Courting an Angel Page 7

  Gordon raised his brows and silently gestured for her to embellish her story.

  “They were keepin’ her at Chartley House then,” Rob explained. “I was in Shropshire with Uncle Richard and persuaded him to stop there. My uncle is a verra important man in England and enjoys vast privileges that —”

  “What did ye think of her?” the marquess interrupted.

  “’Twas heartbreakin’,” Rob cried. “The puir lady seemed so alone in the world. He betrayed her, ye know.”

  “Who betrayed her, lass?”

  “That ungrateful whelp who sits upon the throne of Scotland.”

  “Ye dare call the King of Scotland a whelp?”

  Rob nodded. “Aye, and I’d call him worse if I wasna a lady.”

  Gordon’s first instinct, which he successfully squelched, was to reprimand her for slandering their king. Cognizant of the fact that the Earl of Basildon was forcing him to court his own bride, Gordon decided to be reasonable. Though, he doubted logic would be effective with the beauty beside him.

  “What makes ye think Jamie betrayed Mary?” he asked.

  “I overheard a conversation between Uncle Richard and Duke Robert,” she told him. “Believin’ themselves alone in my uncle’s study, they mentioned Elizabeth’s offer to return Mary to Scotland. King James refused the offer.”

  Gordon stared at her for a long moment while he digested this less-than-surprising information. He was the king’s man, but felt there was something unnatural about a son rejecting his own mother, especially since the woman — a queen anointed by God — would remain imprisoned in a foreign country.

  “Ye canna expect the man to harbor tender feelin’s for a woman he’s never met,” Gordon said finally. He wanted no trouble from the chit when they returned to Edinburgh. Voicing such treasonous opinions would cause Clan Campbell infinite problems.

  “Never met?” Rob countered. “The woman carried him within her body and gave him life.”

  Without another word, Rob nudged her horse forward, and they continued down the Strand toward Charing Cross where they veered to the right and rode into London proper. Here the crowds of Londoners grew increasingly larger and forced them to pick their way carefully down the city’s narrow, twisting lanes.

  “Are ye hungry, lass?” Gordon asked.

  “Famished,” she answered. “I skipped breakfast.”

  “’Cuz ye didna wish to keep me waitin’?”

  “No, I am tired of the bland English fare. At the moment, I’d kill for a mug of Old Man’s milk.”

  Gordon chuckled. Rob looked at him from beneath her fringe of sooty lashes and smiled.

  Like a breath of fresh mountain air, speaking with someone who understood her habits and preferences felt good. The marquess wasn’t so bad after all. Too bad living in the Highlands was no option for her. She’d rather brave an eternity of bland breakfasts than see one more person make the sign of the cross as she walked by.

  “Do ye know of a decent tavern where we can eat?” Gordon asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Aye, and Uncle Richard told me an interestin’ tale that goes along with it.”

  Rob led Gordon through Cheapside Market and past St. Paul’s Cathedral. Finally, they turned their horses up Friday Street and dismounted in front of the Royal Rooster Tavern.

  The Rooster’s common room was surprisingly spacious, large enough for a hearth and a bar. On the left side of the chamber, near the narrow stairway that led to the second floor, stood the hearth. The bar sat in the corner on the opposite side of the room. Tables and chairs were positioned around the chamber.

  Gordon escorted Rob to a secluded table in the corner near the hearth. Ever the courtier, he assisted her into her chair and then sat down.

  “What’s the tale that goes along with the tavern?” Gordon asked, leaning close.

  Beneath his amused gaze, Rob inched away from the danger his disturbing nearness presented. His clean masculine scent reminded her of mountain heather and made her senses reel. She flicked him a skittish, sidelong glance.

  “What’ll it be, folks?” a voice beside the table asked loudly.

  Both Gordon and Rob looked up at the proprietor’s wife, a handsome middle-aged woman. Shrewd intelligence shone from her hazel eyes. And then recognition.

  “Robbie, ’tis a pleasure seein’ ya again,” the woman greeted her. “How’s yer ma? Nothin’s happened, has it?”

  Rob shook her head. “My parents enjoy the best of health, Mistress Jacques.”

