. The Queen sat with a pile of jewels to hand out, and if she lost to a gentleman, she selected one and gave it to him. She saw Paris refuse a Jewel for the third time, and when the Queen pressed him to declare what he wanted, he bent and whispered into her ear. The Queen laughed and beckoned a Danish maid-of-honor. As Paris arose from the table to greet her, a pain slashed at Tabrizia's heart, and she fled to the sanctity of her own chamber. She was exhausted, but as sleep claimed her, she began to dream.
She was pursued and caught by one man after another. Some were swarthy as gypsies, others blond as Vikings. They did not frighten her overmuch, because she knew she could escape. The last man to catch her terrified her. He had flaming red hair, and she knew there was no escape. She came up from the pillows trembling and crying out, "Paris!"

Rogue Cockburn had been acutely aware of Tabrizia's presence. He saw the men dangling after her and suppressed the impulsive urge to kill. He still thought of her as his, and he had cherished the hope that when she saw him again, she would come to his arms willingly. Instead, she had recoiled from him. He cursed himself for letting a mere girl play such havoc with his heart. Whatever was the matter with him? In the past he had always been able to enjoy a woman casually, but Tabrizia, barely a woman, shattered his self-control to the point where he wanted to take her immediately. Even greater than his desire was the need for her to love him.

Magnus was surprised to see Paris at his door and asked, "Is aught amiss at home?"

"All at home are well, Magnus, but there is something amiss. Douglas has discovered that Huntly has advised the King to garrison English soldiers in Scotland."

"Hellfire! 'Tis the first I've heard of the rumor. It must be stopped. My authority, and that of every other noble in Scotland, will be undermined and destroyed."

"I intend to seek an audience with the King to try to persuade him that he is receiving suicidal advice. Most Scots accept a union of crowns but not a union of states. Scotland will never accept one law, one army."

"Let me know how you fare with the King. His mind is much taken up with English affairs these days, no pun intended!"

"More bad news, Magnus. John Gordon will be at Court today. The
Sea Witch
passed his ship yesterday. I have no time to lose if I am to reach the King's ear before Gordon."

"Then I shan't keep you, but let me know the outcome. I will gladly add my voice to yours if you need me."

When Paris finally got permission to attend His Majesty, it was along with a roomful of other courtiers, supplicants, and petitioners, each with a cause that needed furthering. Paris grinned at the familiar sight of King James. By God, even England could not alter him. He still looked more lackey than monarch with his stained doublet, scruffy beard and old carpet slippers. Paris never underestimated the keen intelligence that lay beneath this unkempt facade. The King had one of the finest minds in Europe and was as shrewd as Machiavelli. Before the audience finished, a chamberlain brought Cockburn a message that the King wished to see him alone, after everyone departed.

"Guidsakes, laddie, ah couldna help but recognize ye, standin' head an' shoulders ower the rest o' the rabble, wi' that red hair blazin' like a torch."

Paris bowed deeply. "Your Majesty does me great honor."

"Dinna cozen yersen into thinkin' yer in ma good graces, ye rogue. Ye
all
seek to rule Scotland in my absence. Ye fancy yersen uncrowned Kings, but dinna think to fool yer old dad." James often referred to himself in this way.

"I don't think we fool you for one moment, Sire," acknowledged Paris, "but I fear rumors and unwise advice are being deliberately poured into your ears."

"Och! Rumors fly around here thick as whores on a Friday in Glasgow. Ye think I canna sort out rumors from truth?" demanded James.

"You always could in the past, Sire," flattered Paris.

The King wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Guidsakes, stop beatin' about the bushes. Yer here because o' the soldiers I've ordered garrisoned up north."

"In Scotland," pinpointed Paris.

"Laddie, my kingdom now stretches from Land's End to John O'Groats. I've ordered the garrisons, and ye'll accept them, but"— he winked—"there's no law to prevent the soldiers in the garrisons from all bein' loyal Scots, now is there?"

"You reassure me, sire," praised Paris, still on his guard.

"But mind, ah still count on ma Borderers to keep the real peace up yonder!"

"You have my oath, Sire," swore Paris solemnly.

"In that case, ye rogue, ye can sign, a Bond of Peace wi' Huntly."

Paris's lips compressed as he realized he had one foot in the trap. "It will be my pleasure, Sire...after Huntly has signed."

"Ye think that gives ye an 'out,' my cockerel? Ha! I've the means to force Huntly to sign and ye've just pledged ye'll sign if he does."

Paris regretted that he had ever come. He bowed. "So be it, Your Majesty."

"Ye can show yer appreciation wi' a shipment o' Scots whisky from that distillery o' yours," said James seriously.

Paris didn't feel it atotal loss. At least when John Gordon arrived, he would be viewed with as much suspicion as himself. Perhaps more.

The next day he lost no time in seeking out other lords of the Border country to sound them out about Scotland's future. He persuaded Alexander Setan, the Chancellor of Scotland, to join him at the Queen's court for an evening's entertainment, knowing the atmosphere of pleasure was most conducive to shared confidences. As the two modish gentlemen entered the crowded receiving room of Anne's Court, they came face-to-face with Tabrizia. Paris swept her a mocking bow. Sandy Setan looked most interested and said, "If you know this lady, perhaps you would be good enough to tell me her name?"

