A Love Concealed, page 1
A Love Concealed
Mary’s Ladies, Book 3
Belle McInnes
Copyright © 2020 Belle McInnes
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. You must not circulate this book in any format.
This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
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Printed in the United Kingdom
First published, 2020
Cover by Alba Covers
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Contents
About this book
Map
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
Epilogue
A Note on the History
Glossary
Characters
About the Author
Also By
Bibliography
Acknowledgments
About this book
Mary Queen of Scots is on the throne, but villainous plotters have designs on her throne…
Held captive during her teens by an evil lord, beautiful heiress Margaret Carwood uses her wits and ingenuity to escape his clutches, becoming Mary Queen of Scots’ favoured lady-in-waiting in the process.
With her future secure, she’s fiercely determined never to be dominated by a man again, and convinced that she doesn’t need to marry to be happy. Until she meets Highland laird, John Stewart…
Map
Scotland in the time of Mary Queen of Scots
Chapter 1
Wednesday 4th December 1566
Margaret Carwood rammed her fists onto her hips and raised her chin. “Who do you think you are, sire, to claim the part of the king?” she demanded.
“Only his direct descendant, my lady,” replied the laird of Fincastle, lifting a well-muscled shoulder. Sat on a window seat in an alcove formed by the depth of the thick stone walls of Craigmillar Castle, John Stewart of Tulliepowries appeared unconcerned by the great honour he was asking. “Robert the Bruce was my great-grandfather’s great-grandfather’s great-great-grandfather. So it seems only right that I should play him.”
Yes, but I’ll bet The Bruce never had eyes so blue nor hair so black. Behind Margaret, a fire burned in the wide fireplace of the great hall. But the glowing logs only served to take the worst of the chill from the November air. Outside, the sky was filled with clouds the colour of steel and a merciless wind whistled up the hill from Little France, buffeting off the castle’s curtain wall and swirling around the high tower.
Clenching her jaw, Margaret turned her back on the Highlander and addressed Sebastian Pages, who acted as master of ceremonies to Mary Queen of Scots and directed all her masques. “What say you, Bastian? Should we allow this man to take the lead part? ’Twould be his first role here at Craigmillar, and he’s arrived but five minutes. Quite a coup for a laird newly come to court!”
The Frenchman rubbed his chin, eyeing the well-built laird with his broad chest and square jaw. “But they are hardly queueing out of the door to join us. Let him audition for the part by rehearsing with us this afternoon. If he can act, good. If he cannot, then I can step in. I wrote the words, after all. But The Bruce was tall and strong, and,” Bastian waved a hand at his slim figure, encased in a blue doublet and matching trunk hose, “much as I would wish to claim those attributes, I am not.”
He thrust a sheaf of papers at the Highlander. “These are the lines. We will rehearse the third scene.” Giving Margaret a sideways look, he added, “That will let us see if he can really act.”
Margaret’s chest constricted. “But…” Scene three was the love tryst. She would have to kiss the laird, a man she didn’t even know. “I cannot—”
Waving his fingers at her, Bastian dismissed her protests. “We all know that you are a talented actress, Lady Carwood. This should be easy for you. ’Tis the Highlander who will find it difficult.”
In the grey winter light that filtered through the leaded windows, John Stewart of Tulliepowries and third Laird Fincastle leafed through the hand-written script, his heart sinking.
Scene three had The Bruce bidding farewell to his wife on his way to confront the English. With her flame-coloured hair and her heart-shaped face Lady Carwood might be beautiful, but she had a tongue on her as sharp as the edge of a broadsword and a fiery personality that matched her hair. Not the lady he would have chosen to kiss.
Unfolding his long legs, he stepped from the window embrasure. If he wanted to rebuild his castle, he needed his inheritance. And that wouldn’t happen if he didn’t get his name known at court. What better way to do that than as leading man in a play for the queen? He clenched his jaw. Best get it over and done wi’. Addressing the others, he said, “I’m ready.”
Bastian shepherded him to a spot at the back of the hall, at the opposite end to the great fireplace where the queen would sit to watch their masque. “You are about to lead your country to war against the English. If all goes well, you will be a hero. But if it goes badly, you will never see your wife, Elizabeth de Burgh, again.” He pointed at a spot two paces to John’s right. “There is your mark. And here—” he indicated a dark shadow on the flagstone floor, “is yours, Lady Carwood. You know what you have to do. With this scene, we want to make them cry.”
With sadness, I presume, no’ tears of laughter, John thought with a wry smile, standing at his appointed place, half-facing forward, and half towards Lady Carwood.
