Chapter Nine
After nightfall when the great hall was quiet, Rory disappeared behind the screen and followed Alex’s directions to her solar.
Two large warriors stood guard at the door.
Rory eyed their battle-hardened physiques, which were naked to the eye in the simple plaids they wore.
Typically, when there was a guarded room to which he needed to gain access, he sought entry only after days, sometimes weeks, of planning, and never without the support other agents.
Instinct bade him find another way into the room or arm himself for battle, but Alex had assured him that the guards would let him pass.
Well...there was a first for everything.
He strode purposely toward the guards, wearing a friendly smile on his face.
“Good evening, Rory MacVie,” the guard on the left said.
Rory paused for an instant but quickly recovered from his initial surprise at hearing his name spoken. “Good evening,” he began. “I am meant to—”
“We ken,” the guard on the right said. “Ye’re here to meet with Alex. She’s already told us.” He opened the door and motioned for Rory to enter. “She said to make yerself comfortable, and that she’ll be along shortly.”
“Ye have my thanks,” Rory said as he stepped into the room.
The door closed behind him. He stood for a moment, taking in his surroundings.
A small fire smoldered in the hearth on the right side of the room.
Facing the orange embers were two high-backed, ornately carved chairs.
Above the mantle was a painting of a woman with fierce, dark eyes and hair so fair the artist’s brush made it as white as the moon that shone in the upper corner of the canvas.
The woman exuded grace and power. Rory stepped closer and considered the eyes of the subject.
She stared back as if life pulsed in her painted veins.
Tearing himself away, he forced his feet to walk farther into the room.
There was a large desk, littered with parchment.
Several rocks clearly painted by children tamed the papers with their weight.
He drew closer, drawn to the images of wee handprints and flowers.
Just then a gust of wind blew, and a piece of parchment not weighed down lifted and zig-zagged in a slow dance to the floor.
Rory bent over and picked up the page. He set it down and started to walk away, but from the corner of his eye he read his name.
He splayed his hands wide on either side of the letter and began to read.
My Dearest Alexandria,
My heart is heavy as I too grieve for your father.
As you know, Donnan was my dearest friend from youth.
Never has there lived a kinder or more generous man.
Take comfort knowing that he now sits with our Lord at His table.
Also, please know that you are not alone.
I received your letter and am fully prepared to guide you in finding a husband.
Marriage is a sound choice at this time.
To this end, I have sent you a selection of men, three in number.
“So, Abbot Matthew is playing matchmaker,” he said aloud, shaking his head in amazement. He should have guessed there was an ulterior motive sending the unmarried, young, generally pleasant noblemen north. “As if any of them could handle a woman like Alexandria,” he scoffed.
A nag of suspicion crept up his back. If the abbot had set aside his vows long enough to lie to Adam, Robert, and Timothy, had he also lied to Rory? “What is my true reason for being here?” he said, skimming the letter.
“What the blazes,” he cursed, straightening and seizing the letter in his hands.
I have sent another man to you, Rory MacVie.
He is NOT one of the men I have put forth as a potential husband.
I have sent him to aid you in moving the weapons you have hidden away.
This is the only capacity to which Rory is to avail himself to you.
He is a great many things and a great man, but he is not the sort of man a respectable lass marries.
“So, that is how it is to be, Abbot Matthew,” he said, scowling.
His head jerked up. He looked hard at the door.
Alex had just called out to her men in greeting.
He placed the letter down before silently crossing to the fire and quickly sitting in one of the high-backed chairs just as the door swung open.
“Good evening, Rory,” she said, moving confidently into the room. “Forgive my delay. I was going over tomorrow’s menu with Jean.”
Rory’s mind raced. He was torn by being offended by the abbot’s words or accepting some blame for the monk’s frank assessment of Rory’s past—not that Rory considered himself a rake.
He was never dishonest with women. He did not feign affection or make false promises to fill his bed.
Certainly, he enjoyed women and had never apologized for that, but he also had never met one who could lay claim to his heart.
That being said, if his sister Rose ever strutted around with a man like himself, he would beat the blackguard to the ground.
