Page 3 of How to Be a Scottish Mistress

Light-headed, Fiona struggled to release the breath she was holding. Who was this fierce stranger? Someone Henry knew, yet hardly the friend he claimed. Though their weapons were lowered, there was no doubt this man would fight if challenged. Or insulted?

Fiona pushed away the newest fear that had taken root in her brain, knowing it would be foolhardy to add more drama to an already puzzling situation.

“You’re on my land,” Henry declared flatly. “I would have thought that would be a clue to my identity, forgoing the need to attack.”

“We dinnae attack, we surprised ye.” Kirkland’s lips rose into a slight grin, but the hardened glimmer in his eyes revealed he felt little mirth.

Henry let out a snort. “You frightened my wife,” he persisted, and Fiona nearly groaned. Why would he not leave the matter alone? They were outnumbered and vulnerable. Did he not realize the danger? “Are you hurt, Fiona?”

All eyes turned toward her. It would be madness to admit the truth, so instead Fiona lifted her chin and smiled. “I’m fine,” she lied, ignoring the throbbing of her wrist.

“I fear I was too harsh in my treatment of ye, Lady Fiona. ’Tis not my usual way to accost a gentlewoman.”

The words were spoken with a gentle flourish, and accompanied by a courtly bow, but the Scot’s face remained stoic and impossible to read. Fiona felt her cheeks turn hot and she silently cursed her keen eyesight. If she had not caught a glimpse of the feverfew from the road, they never would have stopped and gotten into this mess.

“Why are you here, lurking in my woods?” Henry asked. “’Tis hardly our usual method of contact.”

“We had to come farther south than we intended in order to avoid some nasty business at Methven. I can assure ye, we willnae be here much longer. Just until we know it’s safe to return home.”

Henry’s eyes filled with surprise. “You fought at Methven?”

“Aye.” Kirkland’s upper lip twitched. “My men did me proud.”

“We were defeated,” one of the brigands declared bitterly.

“We were deceived,” another protested hotly, before spitting on the ground. “The English refused an honorable challenge to meet us on the field of battle, preferring instead to act like cowards, invade our camp, attack at dawn, and slaughter us while we slept.”

Henry’s eyebrows rose. “No quarter was given?”

“None,” the earl replied, his tone flat. “Most of those who escaped have fled to the Highlands. But I must return home, to defend my lands and protect my people.”

Henry stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So, you’ve finally decided to pledge your sword to the Bruce? ’Tis a gamble.”

The earl shrugged. “An abundance of caution has kept us under England’s thumb fer too long. I might not always agree with his methods, but I believe the Bruce is Scotland’s best chance fer freedom. At the very least, we deserve to have our own king.”

Fiona was surprised to see the hint of sympathy in her husband’s eyes. It was a well-known fact that King Edward was determined to exert his authority over Scotland and expected the Scots to pay homage to him. As a loyal subject of the king, Fiona had always believed that Henry supported that position.

“Not all your countrymen are in agreement that Bruce is the man who should wear the Scottish crown,” Henry said. “I heard the MacNabs and the MacDougalls fought alongside the English at Methven, against King Robert.”

“’Tis true.” The earl shrugged again, his brows pulling together in a frown. “Led by John MacDougall of Lorne himself. He’s driven by blood vengeance and means to have it. Ye’ll not find a more formidable foe in all the land.”

Henry snorted. “Sacrilegious murder of one’s nephew in a churchyard will do that to a man.”

Fiona crossed herself. She remembered well hearing of this abomination against man and God. Robert the Bruce was one of several claimants to the Scottish crown. He had disposed of his main rival, John “the Red” Comyn, by calling him to a meeting at a church and then killing him.

This barbaric act served to solidify in Fiona’s mind what the English believed for decades about their northern neighbors—for all their profession of faith, the Scots were a heathen people. Yet somehow Henry had befriended one?

“The Bruce’s cause was just,” the earl admonished. “He and Comyn had signed an agreement to unite the clans and gain independence. To secure the crown fer himself, Comyn saw fit to share a copy of that agreement with the English king. A clear act of treason.”

“Perhaps,” Henry conceded, though his expression remained skeptical. “Though it is now Bruce, and his followers, who are labeled traitors after being defeated in battle. Still, I believe that all men must choose their own path in this life, though it behooves them to remember they will answer to God in the next.”

“My conscience is clear,” Kirkland said coolly, an unmistakable edge in his tone.

Henry was silent as he studied the other man. Finally he spoke. “What do you want from me?”

“Safe haven in yer forest fer a few days—a week at most.”

Henry nodded and a chill swept through Fiona. Knowingly harbor wanted men on their land? Was he mad? If it were ever discovered, such an act would surely bring the full wrath of the king down upon them all.

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