Taking a deep breath, he focussed his mind on the woman in front of him, imagining how he’d have felt if he’d had to bid farewell to his Lizzy. Just the thought of it made his throat thicken and his chest swell. If only he could have told her, one more time, how much she meant to him…
Swallowing, he took Lady Carwood’s hand and started to read from the script. “Elizabeth, dear heart, we go in search of the English the ’morn.” He kissed her hand and looked into her blue-grey eyes. “Will ye wait for me?”
“Aye, and I shall pray for ye too, sire,” replied Lady Carwood, taking a step closer so they were only a hands-width apart.
With the rustle of her garments came the scent of vanilla, making his nostrils flare. In the dim light from the candle sconces her green eyes gleamed like lustrous emeralds. She really is breath-taking. ’Twas a shame she was more prickly than a hedgehog.
He cleared his throat, and dropped his eyes to the script. “Edward’s army are camped to the south, and my scouts say they have twice our numbers. But we are fighting for our land, and for our freedom!” He softened his voice again, and added some warmth to the next words. “And I will be fighting for you, my love. Give me a token of your affections that I can take into battle with me.”
A slim finger rose to his cheek, and traced the line of his jaw. “I will give you more than a token,” she whispered.
For a moment, John was unable to breathe. Without checking the script for his next lines, he responded instinctively, dropping his mouth to hers and drawing her into his arms.
For a moment, he forgot they had an audience. The soft bud of her lips was like a flower that opened at his touch, her mouth sweet like honey, her body pliant in his arms.
And for a moment, he disregarded Lady Carwood’s aggravating personality. Instead, he enjoyed the memories evoked by the comely woman in his arms, reminders of a time past; a time when he had a woman to warm his bed, set a fire in his loins, and kindle love in his heart.
With a cry, the Highlander thrust Margaret away from him, the look of anguish on his face so fleeting she wondered afterwards if she’d imagined it. But her racing pulse told a different story. What just happened? Clenching her fists, Margaret filled her lungs, hoping the deep draught of air would calm her breathing and settle her churning thoughts.
In front of her, Laird Fincastle quickly slipped a mask of impassivity into place, and his jaw tightened as he dropped his head to scan his lines.
Clearing his throat, he returned to the words Bastian had composed for the masque. Blue eyes calm now, he touched his chest, then held out his hands. “Ye have my heart, Elizabeth. Keep it safe till we meet again.”
Margaret straightened her back, quieting her mind so she could focus once more on the part she had to play. With her heart rate almost back to normal, she put her hands over his, meeting his earnest gaze. “Always.”
They stood like that for several seconds, frozen in a tableau, before a shout of, “Bravo!” broke the spell and they sprang apart.
Bastian came towards them, clapping wildly, his face wreathed in
With the others away, the hall quietened, only the crackle of the fire and the dull roar of the wind outside breaking the silence. Settling himself back onto the velvet cushions that softened the hard angles of the window alcove, John pulled a heavy drape across the entrance, shutting out the rest of the world so he could concentrate on Bastian’s script.
It would be an honour to play his ancestor, as Lady Carwood had implied. What man with a brave heart and a modicum of talent could pass up a chance like that? Robert the Bruce had lived a life of legend, and the history the Frenchman had used to create his masque was dramatic and compelling. However, it would not be easy to learn all of these lines by tomorrow. He wouldn’t have time for anything else.
Immersed in the stories of The Bruce’s wranglings with King Edward of England, Robert didn’t immediately notice that others had entered the hall. And because he was hidden from sight, silently reading in his window seat, the incomers were also unaware of his presence. It was only when their voices rose in disagreement that John’s head jerked up and his attention focussed on the meeting that was taking place beyond his hiding place, rather than the words of the Frenchman’s play.
“Fire or poison. ’Tis the only way,” said a gruff voice, a hint of anger evident in his clipped tone. “Even in the hands of a marksman, a gun cannot be relied upon.”
“But the queen was suspicious of poisoning at Jedburgh,” said another, in lighter tones.
“She suspected arson there too, if you remember.” This man’s voice was lower-pitched, with the guttural brogue of the north-east. “But however we do it, Her Grace needs rid of him.”
John’s skin chilled at those words. They speak of the queen! But who would they be rid of?
“But not in a way that would harm Prince James’ succession.” An older man spoke those words, his tone measured and his words precise. “The queen would not allow that.”
Surely they could not mean to be rid of the king? John’s breathing quickened. That would be treason!
