Preview
"Lady Blackwood?"
Startled at the sound of that name--that brought unpleasant memories--Linnea came away from the window at the chamber in Stirling Castle that she'd occupied the past weeks.
The name was as foreign to her as this place, these people. Strangers all. Enemies?
Yet not unkind, not in the manner of the other one who bore that name and title.
Lady Blackwood. A woman who commanded a room when she entered it, who ruled over Blackwood manor with an iron hand, and someone she had learned to hate. Her husband's mother, whose machinations at the English court were well known by all, feared by some. Her family was older in history than the English king and she never let anyone forget it. Bereft at the death of her son, she had set about consolidating her power, almost as soon as word reached London of John Blackwood's death--a fearsome fire in some remote place, and not even the ability to mourn him.
Linnea had learned of it at Kensington House, the residence John had taken her too shortly after they wed. There had been no courtship, nor was he a man given to such things. Papers were signed by her guardian, she had been taken to Kensington, and her husband of only a few hours had then taken himself off to his mistress. It was the pattern that became her life.
If she had held any hope of a true marriage it died with his cold announcement that he'd rather bed a goat than the leavings of a Scot--how he referred to the fact that she'd been born in that distant, cold place and was undoubtedly forever cursed to be just as cold and distant.
And so she had learned to live her life apart, appearing when summoned for the sake of her mother's family, then shunted back to Kensington. It suited her. There she was allowed to live her life as free as possible with no duty to a husband. That there were no children was an issue for her husband's mother. She had ambitions and John's children, hopefully a son, were part of those ambitions. Linnea chose not to remind her that it was impossible to conceive a child and heir when her husband chose to make his bed elsewhere.
And she thanked God every day that he did.
She had no illusions why he'd married her. Lord John Blackwood had ambitions of his own, and Linnea was part of that--the Fraser land hold at Lechlede, in Scotland, stronghold of the chieftain of Clan Fraser, by treachery it was said upon the death of their father.
Her father, Simon Fraser. A man she had never known.
She was no more than an infant when she was sent from Scotland to live with her mother's family in England. But she had heard stories of the wild, barbarians to the north, and suffered the denigrating comments from those who considered her half Scots blood to be tainted. But Lord John Blackwood had seen her so-called misfortune of birth to be his good fortune.
Until a fortnight ago, and word that came from London palace. Lord John Blackwood was dead.
She should have mourned his death. Instead, she felt what she had felt so many times through the years. She felt nothing, no sadness for a man she barely knew though she was certain his mistress was absolutely prostrate with grief, or God help her for the thought... prostrate in some other man's bed. After all she had her future to consider.
But what of her own future?
First a pawn from her mother's family, then a pawn in her marriage. Now a pawn once more? she wondered. Sent off to Scotland to her father's family? To then be cast off to some barbarian Scot?
Well, no thank you, she thought, having had the argument over the past several days. It was not as if she was going abegging. She had a small amount of gold coins from her mother's estate and her mother's marriage necklace sewn into the hem of her gown, ironically a gift from her Scot husband that would now take Linnea away from Scotland and England, as soon as she could arrange it. The only question was where was she to go?
France was not a safe haven. They were ever at war with England and she might well find herself in a French prison.
Spain perhaps, although that was a risky venture. It was said that caravans of pilgrims were constantly attacked by the Moors, and a woman traveling alone might find herself stolen, then sold off at a slave market.
A convent? Not bloody likely. She wanted freedom, and she would find a way to get it. The only question was, how was she to go about it?
"The king requests your presence at evening meal," his steward announced, forcing her thoughts back to the moment.
"An emissary has arrived from the Chieftain of Clan Fraser to escort you to Lechlede."
And possibly into a fate worse than death?
As well. But not well enough. She needed a plan. Once at the stronghold of the chieftain of Clan Fraser, there was no telling what her fate would be. The same as her mother, driven mad by their barbarian ways?
She had learned the past few years to never let another know her thoughts, and nodded with that calm mask firmly in place in spite of the emotions that burned through her blood.
"Very well."
A man dressed in the way of the Scots with leather brecs, vest, linen shirt, and woolen mantle strode into the ante room. He was tall, his dark hair in waves at his shoulders. His features were lean, a frown barely visible for the close-cropped equally dark beard, and a dark penetrating gaze that swept the room as if there might be any enemy lurking there, and then swept back to her.
"Milady," the steward made the formal introductions. "Robert DeBrus."
Her blood ran cold. She had heard the stories gossiped about at Kensington, of the battle at Calais. Her husband had insisted it was a mere skirmish to be dealt with when he left, but rumors abounded that it was far more than a small skirmish. It was said that many had died and the English had been routed and forced back into the ocean.
The Fraser name had been whispered. From others she had believed that a younger brother whom she'd never met had died there, under her husband's sword. And there had been another name whispered. DeBrus.
Now that man stood before her.
Linnea swept the braid of hair back over her shoulder and lifted her chin, defiant, refusing to cower before a Scot.
"What message do you bring, sir?" She waited.
"No message, milady," he replied. "I am to escort you to Lechlede. We are to leave immediately."
False courage disappeared like smoke on the wind.
"That is impossible," she replied, struggling to remain calm. "I have not had time to prepare." And God only knew what awaited at the Fraser stronghold.
She could have sworn there was a faint smile wreathed by that dark beard, and she had the impression it was much like the expression of the fox before it pounces on its prey.