The Beauty of The Mist E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Macpherson Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 576

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

USA Today Bestselling Author  A rugged Highlander sent to retrieve his king's bride finds a mysterious beauty adrift at sea...  Maria had been forced to marry at seventeen, then was left widowed shortly thereafter. Now, five years later, her brother had chosen another husband for her, sight unseen – the boy king of Scotland. Maria, who had never known passion or love, refused to submit, vowing to flee to freedom. But the ship she chose went down in the gathering fog, leaving the dark-haired beauty at the mercy of wind and tide, and headed for a shattering destiny. For it was none other than Highland chief John Macpherson, journeying to bring home his young king's bride, who rescued the beautiful Maria adrift at sea. Almost from the moment they met, an attraction ignited between them. Maria savored these few stolen days, aware their love could never last once her proud Highlander discovered her true identity. Maria knew that while following her heart might free her, it would forfeit her beloved's life...

Leseprobe

THE BEAUTY OF THE MIST

MAY MCGOLDRICK

Book Duo Creative

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Beauty of the Mist © 2017 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

First Published by Topaz, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc. March 1997

Cover Art by Dar Albert. www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

To our Parents

For sharing with us the beauty of life.

PROLOGUE

Antwerp, the Netherlands

March 1528

Let the Scots come.

Like the wings of a wounded raven, the black cloak fluttered madly about the running figure. Maria, queen of Hungary, paused, pressing her exhausted body into the dark shadows of the shuttered, brick town house. The flaring light of the torch that lit the street glistened off the wet stone of the alley, and the young queen tried to melt even deeper into the blackness. Straining, Maria could hear no sound of pursuers in the cold, night air. Her jade eyes flashing, she peered back past the torch toward the gloomy walls of the palace, towering above the roofs of the sleeping town.

Turning away, she could see the one finished spire of the cathedral rising before her. Unfamiliar with the twisting streets and alleyways of this town—or any other—Maria gazed up at the landmark she’d been told to follow.

The houses and shops crowded her on every side, and as she ran, the cold, damp air stabbed at her lungs. The sky above began to lighten, and she pushed herself onward, her feet flying over the slick stones.

At the end of the twisting way, she slowed before entering the open plaza around the cathedral. Beyond the stone walls of the huge church, black in the predawn light, lay the harbor. She had to reach it before life in the palace began to stir, before the tide turned.

There, by one of the stone quays, a longboat waited. A longboat that would take Maria to her aunt. To the strong seaworthy ship that would carry them both far from the abhorrent marriage.

She ran across the empty plaza, hugging the walls of the cathedral. She would make it to the harbor now. She could smell the brackish water of the river already.

Let the Scots come. Let them come.

1

Stirling Castle, Scotland

March 1528

A gilded cage is still a cage.

John Macpherson, Lord of the Navy, stood with his back to the smoldering fire and watched in restrained silence as the young king with the fiery red hair halted his restless pacing at one of the glazed windows overlooking the open courtyard of Stirling Castle. Following the young man’s gaze, he could see that the sixteen-year-old monarch’s eyes had riveted on a solitary raven flying free in the grey Scottish skies that surrounded the castle walls.

Across the chamber Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, smoothed his long black beard over his chest as he finished reading over the last of the official letters. Folding the document, the powerful lord paused and looked up at the black-clad young man by the window, before dripping wax onto the parchment.

John saw a smile flicker over the Lord Chancellor’s face as he lifted the king’s royal seal, pressing it into the soft wax.

“With these letters, Sir John should have no trouble fetching your bride, Kit…I mean, Your Majesty,” Angus corrected himself, seeing the king turn his glance briefly on him.

His face hiding the growing rage within, John Macpherson continued to watch the scene unfolding before him. The king had summoned him to court for instructions on a mission of the utmost importance. But after spending just a few short moments with these two men, John knew that the horrible rumors he’d been hearing were all true. Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, chief of the powerful Douglas clan, Lord Chancellor of Scotland, member of Regency Council, and the ex-husband of Queen Margaret, had King James, his stepson, under lock and key.

The Chancellor turned to the silent Highlander. “Sir John, the emperor Charles is expecting you at Antwerp before the end of the month. I don’t think I need to tell you that it is quite an honor that he’s entrusting his sister, Mary of Hungary, to our care for the voyage.”

“Aye, m’lord,” John responded, looking at the king as he answered.

“His Majesty will be spending Easter at Falkland Palace,” Angus continued. “But if you need to contact me, I’ll be in the south, clearing vermin from the Borders.”

The king turned his face to John and their eyes met. John Macpherson saw once again the flash in the lad’s eyes. The same fearless spark that the Highlander had first witnessed years earlier in the fatherless bairn.

James had been only an infant when his father died fighting the English at Flodden Field. Entrusted to the safekeeping of one brave woman and a handful of loyal supporters, the Crown Prince had been whisked across the Highlands while a few stalwart nobles struggled to arrange for his safe return. And then he had come back to the arms of the Queen Mother. Still not yet two years of age, he had been crowned James V, king of Scotland.

That was the day John Macpherson had first seen him. The day of his coronation. A mere bairn sitting on the high throne of a country in chaos. But everyone who had knelt before him, swearing their loyalty before God, had been struck with the clear knowledge that the boy was a Stewart. Silent, serious, and steadfast through the course of the ceremony, Kit had shown them all that he had the blood, the courage, and the intelligence of his forebears. He was the one who would carry on. The new king who would rise to save Scotland from her enemies. The one who would save Scotland from herself.

John watched the king walk toward him, ignoring the Chancellor’s continuing speech.

The Lord Chancellor. The man who had married the queen in her widowhood solely for the purpose of filling the power void that existed in Scotland after the devastating loss at Flodden Field. Everyone in Scotland knew that the union would bring the Douglas family power, and it did. The marriage gave the Earl of Angus control over the young king, and eventually put him in a position of absolute power—to rule in his name.