  “I told ya before to call me Randi,” the woman chided her. “All my friends do, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Verra well, Randi.” Rob smiled. “I’d like ye to meet Gordon Campbell, a friend from Scotland.”

  “A pleasure to meet ye,” Gordon said, inclining his head toward the older woman.

  She stared hard at him for a long moment. “Gawd, ya look familiar.”

  Rob giggled. “Gordon is Magnus Campbell’s son. Do ye remember Lord Magnus?”

  “Do I ever!” Randi burst out laughing. “Gawd, I ain’t washed me right hand in the twenty-five years since that rascal kissed it . . . I’ll fetch ya some vittles right away,” she added when she heard her husband calling her.

  “What was that aboot?” Gordon asked, a puzzled smile flirting with his lips.

  “A verra long time ago, my mother ran away from my father,” Rob told him. “Along the road to England, she met your father who escorted her to London where she found employment as a servin’ wench at this verra tavern. Your father’s mission was to invite the Earl of Lennox and his son. Lord Darnley, to the Scots court. Queen Mary was in search of a husband.”

  “I never knew aboot that,” Gordon said. “How excitin’ the times must’ve been with two bonny, rival queens rulin’ over virtually the same island kingdom.” He winked at her and dropped his voice to a husky whisper, adding, “See the heritage we share? I’d love to share ever so much more with ye.”

  Rob felt the hot blush rising upon her cheeks. His oh-so-sensual voice made her tingle all over — in secret places she’d never imagined could tingle.

  “Gawd, he’s as handsome as his father,” Mistress Jacques said, materializing with their stew and ale. “Grab him if ya can, Robbie-girl; I warrant ya’ll never shiver with the cold on those long, winter nights.”

  Embarrassed almost beyond bearing, Rob suffered the powerful urge to slip beneath the table to hide. Her stricken expression and her telltale blush told them exactly how she felt because both Gordon and Randi chuckled at her apparent discomfort.

  “Have ya taken him to see the queen’s menagerie?” Randi asked.

  Rob shook her head, too embarrassed to look either of them directly in the eye.

  “’Tis a startlin’ sight,” Randi said, winking at Gordon. “Them growlin’ lions always put me in the mood for a parcel of protection — if ya know what I mean.”

  As soon as the woman left them to continue her duties, Rob lifted her spoon and began to eat. She reached for a hunk of brown bread; but without any warning, the marquess snaked his hand out and grasped her left hand. Rob froze and wished she’d kept her gloves on. She despised anyone looking at her evil deformity.

  “Yer still wearin’ my weddin’ ring,” Gordon said, inspecting the scrolled band she now wore on her smallest finger. He planted a kiss on the stain and murmured, “Ye and No Other.”

  Rob felt her stomach lurch at his words. The marquess remembered the ring’s inscription. That boded ill for her future with Henry Talbot.

  “There’s a matter of importance we must discuss,” Rob said, giving him a nervous smile as she extracted her hand and hid it on her lap.

  “Discuss away, angel.”

  Rob hesitated. She knew the heartache of rejection better than most and felt reluctant to cause the marquess any unnecessary pain. On the other hand, she could never live happily with him in the Highlands. The choice was a smidgen of heartache for him now or a ton of heartache for hersel
f later.

  “Henry Talbot — the Marquess of Ludlow — and I love each other,” Rob blurted out. “We wish to marry.”

  “The English marquess isna the man for ye,” Gordon said, his voice and his expression colder than a Highland blizzard. “Ye’ve already got yerself a husband.”

  “Why are ye bein’ difficult?” Rob cried, determined in spite of his forbidding expression. “There must be dozens of women in Scotland who’d love to call ye husband.”

  “Naturally. However, yer my wife and I want ye,” Gordon said. “Tell me, does Talbot usually run aboot courtin’ other men’s wives?”

  Rob stared at the hands she was wringing in her lap and refused to meet his gaze. She peeked at her ruby and saw that its color remained surprisingly placid.

  “And which popinjay was Talbot last night?” Gordon asked.

  “Henry is away at Hampton Court,” Rob answered, summoning the courage to meet his gaze. “Can ye not be reasonable aboot this?”