Jealously flared up within Paris. He hated that she was here where other men could look their fill and pursue her for seduction. He'd be damned if he'd introduce her to Setan.

As Paris looked at her, his eyes raked the bared shoulders insolently. "Names are unimportant here. She is just another little courtesan."

Tabrizia gasped at the insult. A handsomely dark man standing behind Paris overheard and said, "Allow me, Lord John Gordon, to defend your honor, mistress."

Her eyes darkened to deep violet as she stood between these two blood enemies who were trying to use her to further their hatred. A blazing anger seized her. "My honor needs no defense. I am a Cockburn, sir. The last thing I need in this world is a Gordon to fight for me. I am honorably betrothed. My future husband will defend me against all. You may be sure of it!" She swept from the room, determined to spend not one moment longer in their company. She sat upon the bed in her tiny chamber, furious with herself because of the tight tears that made her throat ache painfully. She was saved from a fit of self-pity by a low knock upon the door. Silent, Jasper handed her a muslin-wrapped parcel, along with a note. She set the package aside and opened the note. It read:

My Love,

When I saw this material I thought what a lovely bridal gown it would make. I have finalized arrangements for two of my brothers. I will take you home very soon.

P.

Her hands, quickly opened the parcel. The beauty of the soft white material covered with shimmering crystal beads caught the pale candlelight, and she hugged it to her breast. The gift banished the tears, but the last line of the note made her thoughts take off on the wings of her imagination. Home! What would it be like? Would she be able to truly make it her home? Somehow, in the recesses of her mind, home meant Shannon standing hands on hips, flinging her beautiful mass of hair back and saying something so outrageously honest, you couldn't argue with her. Home was Damascus, shuddering delicately at men and their coarseness, and home was dear little Alexandria whose love and friendship she missed achingly. Yet they would each take a husband as she was doing and leave to make new lives for themselves.

A vision of Paris came unbidden to her. All his smiles were for the Danish maid-of-honor. A searing hatred went through her. Well, she was glad to be rid of him. He didn't even pay lip service to chastity. The Orkney Islands would be a new beginning for her. She thought of Patrick Stewart and told herself she would be a good wife to him, although she did not know what he wanted in a wife. She was more certain of herself where his children were concerned. She knew she would be a good mother; she had an abundance of love to give. She took out the glass snowstorm he had given her, and as she made it snow, she laughed at the tiny figures in the sleigh.

She got one of the Queen's many needlewomen to help her with the dress, and smiled a secret smile when the woman exclaimed over its beauty and told her it would make a perfect wedding gown. She fashioned it on simple lines, desiring it to epitomize modesty. It had long sleeves and a high-throated neckline. She fashioned a coronet and sewed it with crystal beads and seed pearls in her quiet moments alone. She kept it in her trunk, away from prying eyes, and she began to pack her things instead of leaving them in the wardrobe. Patrick had asked her to be ready on short notice. She knew Magnus would miss her but she knew he was letting her go because it was best for her. How proud he had been when he had dispatched the news to Margaret at Tantallon that she was betrothed to Patrick Stewart, Earl of Orkney.

The moment Margaret had received the news, she was overjoyed, as if she had won a personal victory. At last she would be rid of the bitch. Margaret had died a thousand deaths when she discovered that Paris had gone to Court, but now that Tabrizia was safely betrothed, her troubles melted away like snow in summer. In fact; Margaret decided that everything was perfect, and with Paris away it gave her the opportunity she had been waiting for.

She rode to Cockburnspath with the letter she had received from Magnus. From the windows of the White Tower, Mrs. Sinclair picked out her daughter's familiar figure riding in. If, in her younger days, Mrs. Sinclair had resembled her beautiful daughter, time had effectively erased all traces of it. Her coal black hair was dragged back smoothly, and her mouth formed a thin line of satisfaction. She had known Margaret would come.

She poured the full contents of a purple vial into a cup, filled it with wine and took it to Anne in the wide, ornate bed. Everyone thought she was Anne's creature. None save her daughter knew that Anne was hers. Totally. It had been so simple when Paris had brought his new bride home and Mrs. Sinclair had discovered she was already three months gone with child. The girl had been desperately in need of a confidant and a sympathetic voice. Mrs. Sinclair had provided what she needed as well as small doses of morphia. It had been so easy to feed her the stuff on the pretext of its preventing morning sickness.

By the time Margaret came upstairs for her visit, Anne was unconscious. Margaret came into the room and looked around. She begrudged the luxurious chamber filled with objects d'art. Still, if all her plans worked out and she became Paris's second wife, she knew she, too, would indulge her taste for the luxuries of life.

"I have great news. Magnus has betrothed his daughter to Patrick Stewart. She will live in the Orkneys, far enough away that we need never trouble over her again. Now all we need do is rid ourselves of yon impediment in that bed."