And from what John had been hearing, since the Queen Mother requested that the pope annul her marriage to the man, the Lord Chancellor had been tightening his control of the young king—and guarding him fiercely.

John knew, as did everyone else, that there was no one strong enough to challenge the Lord Chancellor. Little more than a year ago, several thousand men had tried at Linlithgow, but they’d failed. And as he cut them down in their blood, Angus had claimed that he was only protecting the Crown.

John straightened as the red-haired king halted before him. The Highlander towered over the young man, but their eyes never left each other’s face.

“You think me weak, Jack Heart?” the king asked.

Jack Heart. John smiled. He hadn’t heard the nickname for some time. Not since the days when the boy king had been under the protection of the Queen Mother. Then, James was far less restricted in his liberties, and John taught the lad to sail amid the whitecaps off Queen’s Ferry. They spent a full summer in each other’s company, and it was then that the young king had learned the name that John had once been called by the sailors of the Macpherson ships. It became a term of endearment between the two. Though few even recalled the name anymore, even fewer would have dared address the fierce Lord of the Navy in so familiar a manner.

Except Kit.

“Then you agree,” said James.

“Never,” John answered. “You are not weak, lad. Only trapped.”

“My father would have handled it differently.”

“Your father was never separated from his people nor imprisoned at your age,” John continued with more assurance. “And as much as I loved him as a king, he had his flaws.”

“But he was a soldier. My father had courage. As you have courage.” James stared at the commander’s tartan. “If you were in my position, you would never have accepted this fate.”

“But, m’lord—”

“Jack Heart,” the young king cut in, “you were barely a year older than I when you stood your ground in the mud beside my father at Flodden Field. You have courage, John. You have determination. You have heart. I lack these things.”

“Only in your own eyes, m’lord. In the hearts of all loyal Scots, you are our king and our future.”

James gazed up at John, a wistful look flickering across his face. “I don’t want to be a disappointment to my people.”

“You won’t be, sire.” John answered in earnest, seeing the lad’s distress. The young king almost reached his shoulder now. But he was so young. Too young, perhaps, to battle the evil that perched at his right hand. “You’ll overcome this difficulty, and your triumph will win the heart of every Scot. You’ll take your throne when the time is right. And then, the accounts of your bravery, the tales of your generosity, the recital of your acts of goodness will far exceed any standard set by your father and their fathers in this land. Always remember this, Kit. Your people see the promise. That is why they want you.”

James looked up trustingly. “I’ll do my best not to disappointment them. I’ll slip this trap.”

“Like the fox, himself.” John’s eyes shone with affection.

“Like my father.” A perceptible change came over the young man’s face. “Aye, Jack. Then you’ll bring her to me.”

“If that’s your wish.” John paused, casting a casual glance at the Chancellor, who was eyeing them suspiciously from across the room. “Of course, we could devise other means—other ways to bring an end to this…undesirable situation.”

The young king smiled sadly, looking down at his untried hands. “If it were only that simple. But if we were to go that way, then it’d mean that others will need to fight my battle. Others like you, Jack Heart. But if I were free…”

John waited for him to continue, but Kit changed his course. “He has given his word to me and to the Council that he’ll step aside after this marriage takes place.” The young man gave a glance over his shoulder. “It’s the best way. I don’t wish that any more blood of innocent Scots be shed while any other way exists to settle this unholy affair. This is my responsibility, Jack. This is something I can do. This is the first chance for me to show my will, my strength. This means everything to me.”

“But at your young age, you’re willing to marry someone you’ve never known, never seen?”

“For the good of Scotland, I shall. And it will bring me one step closer to my people.” The lad’s eyes lit up at the thought. “Please, Jack, I need this chance.”

John nodded in response.

“Bring her here, Jack.” The young man placed his hand on the Highlander’s arm. “I’ll wed her. It’s God’s will.”

The Chancellor stalked briskly across the room, and John took the sealed letter from his hand. Archibald Douglas’s voice was cool and his gaze steady. “Keep her safe, Sir John.”

John nodded curtly to the Chancellor and, exchanging a telling look with the young king, bowed to them both before departing from the chamber.

2

The German Sea, off the coast of Denmark

Maria’s hands were chafed raw and bloody.

Tucking the oars awkwardly under her arms, the young woman pressed her fingers against the stinging, red flesh on the palms of her hands. A small billow shifted the open boat, and one of the oar handles lifted, banging her hard under the chin.

“You’re certainly no sailor, my girl,” Isabel threw out in an effort at caustic wit, though her aging eyes drooped with a deadening weariness.

Maria sadly took in the sight of the woman before her. The loss of blood, the cold, and the exhaustion were taking their toll.

“I think it would be better if you slept, Aunt.”

Isabel stretched her sore legs and then, shaking her fingers, tried to fight off the numbness that gradually was settling into her body. “I can’t sleep. I won’t. Not with a novice at the oars. If it is my fate to become bait for some half-frozen northern fish, then, by God, I want to be awake.” Isabel sighed. “It won’t be too long now. I can feel it. The noise you’re making trying to row is enough to lead the blackguards straight to us, even in this fog.”

Maria rolled her eyes, trying to ignore both fear and the damp, bone chilling cold. Wrapping her fingers painfully around the wet wooden shafts, she flexed her aching shoulders and started once again to push the small boat through the endless fog.

“Just think of the time you’ve spent—wasted,” Isabel continued. “In the time to make even one of your elegant tapestries, you might have been learning something useful! Something about the sea, about how to survive…”

Maria sighed, the strength draining out of her arms with every word her aunt spoke. With every stroke of the oars. Trying to ignore her pain, and the growing sense of hopelessness that was stealing through her, the young woman forced herself to focus on the sound of the oars slapping against the murky black-green water. But nothing proved effective in shutting out Isabel’s continuous stream of conversation.

Shipwrecked. Stranded. Vulnerable.