  “If I wasna a reasonable man, angel, I’d dispatch the dirty Sassenach.” His lips turned up into a ghost of a smile. “And ye too.”

  Rob swallowed nervously and dropped her gaze. Though her demeanor appeared pathetically meek, her thoughts veered toward mutiny.

  How dare the arrogant lout ride into England and threaten her! How dare he . . .

  Gordon rose from his chair so abruptly its legs scraped the wooden floor. He tossed a few coins on the table and said, “I’ve had enough tourin’ for one day. Let’s go.”

  In miserable silence, they retraced their path through London’s crowded streets toward the Strand. The marquess’s profile seemed chiseled in stone, frightening Rob too much to speak. She refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her voice quaver like a coward’s.

  Rob realized she needed to make the marquess understand that her rejection was nothing personal. How could she do that without revealing that her own MacArthur kinsmen had made her an outcast in her native land? Her happiness hinged on remaining in England, but she would never share that supreme humiliation with the marquess. She wanted no man’s pity.

  Afternoon aged into long shadows as the sun drifted westward on its eternal journey. At Charing Cross, Gordon and Rob veered to the left and rode down the Strand, London’s most elite section, where the English nobility lived in their stately mansions.

  Reaching the circular lane that led to Devereux House, Rob flicked the marquess a sidelong glance filled with regret. Bitter rejection had dogged her life for eighteen years because of the fear and the mistrust Old Clootie’s flower evoked in others. Now Rob understood that hurting another caused the perpetrator pain. She longed to recall her hasty outburst and to begin again, this time to speak more gently.

  Two Devereux grooms rushed forward to take their horses when they reached her uncle’s courtyard. Gordon dismounted and tossed his reins to one of the men. Then he turned and, without a word, lifted her out of the saddle.

  “I’m sincerely sorry for hurtin’ yer feelin’s,” Rob apologized, determined to make amends for her unpardonable behavior.

  Gordon gave her a measuring look, an unrecognizable emotion flickering in his gray-eyed gaze. “Only a man who loved ye would be hurt by what ye revealed,” he told her. “True love — if there be such a thin’ — takes time. I scarcely know ye, lass.”

  “Why are ye angry?” Rob asked, strangely disgruntled that he cared not a whit for her.

  “Yer my wife,” Gordon answered. “No man takes what’s mine.”

  “I belong to myself.”

  “Ye spoke yer vows before God and man, lass. And, ye shouldna have played the English marquess for a fool. ’Twas ill done of ye.”

  Rob opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed one finger across her lips in a gesture for silence. She stared up at him, mesmerized by the gleaming intensity in his eyes, oblivious to the effect her own disarming gaze was having on him at the moment.

  “I’m sorry for frightenin’ ye,” Gordon apologized in a voice no louder than a husky whisper.

  Rob straightened her back proudly, unable to cast her fierce heritage off completely. “’Twasna fear ye saw on my face, merely a smidgen of uneasiness,” she lied. “I knew ’twas yer anger talkin’ and didna believe ye’d do anythin’ rash.”

  “Is that so?” Gordon raised his brows at her and warned, “I always mean what I say, and make no mistake aboot it.”

  “An admirable trait that few men possess,” Rob said with a conciliatory smile, purposefully deflecting what could have become another argument.

  “Thank ye, I think.”

  “Would ye care to step inside and share a goblet of wine?” she invited him.

  “Aye, lass.” Gordon flashed her one of his devastating smiles. “I love bein’ in yer company.”

  Carelessly spoken words uttered by a sophisticated man of the world, Rob told herself as a warm, melting sensation heated the pit of her stomach and then spread through her body, making her limbs weak. Great Bruce’s ghost, his effect on her verged on sickening.

  Rob dropped her gaze to the hand he offered her in truce and then peered up at him from beneath the fringe other sooty lashes. With a shy smile, she placed her hand in his.

  At that hour of the afternoon, the great hall was nearly deserted. In fact, only the earl and his countess sat in chairs drawn up in front of the hearth. Earl Richard rose when they entered the hall and offered Rob his scat. As if on cue, Jennings arrived and nodded once at his lord’s unspoken command to bring refreshment.

