Page 59 of Wild Hearts

Tabrizia gasped at the insult. A handsomely dark man standing behind Paris overheard and said, "Allow me, Lord John Gordon, to defend your honor, mistress."

Her eyes darkened to deep violet as she stood between these two blood enemies who were trying to use her to further their hatred. A blazing anger seized her. "My honor needs no defense. I am a Cockburn, sir. The last thing I need in this world is a Gordon to fight for me. I am honorably betrothed. My future husband will defend me against all. You may be sure of it!" She swept from the room, determined to spend not one moment longer in their company. She sat upon the bed in her tiny chamber, furious with herself because of the tight tears that made her throat ache painfully. She was saved from a fit of self-pity by a low knock upon the door. Silent, Jasper handed her a muslin-wrapped parcel, along with a note. She set the package aside and opened the note. It read:

My Love,

When I saw this material I thought what a lovely bridal gown it would make. I have finalized arrangements for two of my brothers. I will take you home very soon.

P.

Her hands, quickly opened the parcel. The beauty of the soft white material covered with shimmering crystal beads caught the pale candlelight, and she hugged it to her breast. The gift banished the tears, but the last line of the note made her thoughts take off on the wings of her imagination. Home! What would it be like? Would she be able to truly make it her home? Somehow, in the recesses of her mind, home meant Shannon standing hands on hips, flinging her beautiful mass of hair back and saying something so outrageously honest, you couldn't argue with her. Home was Damascus, shuddering delicately at men and their coarseness, and home was dear little Alexandria whose love and friendship she missed achingly. Yet they would each take a husband as she was doing and leave to make new lives for themselves.

A vision of Paris came unbidden to her. All his smiles were for the Danish maid-of-honor. A searing hatred went through her. Well, she was glad to be rid of him. He didn't even pay lip service to chastity. The Orkney Islands would be a new beginning for her. She thought of Patrick Stewart and told herself she would be a good wife to him, although she did not know what he wanted in a wife. She was more certain of herself where his children were concerned. She knew she would be a good mother; she had an abundance of love to give. She took out the glass snowstorm he had given her, and as she made it snow, she laughed at the tiny figures in the sleigh.

She got one of the Queen's many needlewomen to help her with the dress, and smiled a secret smile when the woman exclaimed over its beauty and told her it would make a perfect wedding gown. She fashioned it on simple lines, desiring it to epitomize modesty. It had long sleeves and a high-throated neckline. She fashioned a coronet and sewed it with crystal beads and seed pearls in her quiet moments alone. She kept it in her trunk, away from prying eyes, and she began to pack her things instead of leaving them in the wardrobe. Patrick had asked her to be ready on short notice. She knew Magnus would miss her but she knew he was letting her go because it was best for her. How proud he had been when he had dispatched the news to Margaret at Tantallon that she was betrothed to Patrick Stewart, Earl of Orkney.

The moment Margaret had received the news, she was overjoyed, as if she had won a personal victory. At last she would be rid of the bitch. Margaret had died a thousand deaths when she discovered that Paris had gone to Court, but now that Tabrizia was safely betrothed, her troubles melted away like snow in summer. In fact; Margaret decided that everything was perfect, and with Paris away it gave her the opportunity she had been waiting for.

She rode to Cockburnspath with the letter she had received from Magnus. From the windows of the White Tower, Mrs. Sinclair picked out her daughter's familiar figure riding in. If, in her younger days, Mrs. Sinclair had resembled her beautiful daughter, time had effectively erased all traces of it. Her coal black hair was dragged back smoothly, and her mouth formed a thin line of satisfaction. She had known Margaret would come.

She poured the full contents of a purple vial into a cup, filled it with wine and took it to Anne in the wide, ornate bed. Everyone thought she was Anne's creature. None save her daughter knew that Anne was hers. Totally. It had been so simple when Paris had brought his new bride home and Mrs. Sinclair had discovered she was already three months gone with child. The girl had been desperately in need of a confidant and a sympathetic voice. Mrs. Sinclair had provided what she needed as well as small doses of morphia. It had been so easy to feed her the stuff on the pretext of its preventing morning sickness.

By the time Margaret came upstairs for her visit, Anne was unconscious. Margaret came into the room and looked around. She begrudged the luxurious chamber filled with objects d'art. Still, if all her plans worked out and she became Paris's second wife, she knew she, too, would indulge her taste for the luxuries of life.

"I have great news. Magnus has betrothed his daughter to Patrick Stewart. She will live in the Orkneys, far enough away that we need never trouble over her again. Now all we need do is rid ourselves of yon impediment in that bed."

"Did you bring the stuff?" asked Mrs. Sinclair.

"Of course. Tell me, has she ever mentioned the day old Angus fell to his death?"

"I heard her tell Tabrizia about the time someone came to kill her, but she spoke of a man. She never knew it was you in men's clothing. It is too bad we didn't get it over with that day. If only that old fool Angus hadn't interfered."

"I had to do it— he recognized me," Margaret insisted.

"It doesn't matter. I told you Paris suspects Anne pushed his father over. He is convinced that she can walk."

"She'll never walk again," vowed Margaret. "Now we have to convince them downstairs that Anne is near death and we are doing all we can for her."

Margaret went down to the solarium and was relieved to find Damascus alone. She told her Anne was unconscious and could not be roused. She said her mother was sick with worry, as Anne had been ailing all night and had sunk deep into a coma. Damascus, very upset, went up to look at Anne and indeed found her in the condition Margaret described. In a panic she went to the stables to look for Shannon. The moment Damascus left, Margaret took the vial from her pocket and slapped the woman in the bed until she roused enough to swallow the contents. Anne breathed deeply once, sighed and stopped breathing. Margaret pulled back her eyelids to find her pupils totally dilated. She then felt for the pulse. There was none. By the time Damascus brought Shannon, Paris's wife was dead, and no matter what suspicions the shrewd redhead might have, there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it.

Paris confronted Magnus with his temper so hot, Magnus had a devil of a time calming- the irate man.

"Betrothed to whom?" Paris demanded angrily.

"I can't tell you," said Magnus pompously.

"Can't or won't?" shouted Paris.

"All right, I won't tell you," Magnus shouted back. "You think I don't know how badly you want her? I'm not blind! Give me credit for some intelligence. But the simple truth is ye have a wife, so ye cannot have her. I won't see Tabrizia a concubine, and if you love her, you'll let her make an honorable marriage."

Paris stomped out, but before the day was over, he had spoken to both Mrs. Hall and to Jasper, and he knew to whom Tabrizia was betrothed. His pride wouldn't have been mutilated if it had been a lesser man than himself. He could have scorned their choice. Pointing out the man's shortcomings would have been balm to his wounds, but Patrick Stewart was the highest in the realm. That he was darkly handsome and had a way with women made matters worse. Paris's emotions were in shreds. The wound she had opened in his heart was raw with pain.

He sought Tabrizia deliberately and found her at the Queen's Court. "So, you are betrothed to Patrick Stewart. Does it not bother you that gossip names him father of the Queen's last child?"

Tabrizia used her tongue to wound him. "Can you say truthfully that you, too, have never warmed the Queen's bed, milord? Do I detect a note of envy that your seed failed, where perhaps his did not?"

He almost struck her, but with an iron, control he stayed his hand and sneered. "How much is Magnus paying him?"

This question dismayed her greatly, but she was determined not to let him see it. She shrugged casually. "Men's lives are unfortunately ruled by economics, though I doubt even the Earl of Orkney would be rapacious enough to demand twenty thousand in gold!"

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