The thoughts swept over the young woman with a numbing coldness, like nothing she’d ever experienced. Maria fought back her tears as she looked over her shoulder at the dying Spaniard stretched in the bow of the boat. How easy it would be to close her eyes and lie back like him, to let nature take its course. The sailor hadn’t moved for quite a while. She wondered if he was still alive. He looked at peace. The musket shot that had wounded her Aunt Isabel had found its final resting place deep in the chest of the poor man. Perhaps it would have been better if Maria herself had been the recipient of such a wound. Perhaps, then, she’d be the one at peace, far beyond the cold and the aching muscles and the stinging hands, and the overpowering weariness. She shook her head and tried to rid herself of such morbid thoughts.

Glancing back at her aunt, Maria thought for a moment to ask Isabel to go past her and check on the sailor. But then she decided that even asking her to hold the oars while she herself moved forward to him was foolishness. The thought of unbalancing the boat with the shifting of weight was unthinkable.

“I think we’ve been going in circles,” Isabel muttered as petulantly as she could manage.

“You’re probably correct. And you should add lack of navigation abilities to my list of shortcomings,” Maria whispered, then looked down at the smear of blood spreading from her palms onto the wooden oar handles. Her fingers were stiff and her muscles were cramping terribly. She silently thanked the Virgin Mother that her hands were sticking to the handles. It was the only reason her arms had not fallen off. Yet.

* * *

John Macpherson peered in vain through the dense fog that enshrouded the Great Michael. Turning his eyes upward, he gazed for a moment at the mists that threaded in and out of the rigging, obscuring even the banner that he knew must be hanging limply at the top of the mainmast. In this inconstant March weather, there was no telling when a fog would lift.

Becalmed not long after sunrise, the ship had quickly been surrounded by the enveloping mist. It had rolled in like some heavy fleece and tucked around them. John had taken one last look at his other three ships, bobbing on the flat sea a half mile or so away.

As the morning had slowly passed, the sound of muffled cannon fire had signaled a fierce battle being waged far to the south, but John and his crew had heard nothing now for hours. The ship’s master turned his gaze to the south once more.

As if reading his thoughts, David Maxwell, the ship’s navigator, stepped up to the railing. “If we hadn’t run into this windless fog, we might have found ourselves in the middle of a lovely fight.”

“Aye, David,” John returned with a side look. “Not exactly the kind of action we were planning on this trip.”

“Then, as ungodly as this dismal mess seems, perhaps there’s something providential in it, eh?”

“Perhaps so, Davy.” John said, turning to acknowledge the short, thickset man who was plodding toward them.

It occurred to him once again that throughout the early going of this journey, he couldn’t turn around without finding Sir Thomas Maule a step away. Colin Campbell, the Earl of Argyll, had cautioned him about this beforehand, but John had not wished to make changes in their traveling plans. After all, Sir Thomas—despite the extreme possessiveness he demonstrated in matters regarding what he considered his own—was a good man, and the Highlander didn’t want the aging knight excluded from the honor of bringing home Scotland’s next queen.

Truthfully, John knew the problem didn’t lie with Sir Thomas. The difficulty lay in the fact that Sir Thomas’s bride, who was accompanying them on this journey, was none other than Caroline Douglas, a woman known as John Macpherson’s former mistress. But as far as John was concerned, everyone was also well aware that the rocky affair between them had ended long before the lady accepted the hand of Sir Thomas Maule in marriage.

“Well, navigator,” the stocky man queried, “how far to the south do you think those guns were this morning?”

“Hard to tell, Sir Thomas,” David responded. “As any sailor knows, the fog can do tricky things to the sound. That fighting could have been ten leagues south of us, or two. I wouldn’t want to wager my share on a guess about it.”

“I should have hoped for a better report than that, lad. But perhaps you’re lacking in experience.” Sir Thomas Maule turned in the direction of the ship’s commander. “And you, Sir John? Would you care to wager on the distance?”

“Nay, I agree with David,” John responded. “We’d be fools to let down our guard completely, assuming them far away. Whoever they were, the chances are that one of them tasted blood and may be hungry for more. And we’d be fools to assume them too close, losing all sense and exhausting our men with extra watches for no purpose. The fog will shield us from them for now. And when the mists lift, and we get some wind in our sails, we’ll have time enough to decide whether we need to fight. In any case, we’re prepared for whatever action is needed.”

“If this were any other mission, Sir John”—Thomas Maule nodded seriously, patting the long sword at his side— “I wouldn’t mind a little action.”

“But on the sea, Sir Thomas, battles differ greatly from those on the land,” David cautioned. “A strong arm and a mighty sword are all for naught when there is no solid ground for your footing.”

John held back his smile. The voyage from Edinburgh’s seaport at Leith had taken too long for his men’s liking. As pleased as they were to look upon the pretty faces of noblemen’s wives and daughters, most of them had little respect for the shows of courtly behavior by the husbands and fathers. Having a group of land-dwelling nobles onboard had already presented a number of problems with the rough and plain-speaking sailors of the Great Michael, though nothing had, as yet, gotten out of hand. But John could only guess at the problems of discipline that would accompany their trip back to Scotland. After all, they would have a queen and her entourage to contend with.

“For us who fought in the muck at Flodden, laddie,” the squat warrior retorted, “no deck made of wood will ever be cause for alarm.”

“Aye, Sir Thomas,” John broke in, trying to head off what he knew could quickly develop into a full-fledged brawl. “As you say, were this any other mission. But for now, you might make yourself comfortable. We could be in for quite a long wait. Thank you, navigator.”

David Maxwell, perceiving the hint from his master, bowed to the two noblemen and detached himself from them. John watched the navigator as he worked his way forward, the white feather in the young man’s bright blue cap bobbing cheerfully as he stopped and talked with each sailor that he passed.

“That lad,” Sir Thomas began, “he’s lacking all sense of rank and position?”

