and go our separate ways. I suggest a quick marriage to preserve your niece’s honor.”
Lexi gasped. “But uncle, my vocation.”
“Ye should have considered that before,” he replied gruffly. “Get him to his feet,” he told Huntly. “My lord Bishop of Ross, ye can do the honors.”
SWIRLING EMOTIONS
Lexi had never liked her uncle. He’d been acquitted of complicity in the murder of Queen Mary’s husband, Lord Darnley, but she believed him responsible for the explosion that had levelled Kirk o’ Field two months before. She often wondered if her own dear departed father was in truth James Hepburn’s brother or if there’d been some inexplicable mix up at birth. Mayhap if she’d confided her suspicions concerning her uncle’s character, her parents might still be alive.
He grasped her hand and pulled her none too gently from the bed, exposing her state of undress to the noblemen who seemed suddenly to have forgotten the need for a hasty departure. She knew in her heart it would be useless to protest and resolved to hate James Hepburn until her dying day for this travesty.
“I canna be wed in my nightgown,” she whimpered, despising the weakness in her voice and the flimsiness of her excuse. Her betrothed must think her a simpering ninny.
But this intolerable predicament was his fault, not hers. How had he come to be in her locked chamber?
Surprisingly, her uncle relented. “Ye can prepare yerself while we conclude our business below stairs,” he conceded.
Ogilvie still stood as if in a stupor, until he was shoved out the door. His stricken backward glance convinced her he didn’t want this marriage any more than she did. Left alone in the silent chamber, she wondered who he was he and why he’d chosen her bed. Had her uncle put him up to it?
She frantically sought a means of escape. To her recollection there was only one large room downstairs where the Earl and his cronies must have gathered. The stairs led right by it. Had they taken Ogilvie there? It seemed doubtful, given their need for secrecy. However, it was unlikely they’d left him unguarded.
Her vocation to the religious life after the murder of her parents had replaced the girlish dreams of marriage, but she had never dreamt she’d be marrying a reluctant stranger in a tavern. And she was expected to prepare without the aid of a maidservant. Her sainted mother must be turning over in her tomb.
She hurried to the iron chest wherein lay the plain riding gown she’d worn for the journey. It reeked of leather after two days on horseback, but would have to suffice. It was the only garment she’d brought with her.
~~~
Callum’s head swam with so many conflicting emotions, he thought he was still in the grip of Corryvreckan’s awesome power.
His captors had left him in the tavern’s kitchen while they concluded their business, whatever it was. Obviously something clandestine. It seemed even in heaven there existed men who schemed and plotted.
A burly fellow guarded the door, arms folded across his beefy chest, several daggers tucked into his belt.
A sweating two-eyed Cyclops stirred a steaming pot suspended over a fire in a stone hearth. A wench who reminded him of one of Braden’s doxies chopped some sort of vegetable atop a deeply scarred trestle table. Delicious aromas teased his nostrils. He supposed angels too got hungry.
He took several deep breaths to calm his raging heart and sauntered to the servant, thinking to imitate his brother’s easy way with such women. “Good day to ye,” he began, effecting a courtly bow.
She looked up sharply, scowling. “My, what grand manners,” she scoffed. “Ye can forget it if ye think to get me into yer bed.” She cocked her head towards the giant. “My husband willna be pleased.”
“Nay,” he protested, taking a step back, one eye on the massive cook, “I merely seek information. The exact name of this tavern eludes me.”
She smirked, wiping the sharp knife
Lexi gasped. “But uncle, my vocation.”
“Ye should have considered that before,” he replied gruffly. “Get him to his feet,” he told Huntly. “My lord Bishop of Ross, ye can do the honors.”
SWIRLING EMOTIONS
Lexi had never liked her uncle. He’d been acquitted of complicity in the murder of Queen Mary’s husband, Lord Darnley, but she believed him responsible for the explosion that had levelled Kirk o’ Field two months before. She often wondered if her own dear departed father was in truth James Hepburn’s brother or if there’d been some inexplicable mix up at birth. Mayhap if she’d confided her suspicions concerning her uncle’s character, her parents might still be alive.
He grasped her hand and pulled her none too gently from the bed, exposing her state of undress to the noblemen who seemed suddenly to have forgotten the need for a hasty departure. She knew in her heart it would be useless to protest and resolved to hate James Hepburn until her dying day for this travesty.
“I canna be wed in my nightgown,” she whimpered, despising the weakness in her voice and the flimsiness of her excuse. Her betrothed must think her a simpering ninny.
But this intolerable predicament was his fault, not hers. How had he come to be in her locked chamber?
Surprisingly, her uncle relented. “Ye can prepare yerself while we conclude our business below stairs,” he conceded.
Ogilvie still stood as if in a stupor, until he was shoved out the door. His stricken backward glance convinced her he didn’t want this marriage any more than she did. Left alone in the silent chamber, she wondered who he was he and why he’d chosen her bed. Had her uncle put him up to it?
She frantically sought a means of escape. To her recollection there was only one large room downstairs where the Earl and his cronies must have gathered. The stairs led right by it. Had they taken Ogilvie there? It seemed doubtful, given their need for secrecy. However, it was unlikely they’d left him unguarded.
Her vocation to the religious life after the murder of her parents had replaced the girlish dreams of marriage, but she had never dreamt she’d be marrying a reluctant stranger in a tavern. And she was expected to prepare without the aid of a maidservant. Her sainted mother must be turning over in her tomb.
She hurried to the iron chest wherein lay the plain riding gown she’d worn for the journey. It reeked of leather after two days on horseback, but would have to suffice. It was the only garment she’d brought with her.
~~~
Callum’s head swam with so many conflicting emotions, he thought he was still in the grip of Corryvreckan’s awesome power.
His captors had left him in the tavern’s kitchen while they concluded their business, whatever it was. Obviously something clandestine. It seemed even in heaven there existed men who schemed and plotted.
A burly fellow guarded the door, arms folded across his beefy chest, several daggers tucked into his belt.
A sweating two-eyed Cyclops stirred a steaming pot suspended over a fire in a stone hearth. A wench who reminded him of one of Braden’s doxies chopped some sort of vegetable atop a deeply scarred trestle table. Delicious aromas teased his nostrils. He supposed angels too got hungry.
He took several deep breaths to calm his raging heart and sauntered to the servant, thinking to imitate his brother’s easy way with such women. “Good day to ye,” he began, effecting a courtly bow.
She looked up sharply, scowling. “My, what grand manners,” she scoffed. “Ye can forget it if ye think to get me into yer bed.” She cocked her head towards the giant. “My husband willna be pleased.”
“Nay,” he protested, taking a step back, one eye on the massive cook, “I merely seek information. The exact name of this tavern eludes me.”
She smirked, wiping the sharp knife
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