Yesterday, not long after he had arrived at Craigmillar, John had caught a brief glimpse of the king, Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, just hours before he left, supposedly for Stirling Castle. A cousin of the queen—and probably some distant cousin of John’s, since they shared a surname and ancestry dating back to Robert the Bruce—Darnley was tall and handsome, with fair hair and a slim figure.
But his fine looks were deceptive, for the king had gained a reputation as a dissolute drunkard who frequented the taverns and whorehouses of Edinburgh rather than his wife’s bed. And rumours at court had it that Darnley was, even now, sailing for Spain to raise an army in support of his claim to the throne.
John shook his head. Regardless of his failings, could these men really mean to be rid of the king? That would be regicide, and a sure route to the gallows.
“The queen would not allow this,” a more refined voice interjected, his tone nasal, “if she but knew.”
“So she must not know,” said the older man again, and paused. “It must be between us, and us alone.” Those last words were spoken more slowly, as if he looked each one in the eye.
“You forget the bastard,” said the fierce one. “’Twas his idea.”
“Mmm.” John could almost hear the wheels turning in the older man’s brain. “But Moray is away right now.”
“Conveniently,” commented a fifth man with a rich, deep voice that John had not heard until this moment.
They spoke of the queen’s half-brother, the earl of Moray. If this was a conspiracy, as it appeared to be, John found it hard to believe that Mary’s flesh and blood would join a plot that would impact her throne.
“Mayhap. But he will support us in this. He has given his word.” There was a creaking of wood, as if the older man sat in one of the oak chairs that surrounded the banqueting tables. “Now, do I have your bond of silence? For if even a hint gets out, they will have us hanged.”
“Or exiled,” the haughtier voice sniffed. “Morton has still not been allowed to return to Scotland.”
The older man drew air through his teeth. “So we must be sure that nobody else knows of our plans.”
In the silence that followed, John’s nose began to itch, and his eyes started to water as dust from the draperies threatened to make him sneeze. Damn my weak lungs! His throat dry, he pinched his nostrils with his left hand, the other hand clasping the hilt of his sword. If they find me, I’m dead.
As if to confirm his fear, the next words from the angry lord caused John’s heart to stop. “If any suspect, they must die.” There was a ring of steel as the speaker drew his weapon. “And if any here betray us…” The glint of his blade must have been sufficient threat that he didn’t need to finish the sentence.
But John was in agony. The itch in his nostrils had built to an unbearable pressure, and his discovery was imminent. I’ll have to fight my way out, he thought, just as the sneeze escaped and all hell broke loose…
Chapter 2
Mary eyed her lady-in-waiting. Lady Carwood’s skin had an unusual flush, and her movements were less assured than normal as she inspected the white soup and veal flory stew that had been sent up for the queen’s luncheon.
A wave of apprehension flooded through the queen’s chest, and she put a hand on Margaret’s arm. “Is something wrong, Lady Carwood? ’Ave you concern about the food?” Even though she’d been in Scotland for five years, when she was anxious, Mary’s accent became stronger and this made her French upbringing more evident.
“No ma’am.”
So it was not the poisoner again. Mary glanced around the salon. There was nobody else within earshot. “But you do not seem yourself. Has something happened?”
Margaret’s hesitation was an answer in itself.
“Something is wrong. Tell me,” Mary demanded, all thoughts of food forgotten, for Margaret was her favourite companion, only recently returned to court from her sister’s household in Biggar. “Is it Janet? Or her baby?”
“No, no, my sister is fine, last I heard. And the bairn too.”
“Does Laird Persellands treat her well?”
Margaret’s mouth turned down. “Not the way I would want to be treated. It still vexes me that she had to marry that beast.” She wrinkled her nose. “I know not how she could countenance having a baby with him.”
Mary put a hand on her lady-in-waiting’s arm. “You will change your mind, my dear Margaret, when you find a husband of your own.”
“That will never happen.” Margaret’s tone was decisive.
“So you say.” Mary quirked her brow. “But you know that I intend to find you an handsome lord, one who will dispel your hatred of men and convince you of the joys of matrimony.”
“From what I have seen of my brother-in-law, and, if I may say it, of your own husband, Lord Darnley, matrimony does not seem such a joy.”
Margaret’s forthrightness was one of the qualities Mary liked in the young woman, but sometimes her honesty hit a raw nerve. “Remember, you speak of the king,” the queen chided. Then she softened her expression. “Do not let any others hear you talk so, for if they hear opinions like that from you, my dear, they will think that those are also the queen’s thoughts.”