John continued to watch his man. “We all have our flaws. But David Maxwell is as sharp as the blade of your dirk, and he fears no man. David’s as loyal to Scotland as any man alive, though he may be, perhaps, just a wee bit proud of his seagoing mates.” He turned and looked at the stocky fighter beside him. “These folk who sail the high seas have as much right to be called warriors and heroes as those that fight on land. But most have not been credited, as such.”

Sir Thomas rubbed his fingers thoughtfully over his chin.

“And being a man who has spent his whole life in the service of his country,” John continued, “you know, perhaps better than most, the reasons that drive a young man like him.”

The elder man nodded slightly.

“He is the best navigator I’ve ever seen.” John turned his gaze back to the scene before him. “He’s been to the New World, and he’s gone around Africa, clear to India. He is a fine young man, Sir Thomas.”

John Macpherson looked on as the watch changed. From the forecastle, half a dozen men emerged, scurrying up the dripping lines of the rigging to their posts aloft. A few moments later, the sailors who’d been relieved began to work their way down to the deck, disappearing forward into the crew’s quarters.

With the exception of Sir Thomas, the members of the delegation of nobles who were sailing on the Great Michael had hardly stepped foot on deck at all. This certainly suited John.

In the few brief instances when he’d joined them below, John had found the conversations consisted of the same idle prattle that he’d found in every court in Europe. The last time the Highlander went below decks, one of the ranking nobles tried to engage his opinion on Mary of Hungary and her apparent inability to bear any children by her late husband. A bad sign, the nobleman had whispered to those around the table.

Leaning out over the side of the vessel, John eyed the sturdy timbers of the hull and considered Sir Thomas for a moment. He knew the knight was keeping an eye on him. And that was perfectly acceptable to him. In fact, remembering Caroline’s style of love play, he wondered at times if she had already started her games, had begun to make Sir Thomas wild with jealousy. Knowing her so well, John was prepared to respond should the time come, but he was still not sure if her unfortunate husband even knew the game was on.

The Highlander’s face grew grim. He knew the going could get rough, perhaps even bloody, depending on Sir Thomas. Indeed, if he could get through this voyage without having to deal with Caroline Maule, he would count the trip as miraculous.

“Tell me, if you would, Sir John, your opinion.” Sir Thomas ran his heavy hands thoughtfully over the wet railing. “How is it that the Holy Roman emperor Charles, the most powerful monarch this side of Suleiman the Magnificent, agrees to let us convey his sister to her new husband?”

“Tradition, I assume,” John responded after a pause, glad to see that the man had found an agreeable topic to converse upon. “And the nature of the bargain. If we lose her, there’ll be war to settle the affair—along with a certain demand for the return of the first dowry payment that the Lord Chancellor’s presently keeping in Stirling Castle.”

The elder man hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words for what was on his mind. “It can all be a…a nasty business. Can it not?” he asked at last under his breath. “Marriage, I mean.”

“Many believe that to be the case, Sir Thomas.”

“It doesn’t need to be, you know.” The man continued to stare down at his hands and the dark wood beneath them. “As one who is going through it a second time, I tend to see it differently.”

John nodded noncommittally.

“I’m inclined to believe that not only royal marriages, but that most betrothals—even among the lowliest—are often ruined by the financial motives that so often bring two families, and hence, a man and a woman, together.” Sir Thomas turned and eyed the warrior. “What’s your opinion on the topic, Sir John?”

The Highlander knew what he was asking. “I’ve not found this to be the case in my own personal experience, Sir Thomas. But I believe you are correct in what you say. However, once a union is formed, perhaps love can create the truly lasting bond.”

“Ah. But what do you think the elements are that foster that difference in a marriage? That gives some people such an edge, such a chance for lasting happiness?”

John stared out at the wisps of fog that continued to rise and settle around the ship. Though it halted the progress of his mission, there was real beauty in the mist. If only he knew the answer to the man’s question. His face clouded over. “You are speaking to the wrong man, Sir Thomas.”

Even though her name had not been mentioned yet, this was the closest the two had ever come to discussing Caroline.

“You are the last of your brothers to wed.”

John turned and looked at him. “That’s true.”

“If you truly believe what you’ve just said, then what is it that’s held you back? Marriage, by all accounts, suits the Macphersons well. So why not you?”

The Highlander paused. He wanted to give a quick answer and put the man’s mind at ease. But he couldn’t. How could he speak of the happiness that he saw in his own brothers’ marriages without sounding envious of their great joy?

He could have asked Caroline to be his wife. Many thought he would. Their intermittent affair had lasted nearly seven years. But still, when it came to the end, taking her as wife was a choice he couldn’t make. He’d let her go.

She was not Fiona, nor was she Elizabeth. Those women whom John’s brothers had been fortunate enough to wed were rare creatures, and the Highlander knew it. Caroline was not like them, and what had existed between the two of them was far different from what he had seen in his family. They shared their moments of physical passion, but real love had never been within their grasp. And passion with Caroline was not a particularly suitable subject of discussion, at the moment.

“My answer,” John said at last, “is that I’ve not felt inclined to marry. Not yet.”

“Then no second thoughts?” Sir Thomas asked quietly.

John met his direct gaze. Surprisingly, there was no hostility in the man’s honest face. John knew it was his right to ask. “None. None at all.”

* * *

The loud squawk of a seabird somewhere overhead brought the elder woman back to the present.

Isabel leaned forward, hiding a wince and looking concernedly at her niece. God, what had she done? The torn and bloodied cloak that was draped over the young woman was in better shape than the creature within. Isabel looked at a bruise on Maria’s forehead, and the new one on her chin. She saw the pale skin and bloodless lips. Maria’s eyes had lost their shine and had taken on a vacant look. She could hardly believe this was the same princess and queen, the same woman renowned for such flawless beauty. Isabel inwardly cursed herself for seeking out the child, for suggesting that if she was so unhappy, then she should go against her brother’s will in the matter of this marriage.

Charles, where are you? she called out silently. For once in your life, react with some decisiveness to your aunt’s foolishness.