In the end, he supposed it was fair of the abbot to not recommend Rory to Alex as a potential suitor.
And by God, he had no interest in being laird.
Adam, Robert, or Timothy were all more suitable choices.
Still, if that was true, why in God’s name did he feel like beating the living hell out of all three of them?
“I hope ye’ve not been waiting long,” she said, sitting down in the chair beside his.
Rory shrugged. “I’ve been comfortable enough.” Then he gestured to the painting of the woman above the mantle. “She caught my eye straightaway. ‘Tis a powerful portrait.”
“’Tis of my mother, painted by my father.”
Rory stared hard at the woman in the painting. Tangled white-blond hair whipped around her sharp features. There was so much passion within her painted eyes, he almost believed she could see straight into his soul. “Ye take after her. I see ye in her coloring and her manner.”
“Ye’re half right. I do have my mother’s coloring, but that is where the commonalities end, at least in terms of appearance.
She was quiet and very refined, every bit the proper lady, but a fire blazed deep within her.
It was the fire my father hoped to capture. He said he had painted her inside-out.”
Rory continued to study the portrait, trying to keep his thoughts from returning to the abbot’s letter.
“I’ve given a great deal of thought to our latest mission,” Alex said.
He released a slow, even breath, happy to be distracted by the mission at hand, which did at least appear to be the true reason the abbot had sent him north. He would have time to make sense of the rest of the letter later.
“It will take a full day to gather the weapons. There are some axes and targs but mostly swords, hundreds actually.”
Rory’s brows lifted. “Ye’ve managed to amass an armory’s worth of weapons on yer own?”
A sad smile curved her lips. “I did not do this on my own.”
“Nay?” he said, sitting straighter. “I did not realize there were others privy to our cause here.”
“There are none here at Luthmore. It is important for the sake of my people that no one ever connects me to the cause.” She stared off into the fire.
“What would become of them?” Then she turned her head and once more they locked eyes.
“’Tis my greatest fear, Rory. That somehow I will be implicated, and my people made to suffer for my actions. ”
Rory leaned forward and covered her hand with his.
He couldn’t help it. Seeing her wrinkle her brow with worry instantly made him want to reach out to her, hold her, protect her, especially since her fears were warranted.
If her identity were ever revealed, her entire clan would feel King Edward’s wrath.
She turned her hand over so that her palm now pressed into his.
He felt the pulse in her wrist quicken and forgot all about her worry.
She leaned closer to him, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.
His eyes dropped to her full, glistening mouth.
He leaned toward her, hungry for those parted lips.
“God’s blood,” he cursed aloud the same instant she jerked her hand away as though his touch had burned her.
Both breathless, they stared at each other.
“Ye stay over there,” she said, motioning to his chair. Then she waved her hands in a panic near her chair. “This is my space.” Then she waved her hands to encompass his chair. “That is yer space.”
Rory gripped the arms of his chair. “Got it.”
After the pounding of his heart began to subside, he cleared his throat. “Now then, back to the mission.”
“Aye,” she nodded, she too gripping the arms of the chair. “The mission.”
“Who, may I ask, helped ye gather the weapons?”
The tension fled her body, and the impassioned composition of her face was replaced by sadness. “Lord Robin Campbell.”
“Lord Robin?” Rory said, surprised.
She looked at him curiously. “Ye knew him?”
“Aye, I did. I worked with him on several occasions. He was a hero among the agents. Everyone grieved when we learned he fell at Dunbar.” He paused, taking in her obvious hurt. “He was important to ye?” Rory asked softly.
She nodded, her eyes welling with tears the instant before she turned away to look into the flames. “He was my father’s closest friend,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And my betrothed.”
Rory’s mouth filled with the bitter taste of loss. He was acutely aware of the pain she suffered.
“I dream about him still,” she said. “Always in my dreams he dies slowly, painfully.” She swiped at the tears trailing down her cheeks. “Ye can’t imagine how often I’ve thought of his last moments.”
He released a slow breath to hold his own emotions in check. “I do ken,” he said. “Every day I wonder about what sort of end my parents and sister faced. Every day I pray they did not suffer.”