Page 5 of How to Be a Scottish Mistress

Lady Fiona bit her lower lip. “I have just begun to replenish our supplies,” she said quietly, her voice anxious. “I can give you some linen, but our stores of medicines are low. ’Twould be a waste—”

The baron held up his hand and Lady Fiona quickly fell silent. “My wife will send what we can spare.”

“The medicine will be of little use if none of you have the skills to properly use it,” Lady Fiona snapped.

A glance from the baron had her looking contrite at her sudden outburst, but Gavin wasn’t fooled. The firm set of her jaw bespoke of her true feelings on the matter.

“We know enough to drink the potions and put the salves on our wounds,” Gavin offered, attempting to break the tension.

The baron chuckled, along with a few of Gavin’s men. Lady Fiona bestowed an obliging smile in his direction, but the look in her eyes was hardly hospitable.

A prickling sensation of guilt washed over Gavin. She had a right to be upset, afraid. They were taking precious supplies, putting yet another burden upon the baron and his household. Gavin wanted to tell the lady that she would not regret her part in this, that in these uncertain times, when loyalties were tested, there was comfort to be found in acting bravely and honorably.

But the sad truth was, he could not.

Chapter 2

Summer, one year later

“Are you certain you wish to leave tomorrow, Lady Fiona? I’ve heard rumors that the king’s army will soon be marching north again. ’Tis hardly the safest time to venture across the border into Scotland.”

Fiona wiped her damp palms against her skirt and forced herself to stay calm as she gazed into the weathered face of the knight standing before her. It had taken her months to formulate this plan and even longer to put the pieces into place. Now that the moment was at hand, she must not allow anything to sway her commitment.

“I believe that King Edward is determined to lead a victorious campaign against the Scots, Sir George. Yet I fear if we wait for a safe time to make this journey, we shall never leave.” She tried smiling, but her lips refused to cooperate, doubt and fear keeping them frozen.

Sir George’s dark eyes softened. Though only of average height, he appeared larger, due to his thick, muscular build. The scars on his face and arms were a testament to his years on the battlefield, and Fiona knew she was lucky to have a loyal, honorable knight with his skills on her side. It brought a small measure of comfort to her heavily burdened heart, though in truth there was little that could be done to appease the bitterness she felt.

That some called the death of her husband and the loss of their lands a cruelty of fate was viewed by Fiona as an insult. How could an event of such anguishing loss be given such a trite explanation? No, it was not fate that brought such devastation into their lives—it was betrayal.

Fiona was convinced that somehow the alliance Henry had forged with the Scottish Earl of Kirkland had reached the ears of King Edward. Lacking any substantial proof, the king had decided not to outright accuse Henry of any wrongdoing. Instead, he had allowed Sir Roland DuPree, one of his brutish minions, to petition a blatantly false claim to their lands. And when Henry refused to yield the property, Sir Roland and his army, with the king’s silent sanction, had stormed the castle and taken it by force.

It had hardly been a fair fight. Fiona closed her eyes and once again relived the nightmare of the fateful event that had destroyed the only happiness she had ever known, forever changing her life.

It had been quiet that night—too quiet. The soldiers who stood guard in the watchtowers had died swiftly, their throats slashed to prevent a warning of the impending invasion, to delay a call to arms. Roused from their beds, Henry and his knights had fought bravely to defend the keep and protect the inhabitants, but they were no match for the men who had devised the ruthless attack.

Outnumbered and unprepared, Henry and his soldiers fell one by one. With the tide turned against them, many of the surviving guardsmen laid down their arms and pledged their allegiance to the conquering Sir Roland.

But not Sir George. He had been the first to pledge his sword to Henry’s son and heir, ten-year-old Spencer. And it was Sir George who had managed to safely spirit her and Spencer away after Henry had been fatally struck.

Sobbing and in shock, Fiona, her maid, and Father Niall had followed Sir George through the dank, musty, secret escape tunnels that ended outside the bailey walls. Together, Fiona and Father Niall carried a badly injured Spencer on a makeshift stretcher, each moan uttered from the child’s pale lips a fresh pain in Fiona’s bruised heart.

The fear had been almost paralyzing. Even now Fiona could still smell the dampness, hear the skittering sounds of the rats in the tunnel and the clash of swords from above as a few brave men fought on.

The tunnel ended in a cave, and they hid there for what felt like hours, while Sir George scouted ahead. Finally, he returned, stolen horses in hand. Just as dawn was starting to break, the weary group rode away, ears attuned to the sounds of pursuit.

Thankfully, no one followed. In her greatest time of need, Fiona had no choice but to turn to her eldest brother, Harold. They arrived at his keep six days later, exhausted and in shock. He had hardly been gracious in receiving them, but at least he had not denied them sanctuary.

“Sir George! You’re here!”

The boyish voice rang out with pure delight. Fiona turned and watched Spencer make his way across the crowded bailey. Her heart jumped with worry as it became necessary for the boy to move with speed and agility to avoid the carts, animals, and people hustling through the courtyard.

Even from this distance she could see how badly Spencer limped. The broken bones of his right leg, an injury suffered during the attack, had fused together at an odd angle, leaving it shorter than the left leg. It was a constant reminder of what they had endured, of what had been broken that could never be fully restored.

As Spencer drew closer, one of the castle hounds suddenly darted in front of him. His balance compromised, the boy’s face contorted into a grimace as he stumbled and fell. Fiona gasped, biting her lip until she tasted blood. No, she refused to cry out, to show any outward sign of distress. The last thing Spencer wanted or needed was her pity—he got that in buckets from others.

More than anything else, her child needed her to believe in him, needed to know that she had faith he would overcome this physical infirmary, that he would one day be whole again. And by God, no matter how difficult it was for her, she would give that to him.

Arms flailing, Spencer shoved the hound, who was now trying to lick his face, pushing the animal away. Though it was only a few seconds, to Fiona it felt like hours, as she watched the boy lie flat on his back, panting with the effort it took to right himself. Finally, with slow deliberate movements, Spencer rose to his feet. His misshapen grin of triumph when he regained his balance wrenched at Fiona’s heart. Swiftly, she brushed away her tears, replacing them with a confident, supportive nod.

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