When she broke the silence, her tone was decidedly softer. “Oh, Maria. I do wish I could be of some help. Surely, one of the other longboats from our galleon will be catching up to us soon.”

Maria’s eyes shot up at Isabel’s change of tone. “I’d like to think so, too. But we’ve been rowing in this fog for hours now.” She looked around her. “We don’t have any idea where we are or where we’re going.”

“Don’t be silly, child.” Isabel chided. “You’ve been keeping us on a course as straight as an arrow shot. A very good job indeed, considering it is your first time at this sort of thing. We should land in Denmark anytime now.”

Maria smiled weakly at her aunt. “Or England in about a month!”

“Now, child,” Isabel scolded half-heartedly while trying to peer through the dense mist.

Maria watched her aunt’s expression. At last she showed signs of awareness, her complaints silenced. For the first time since disaster had found them, it seemed that Isabel was seeing the real danger. In the pandemonium on the burning ship, the men lowering the longboats amidst shouts and panic, there had been no time to think. They had spotted the French warship less than a day out of Antwerp, and then the chase had been on. Their mistake was flying the Spanish flag. The flag of the Silver Fleet. That gave the French motive enough to attack. Every pirate and privateer in the German Sea knew of the treasure troves of silver and gold that the Spaniards were bringing back by the shipload from the New World.

At the first exchange of cannon fire, the captain turned their small ship in an effort to flee to the north, hoping the open seas and the high winds would give them the edge. But he was wrong. The French ship was faster. From that point on, everything in Maria’s mind tumbled together in a whirlwind of action. Shots, swords, screaming men. Blood. She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder and wiped away the tears.

“I am sorry, Maria.” The younger woman stopped her rowing and looked at her aunt. “I am sorry for this. For bringing you with me.” Isabel slumped backward and looked skyward. “At my age, you would think I should have more wisdom, more insight into the demons running loose in the world.”

“But you do, Isabel. I value your wisdom.”

She turned her gaze back to her niece and smiled gently. “I should not have tried to interfere in your future. I should have left you to the comforts of the life that you have always been accustomed to.”

“Don’t say these things to me, Isabel. You and I both know what you did was right.”

“But it wasn’t. Can’t you see?” she cried. “This is the final proof of it. Do you know how many times I’ve sailed between Antwerp and Spain in my life? Hundreds of times. And only once—twenty years ago—did any ship I was on ever come under attack. But this time—”

“You’ve had good luck in the past. That’s all. My luck is different.” Maria tried to gather all her strength. “My dearest Isabel. We might die here at sea, or we might become fish bait, as you so delicately put it, but know the truth! I would welcome such a death rather than accept once again—so meekly—the life Charles has negotiated for me.”

“Choosing death over a life as the queen of Scotland!” Isabel rolled her eyes. “You’re being too dramatic, child.”

“I am not,” she said. “This flight—this trip—sailing with you for mother’s castle in Castile… This has been the only thing I’ve done in my twenty-three years of living that has been of my own free will. It’s not Scotland that’s the problem. Do you know how painful it is to have your life planned from the age of three? I have been told whom to befriend and whom not to befriend, what to do and what not to do, where to go and where not to go. Whom to marry to and whom not to marry. And all that…twice!”

Isabel could not help the smile that broke across her lips. “I know, my dear. I know. But all this ordering about you’ve been subjected to—even twice—has never been able to so much as dampen your spirits. Never!”

“But it has.” Maria couldn’t stop the tears that were rolling down her face. “This time, this second marriage, this desire of Charles to have a Habsburg on every throne in Christendom. This Scottish business…it was my undoing, the stone that crushed me. I cannot go through with it.”

Isabel just watched. She’d known it. As agreeable and submissive as Maria had always been, who could be surprised that she might not relish the idea of marrying a second time? And once again to an adolescent, sixteen-year-old king. The idea was unthinkable. To everyone except Charles, that is. He could not see the match as dismal, but Isabel could. And that’s why she’d come for Maria.

“If, God willing, we survive this,” Isabel said. “You know that your brother will come after you, don’t you? If we are lucky enough to reach Castile, he’ll lay siege to your mother’s castle, if need be.”

Maria nodded. “Of course. He’ll expect me to honor his agreement. To go through with this dreadful marriage.”

“What will you do then, child?” Isabel asked. “We must decide on our plan.”

As she continued to pull on the oars, Maria watched the blood trickling from her hand and dripping blackly onto the grey wool of her dress. She could not and would not go to Scotland. She would refuse to marry James V. She would disobey her clever, manipulative brother.

“I’ll become insane. They will see that I have become what my mother was before me. They call her Juana the Mad. Before I’m through, they’ll give me the same title. It will be quite believable. Like mother, like daughter. I’ll rant and rave and howl at the moon. I’ll out-Herod Herod in my madness. I’ll tear at my dresses, weave bones in my hair, and run naked in the rain.”

There was silence. Maria looked up and saw the wide-eyed expression of her aunt. Isabel was trying to speak, but no words left her mouth. Only a strange croaking sound. Maria watched her mouth open and close again. “What, Aunt?”

“Run!” Isabel’s voice was a raw whisper. “Run like mad.”

Maria’s head snapped around only to see a huge ship looming just yards away, rising up out of the fog like some ghostly apparition. She had never seen a ship this large. But by the time her weary brain could register the reason for her aunt’s fear, it was too late. The small float crashed against the ship’s black hull.

Maria had forgotten to stop rowing.

She was no sailor.

3

Like a snake striking out at his prey, the sailor’s line shot out toward the pitching longboat.

The small craft bobbed helplessly at the ship’s side. Aboard the Great Michael, a crowd of seamen lined the rail and hung from the rigging, straining for a clear look through the thick, concealing mists, ready for action. The occupants of the longboat made no move to board the larger ship, and the Scottish sailors waited impatiently, casting quick, questioning glances at their master for their next move.

“Where in hell did that boat come from?” John Macpherson exploded, pushing through the rugged throng.