  “I assumed the girls would be aboot,” Rob remarked, feeling horribly awkward. She loved her aunt’s brother, yet here she sat in the company of her Scots husband and her aunt.

  “Last night wearied them,” Lady Keely told her. “They willingly went down for a nap. Even Blythe and Bliss.”

  Rob smiled. “Where’s Isabelle?”

  “She’s gone,” the countess answered.

  “Lady Delphinia recalled her to court,” Earl Richard explained. “The message arrived shortly after you’d ridden out.”

  “I didna get the chance to bid her farewell,” Rob cried.

  As she always did when upset, Rob traced a finger back and forth across her birthmark. She turned an angry glare on the marquess whom she blamed for taking her away from Devereux House. She should have been here with her friend.

  The marquess missed her accusing glare. His interested gaze rested on the movement of her hands as she furiously ran a finger back and forth across the devil’s flower.

  Rob despised anyone but family seeing the mark, and she quickly moved her right hand to cover the stain. When the marquess raised his gaze to hers, Rob flushed with embarrassment and looked away.

  “Dubh escorted Isabelle to Hampton Court,” Earl Richard said, noting the byplay between them.

  “Dubh too?” Rob echoed, her spirits sinking. Who would help her entertain the marquess? At least, her brother could have kept the man busy. If only Henry would come home from court . . .

  Jennings chose that moment to return to the great hall. Instead of refreshments, the earl’s majordomo carried a scaled parchment and bouquet of flowers — a single, perfect orchid in the midst of six red roses.

  “A courier just delivered these from Hampton Court,” Jennings announced, handing both to her.

  “How lovely.” Rob opened the missive and read it. Without looking up at the others, she said in a voice filled with disappointment, “Elizabeth has chosen Henry to be this year’s Lord of Misrule. Plannin’ the Yule’s activities prevents him from returnin’ home for a visit.”

  Uneasy about what she would see, Rob peeked at Gordon. His expression of satisfaction reminded her of a sleek predator with its quarry trapped. She quickly dropped her gaze.

  “Roses signify love,” Earl Richard said to his wife in an unnecessarily loud voice. “What do orchids represent?”

  “In the language of flowers,” Gordon answered before the countess could speak, “a man who gifts a woman with a sing
le orchid means to seduce her.”

  Staring at her hands in her lap, Rob refused to look at the marquess though she did feel his gaze upon her. She already knew what emotion would be written across his face. Henry’s sensuous message would certainly irritate him, and knowing that made her uneasy.

  “Since Dubh has deserted you, stay with us at Devereux House,” Earl Richard invited the marquess.

  Rob snapped her head up and stared in surprised dismay at her uncle. How could her own flesh and blood betray her? That the marquess slept next door disturbed her enough, but how could she survive with him in the same house? Just thinking about it was enough to give her the hives.

  “Yes, do.” This encouragement came from Lady Keely.

  Gordon smiled. “’Tis kind of ye . . . I’ll go next door and fetch my belongin’s.” Without even a glance in her direction, the marquess left the hall.

  “How could ye do this to me?” Rob exclaimed. “I willna be able to get away from him.”

  Earl Richard snapped his brows together at his niece’s impertinence and then, in a deceptively calm voice, reminded her, “You did promise to become acquainted with him.”

  “A world of difference lies between becomin’ acquainted and livin’ beneath the same roof,” Rob protested. “I willna enjoy any privacy.”

  “The Marquess of Inverary is a stranger in England,” the earl said. “’Twould be shameful to expect him to stay alone at the Dowager House. Where are your manners and your Highlander’s code of hospitality?”

  “Gordon isna an ordinary traveler,” Rob argued. “He is —”

  “— your husband,” the countess interrupted.

  “I dinna want him,” Rob cried, frustrated with their logic. “Whether ye approve or no, I intend to remain in England and marry the man I love.”

  “Do you want to remain in England because you love Henry?” Lady Keely asked in a quiet voice. “Or do you love Henry because you want to remain in England?”

  That loaded question shocked the anger out of Rob. Before she could profess her love for Henry, Jennings returned to the hall.