Page 72 of The Guardian
Standing next to her, with a hand resting on the back of her chair, was a darkly handsome man of about Ian’s age, with a well-groomed beard and hard eyes. Judging from his fine clothes and the way he held himself, Sìleas guessed this was the Earl of Angus, Archibald Douglas. She’d heard that his father had died at Flodden, making him the head of his clan—the Douglas, himself.
Sìleas’s mouth was dry as she stepped forward and made her curtsy, hoping she was doing it correctly.
“You are Sìleas MacDonald from the Isle of Skye?” the queen asked.
Sìleas had not foreseen that the queen would have no Gaelic. Her husband, though a Lowlander, had won favor with Highlanders by learning to speak Gaelic. He had been a great lover of Highland music as well.
“She may have no English,” the man Sìleas assumed was Archibald Douglas said.
“I do speak a little English,” Sìleas said.
The queen gave an impatient sigh and rolled her eyes heavenward.
Sìleas took a deep breath to calm herself, then said. “Your Highness, I’ve come a long way to ask for your help in obtaining an annulment from the church.”
While the queen scrunched her face up as if Sìleas were something her dog left behind, the Douglas looked her up and down as if she was standing in her chemise. What a rude pair these two were. As they say,Put silk on a goat and it is still a goat.
“So, you’ve found another man you wish to wed?” The queen turned to her ladies and added, “ ’Tis the usual reason.”
Sìleas felt herself color. “No, Your Highness, I have not.”
“So there’s no urgency?” the queen asked, raising her plucked eyebrows. “You’re not carrying another man’s child?”
Sìleas’s face felt burning hot. She shook her head violently this time.
The Douglas asked her in Gaelic, “So, you are a virgin?”
“That is an overly familiar question, sir,” she answered in Gaelic, meeting his gaze.
The Douglas turned to the queen and graced her with a dazzling smile. “I know it’s tedious for you to speak with someone who has such difficulty with English.”
The man made Sìleas angry enough to spit. Her English was not as bad as that.
“It doesn’t help that the lass is flustered speaking to royalty for the first time.” The Douglas spoke to the queen in a voice as smooth and slippery as melting lard. “Shall I take care of this problem for you?”
The queen flashed a sharp look at Sìleas, but she shifted her gaze away when the Douglas whispered something in her ear that made her neck flush. A moment later, he walked to the door that led outside to the gallery and flicked his hand at Sìleas, signaling for her to follow him.
Apprehension prickled at her skin as she followed him, but she didn’t want to remain with the queen, either. Once they were on the gallery—and out of the queen’s view—he held her arm against his body in a firm grip that increased her unease. She reminded herself that she was in a palace surrounded by soldiers and guards. Surely she had nothing to fear.
After passing three doors, he opened the fourth, which led into a small parlor. She was relieved to see two servants, who leapt to their feet and bowed as they entered. Sìleas glanced through the open door to her right—and her heart beat faster when she glimpsed an imposing bed with a dark wood frame and heavy crimson curtains.
“Go now,” the Douglas said.
The servants disappeared though a second door. As it closed behind them, Sìleas felt for the dirk strapped to her thigh—and cursed herself for not finding a hiding place closer to hand. She’d tried, but there was no good place to stick a dirk in this gown—and certainly not in her dainty slippers.
The Douglas poured a cup of wine from an ornate silver pitcher on the side table and took a drink. She chided herself for letting her imagination get away with her. Nothing could be more normal than a man taking a drink.
“I have some business to discuss with ye, lass,” he said, and handed her the cup. “Your letter to the queen said ye are heir to Knock Castle.”
She decided to hold her tongue until she knew where this was leading.
“I knew about ye being the heir, of course, but I’d heard ye wed a MacDonald and thought the matter settled.” Her surprise must have shown on her face, for he added, “ ’Tis my business to know such things.”
She didn’t like this man knowing so much about her. Since he’d drunk the wine, it couldn’t be poisoned, so she took a gulp. It did nothing to cure her dry throat.
“The queen will soon name me Protector of the Western Isles—which includes Skye, of course.” He leaned closer and said in a soft voice. “That means, lass, that I am a good man to know. And the better ye know me, the better off you’ll be.”
Her heart was racing. Despite her inexperience, she had a fair notion of what he was suggesting.