“It looks like it’s a solitary boat, m’lord,” his navigator replied. “And only three men, at that.”

“Bring them up!” he ordered sharply.

“Is that wise?” a voice broke in.

John did not even turn to acknowledge the question from the tall, blond-haired woman who glided quickly to his side. Caroline.

“What happens if they are armed?” she continued. “Even if they pretend to be friendly, isn’t it possible they could cut all our throats as we sleep?”

Without answering, John turned his head and frowned threateningly at Sir Thomas.

“Come, come, Caroline,” her husband offered gently, taking his wife by the elbow and pulling her from the railing. “I think Sir John is the man to decide that.”

John continued to peer over the side as a number of his men lowered themselves down the ropes.

“Women, m’lord!” came the return shout from one of the sailors. “Two women and a man.”

The cry drew a slew of astonished men to the edge. John leaned forward, watching as another sailor scurried down the side. “Bring them up! Now!”

“They’re bloody Spaniards, m’lord!

“I don’t care if they’re the devil’s own sisters!” John shouted angrily.

“This one’s dead, m’lord,” the sailor called up, pointing at the male in the bow of the boat. “He’s got a hole in his chest the size of my fist.”

“Bring them up!”

“Even the dead one?”

“For God’s sake, man!” John fumed, his patience gone. “Aye! Of course, the dead one, as well.”

The sailors below, hearing the fury in their commander’s tone, hastily secured the boat to the ship and started at once.

Seeing at last that his men were hustling, John stepped back, letting the ship’s mate take charge. Turning around, he stopped short at the sight of the delegation crowding around him. For the first time since they’d left port, the noblemen and women had found something entertaining enough to draw them out of their comfortable cabins. Like a bunch of children, they were jostling one another for a better view of the newcomers.

And he didn’t like it a bit. His men didn’t need the distraction. Not now.

Moving toward Sir Thomas, who was standing with Caroline and his daughter Janet by the mainmast, John spoke to him quietly. A few words were all that needed to be said, and the aging warrior leaped into action. John knew this was exactly what the knight desired. A chance to be involved and a chance to be useful.

Turning back to the railing, John ignored the cacophony of complaints resulting from Sir Thomas’s blunt efforts to usher as many of the women and men as he could below decks.

Refusing the offers of help from the pushing throng remaining on deck, the Highlander silently thanked God that so far during this journey they’d been spared any attack at sea. Not that the Great Michael couldn’t hold her own in any fight, but John was sure that the chaos he would have to deal with on board would be much more difficult than any enemy assault.

Moving through the crowd, John saw David and the mate helping an elderly woman down onto the deck from the rail. From the blood-soaked cloak, it was obvious that she had sustained an injury. John held back an instant as she took the arm of one of his men and tried to walk a few steps. Not being able to support her weight, however, she suddenly leaned heavily against the sailor and sank slowly to the deck.

John moved hastily to the woman and crouched before her.

“She’s wounded,” a woman said from behind him. “Her shoulder.”

John turned toward the strained voice of the other survivor who had just been brought aboard. He noticed how, once on board, she politely but firmly rejected the assistance of his men. As she crossed to where the older woman lay, she wobbled a bit, but quickly regained her footing. She, too, sported black spots on her torn, grey dress that he was sure had to be blood, but she didn’t appear to be in as grave a danger as the elder woman. Whatever their condition now, these women had obviously survived an ordeal far more serious than a row in the cold fog.

Taking his gaze away from the other, John gently pulled back the blood-soaked cloak and looked at the wound on the older woman’s shoulder. These two must be survivors of the battle they’d heard earlier that day. The older one had received what—from the burn on the surrounding skin—looked like a wound from a musket shot. But the damage was not life threatening, should the injury not fester.

“Ship’s mate,” he called over his shoulder. “Have the surgeon up on deck to look at her wound.”

Then he stood and turned to look at the other woman who now stood only a step away.

Maria saw him rise and her breath caught in her chest. Crouching before Isabel, the man had not looked as intimidating as he did now. A fierce scowl clouding his swarthy face, he towered over every man on deck. Quickly, she tore her eyes away from him and fixed her attention on her aunt’s face.

“And you,” he asked. “Any injury?”

“None,” she whispered, turning and stumbling once more as she knelt beside Isabel.

John looked at the small, water-soaked figure at his feet, and his heart warmed to the bedraggled creature. He’d heard the tremble in her voice. There was a childlike quality about her—an uncertainty—that made him wonder for a moment from what depths she had conjured the strength to survive the ordeal of being adrift at sea.

The grey wool dress that the woman wore beneath her cloak must have been clean at one time, but it was now ruined with dark stains and seawater. Almost as if she could read his thoughts, the young woman pulled her heavy cloak tighter around her, making it nearly impossible for John to ascertain anything more about her.

Laying her fingers lightly on her aunt’s cold, limp hand, Maria fought off the desire to run away from the gaze of the giant standing behind her. She could feel his eyes burning into her even as she tended to Isabel. For a brief moment, she thought that perhaps the mariner knew who she was, but her attention was diverted as her aunt began to murmur in her unconscious state.

She seemed quite young, John thought, but a strange bittersweet sensation swept over the Highlander as it occurred to him that nearly every woman he met now seemed to be quite young. The attention she showed to the other indicated that they must be related somehow. Mother and daughter perhaps.

“There is blood on your cloak. Are you certain you have no wounds?” he asked.

“None,” she responded evenly. “It’s the sailor’s blood. Not mine.”

She didn’t turn her head when she answered, but he could see the shiver. The shock, John thought. Being cold and wet and left in a boat drifting at sea can test the mettle of the toughest men.

“Are there other boats coming?” he asked. “Other survivors?”

“None that we saw,” she whispered.

“How long were you in the boat?”

“Long.”

“How long?”

She didn’t answer, only shrugged her shoulders in return.

“Did your ship sink?”

She didn’t answer again. John found himself quickly becoming tired of speaking to the back of the woman’s head.

“Where’s the bloody surgeon?” he asked over his shoulder, moving—as he spoke—to the other side of the injured woman’s body. There, he crouched, facing the young woman.

“He’s coming, m’lord,” the ship’s mate responded, pushing into the circle.

“Who attacked you and how many ships were involved in the fight?” John asked, forcing his voice onto a more even keel.

Maria stared at her aunt’s closed eyes. Isabel was resting, at least. But she still couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze and look at the man. She felt vulnerable, lost, and she fought to hide the tremors that were going through her body. She didn’t have to look about her to know that she was encircled by dozens of curious spectators, watching her every move, hanging on her every word. Like a prize doe, hunted and injured and brought to bay at last, she felt trapped. What were these men going to do to them? The giant, the one asking the questions, was clearly in command, and the others obviously feared him. She knew she should, as well. He had called them the devil’s sisters.

“I need to know these things.” His voice was sharper than he intended, but still John reached over and tapped the woman gently on the shoulder. “How many ships?”

“Just one.” Her eyes flitted to his face but dropped immediately.

Her eyes were the color of jade, and John found himself staring as she lowered them. They were the most beautiful color, set in a face devoid of color. The paleness of her complexion only served to heighten the stunning effect of her green eyes.

“A French ship,” she continued. “Only one.”

John nodded. Looking into her face, he found himself at a loss for words. Letting his eyes drop from the young woman’s face to her exposed hands, he could see them trembling as they clutched the elder woman’s cloak. His eyes traveled up again quickly to her face. Beyond the pallid, dirty face and a tangle of black hair, he could see there existed a terrified, young woman.

A thin, drunken rattle of a voice could be heard on the outside of the throng of men surrounding them. The surgeon—a member of the Douglas clan and a man that John was sure had been sent along as Angus’s spy—slowly approached. He was a puffy, bleary-eyed monk with more of an interest in wine and a soft bunk than the welfare of either his fellow man or their souls. John’s face clouded with anger as he watched the monk taking his time in answering the summons.

“We’ll talk later,” the Highlander growled, standing as the surgeon sidled up through the crowd. John gestured to the mate. “The woman’s been out in this damp air long enough. Take her below; the surgeon can see to her there.”

“I shall stay with her?” Maria asked, rising to her feet and turning to the ship’s commander. The inflection of her words wavered between that of a command and a plea.

This time their eyes met, but only for an instant.

“Aye,” John responded. “Of course. I’ll look in on you in a short while. My men will see to your needs. There are still questions that need to be answered.”

She nodded and then stood silently, waiting for the men to move her aunt.

* * *

There was very little space to clean up, and nowhere to spread out her wet, soiled clothes in the small room adjoining the large cabin where Isabel had been taken. A young boy had entered the cabin right behind them as they arrived and, without a word, handed her a woolen dress and some linen undergarments. Maria had been thankful for the thoughtfulness of the gesture, but had not really known whom to thank. On deck, she’d seen many gentlemen and women standing about. Thinking about it now, she was surprised at the number of women aboard ship. Clearly, it was one of those ladies to whom she owed her gratitude.

Holding her wet garments up, she scanned the room helplessly. From where she was, Maria could hear the murmuring voice of her aunt, who had thankfully regained consciousness, and then the sound of shuffling feet moving out into the corridor. Finally giving up on the clothes, she placed them in a neat pile in the corner. There was a small washbowl and pitcher set into a board along one wall of the tiny cabin, so Maria carefully swabbed at the painful open blisters on her palms and fingers. Wrapping strips of linen dressing around her hands, she tried unsuccessfully to tuck under the ends of the bandages. Having both hands reduced to nothing more than raw flesh made it almost impossible. Besides, even at this she was a novice. She shook her head with disgust. Unskilled in even the simplest of tasks.

With frustration and disappointment pulling at her, Maria jerked the wide, forest green sleeves of the woolen dress down over her wrists. Then, dashing a glistening droplet from her cheek, she yanked open a narrow door and stepped into Isabel’s more spacious cabin.

Her aunt’s gaze traveled to her at once. Maria watched as the older woman put her finger to her lips, hushing her for the moment. The young woman complied and stood back, waiting as the surgeon’s boy gathered the bloodied dressings from the small table.

“You were lucky, m’lady,” the surgeon rasped, reentering the spacious cabin. “The ball just grazed you. But your sailor had no chance.”

“Then he is dead?” Isabel asked.

“Aye. Dead and gone to his Maker.” He glanced back at the older woman. “Sir John wants to know the man’s name. For the prayers when we put him into the sea.”

“I…I don’t know it.” Isabel said with embarrassment, looking at Maria.

“His name was Pablo,” the young woman whispered. Maria had asked him as she struggled to take his place at the oars. But she knew his soul reached his Maker long before their prayers would.

“Pablo,” the man repeated, turning to Isabel. “Very well. Tell me, was it your ship? The one that went down?”

Isabel shook her head.

“Ah, well.” The man started for the door, but then stopped before Maria and pointed to a small bowl of liquid and some clean dressings. “I’ll leave these with you. You might change her dressing if it begins to smell badly. And Sir John will be down directly. He appears to be impatient to have some questions answered. But don’t worry about your mother, my dear. She’s going to be fine.”

“She’s not—” Maria caught herself, “—not going to die, then?”

“Nay, lass,” the man wheezed wearily, before turning again for the door. “I’ve given her something to make her sleep. I’ll send the lad back in a wee bit. If you need me, have him fetch me.”

Without any further ceremony, the man shuffled out into the dark corridor with the young boy at his heel.

Maria waited until the cabin door was shut behind them, then moved quickly to the side of her aunt’s bed. “They’re Scots!”

Isabel patted the blanket next to her, and Maria sat down at once.

“I can see that, my dear,” Isabel concurred, her eyes taking in the elegant furnishings of the cabin. “And not just any Scots. No doubt, this is part of the fleet that your brother summoned to come and take you back to their king.”

Maria surveyed the cabin. Though her experience aboard ships was somewhat limited, the size of the room surprised her. Running her swollen fingers over the fold of crisp white linen that covered her aunt, Maria glanced at the rich, burgundy damask drape that hung around the bunk, and the matching coverlet. A window seat beneath a small glazed window was covered with velvet cushions, and carved chairs surrounded a table that held fine crystal and several plates of cheese and fruit. An odd discomfort spread through her as she realized where the ship’s commander had put them.

“This was to be my cabin!” she cried.

“You aren’t going to put your old auntie out, now are you, dear?” The older woman chuckled.

Maria took Isabel’s hand. “What am I to do? What would they think if they find out who we are?”

“Does it matter what they think?” Isabel yawned and stretched her body in the comfortable bed.

“If I’m to be their queen…” Maria whispered.

“You’re right.” Isabel agreed, keeping her voice low. “If you are to be their queen, then I’d say you have already lost any chance at their respect. After all, you’re supposed to be sitting high and dry in Antwerp, waiting for them to arrive, not rowing in the open seas in an effort to escape them.”

“I can’t tell them who I am.” Maria said decisively. “I’m going to Castile, not to Scotland.”

“You…” Isabel yawned again. “You’re going to Antwerp, my dear. That’s where they are headed.”

Maria looked at her aunt helplessly. “But I can’t. Can you imagine the embarrassment? I wouldn’t be able to face Charles. He would never forgive me. Being found adrift at sea by the same people sent to convey me to their home. By the Virgin, the shame that would come of it.”

“I thought none of this mattered. I thought you’d resigned yourself to accept your brother’s wrath.”

“I had resigned myself,” Maria said despondently. “But that was when I thought we could face him from afar. Not when I thought we’d be dragged back and handed right over to him. You know the power that he wields. How persuasive he is. Never in my life have I won an argument with him tête-à-tête.”

Maria sighed. Since she was little, she had always let her brother have his own way. Charles was a bully as a child—he was just a more powerful one as an adult.

“Why can’t we go on as we planned?” the young woman pleaded. “I don’t want to go back, Isabel. I can’t.”

Maria watched her aunt fighting off the drowsiness that was overtaking her. “You ruined the longboat, child.”

Maria could not help but smile. “You know very well that I don’t mean rowing.” She turned her head and stared at the small window. “We must find another way. We must be close to Denmark. If we can reach Copenhagen, perhaps we could hire another ship to take us to Castile.”

Isabel opened one eye and tried to focus. “But it’s too far to swim, Maria. And I’m just feeling warmer…”

Maria watched the smile tug at her aunt’s lips before the older woman visibly gave in to the effects of the medicine.

“We have to think of a plan,” Maria whispered, mostly to herself. “I can’t give up hope. Perhaps we can employ someone’s help. There are many on this ship…”

“The commander,” Isabel said, her eyes fluttering open a bit. “The Scot. Sir John, they call him. There is a young and handsome man. Certainly as good looking as any sailor I ever came across in my life.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Maria asked as she smoothed a silver tendril of hair from Isabel’s face.

“Hmmph!” Isabel closed her eyes again. “And to think you’ve already been married once!”

“Isabel!” Maria protested, a blush reddening her cheeks. But her aunt was fast asleep.

4

If there was one thing John Macpherson hated, it was being in the dark.

The small wick lamp he was holding created a small orb of light in the gloom of the corridor. As he lit the lantern hanging on the wall, John nodded to the young sailor guarding the cabin. “Any news?”

“None, m’lord.” The man responded. “When I took the trencher of food in earlier, the older lady was asleep and the younger one was just pacing the room.”

John pushed past the man and rapped on the door. A flurry of quick steps and the sound of someone struggling with a latch could be heard on the other side. There was a pause and then, as the door was opened slightly, the Highlander found himself staring down into a set of shining green eyes that peered apprehensively back at him.

“May I come in?”

She hesitated a moment, then turned and gestured vaguely into the darkness of the room. “My…she is sleep.”

“I won’t stay long.” John said, ducking his head as he brushed past her and into the cabin.

Maria stood by the open door, unsure of what to do. She couldn’t object to his barging in; after all, this was his ship. With her throbbing hand still on the door latch, she pressed her back against the panel of the cabin wall. Outside the little window, the gloom had quickly deepened with the onslaught of night, and the young woman welcomed the growing darkness. She watched him as he gazed closely at her aunt and then at the pile of clean dressings and bowl of water that sat on a table.

As he turned, the light of the lamp shone clearly on his dark features. She could look at him from where she stood without the fear of being noticed. What Isabel had said was the truth. The man’s features could be considered handsome. Extremely so. But in Maria’s mind, the fierceness of his expression only served to mask his fine looks. She let her eyes linger. His shoulders seemed to fill the room. He was a powerful man. His black hair he wore long but tied back with a leather thong. She watched as his eyes carefully surveyed the cabin.

Sensing that he was being watched, John swung the lamp back in her direction, and saw the young woman turn her eyes downward. She was a small thing, hidden in the shadowy darkness. It occurred to him that she would melt right into the dark panel behind her, if she could.

Now Maria knew it was her turn to be watched. Once again, she fought the fear that was rising within her, making her too apprehensive to look up at him. The familiar flutter in her stomach told her that once again, she was unprepared—no, incapable of dealing with life. With real life.

It was true. All her life she’d been protected, isolated from the company of men. Of her father, Philip the Fair, she had no recollection. With the outpouring of her mother’s grief after the mysterious death of Philip, Maria had been taken away and brought up surrounded by women in a convent in Castile. She almost never saw her brothers or even heard from them until the eldest, the emperor, arranged for her to join her betrothed, the sixteen-year-old king of Hungary. The boy king she’d been promised to at age three and then wed to at seventeen. Until the moment she left the safety of the convent walls, Maria had never—aside from her aged confessor—had any occasion to deal with any grown man directly.