Angus glared at her when she did not greet him but remarkably remained silent.
Aileen held out a hand, her smile forced. “Will you walk with me, Janet?”
A chill of unease slithered down her spine at the odd request. They really didn’t have anything to discuss that required privacy. “Why?”
“Just over here for a bit,” Aileen coaxed. “Come along, now.”
Janet glanced back at her lovers. Marjorie shook her head, her eyes pleading and face even paler than before. Lachlan’s hand moved to his sword hilt, his gaze menacing as it rested on the Campbells, but he, too, said nothing. “I’d rather not. I’m here with Sir Lachlan and Lady Marjorie.”
“You must!” shrieked Aileen as she grabbed Janet’s arm and yanked her away from the group.
In the blink of an eye, hell unleashed.
Men appeared. So many men, wearing the royal livery and armed with swords. Lachlan pulled Marjorie behind him and unsheathed his own sword, looking ready to slay each and every one, but the men stood shoulder to shoulder and continued to advance, trapping the two against a wooden fence.
Horror engulfed Janet like a sodden cloak, dark and suffocating. “Aileen. What have you done?”
“I did it for us,” her former lover hissed. “A lady deserves so much better than the forced company of a traitor’s daughter and a bastard knight. They shame you. And have betrayed your trust. Did you know they were seen marrying in this town? Against the queen’s command? They are traitors! But do not worry; I shall protect you. Your very own Aileen, who loves you still. And you’ll forget them soon enough.”
Swallowing hard against the bile threatening to choke her, Janet shook her head. “No. No.”
But her words were swept away by the cool sea breeze. The townspeople had fled; the tradesmen and merchants cowered behind their stalls. No one would come to their aid. It would have to be her, and her alone.
“Sir Lachlan Ross!” bellowed one of the liveried strangers. “Lay down your sword in the name of Queen Margaret.”
“No,” snarled Lachlan. “I protect my own.”
“Have a care for life and limb. You and Lady Marjorie Hepburn—”
“Ross,” said Marjorie defiantly as she curled her hand around Lachlan’s left arm. “My name is Lady Marjorie Ross.”
Ignoring her words, the young man instead unrolled a piece of parchment. “Sir Lachlan Ross. Lady Marjorie Hepburn. You stand accused of unlawful acts and offenses against the crown. You shall stand trial one week hence and until that time shall be confined to the dungeon below St. Andrews castle—”
Dungeon!
“They will not!” said Janet sharply as she wrenched away from the woman now her sworn enemy. For Aileen to conspire with the English-born queen, to commit such a heinous act of betrayal against Marjorie and Lachlan for her own selfish ends—unforgivable.
“Madam. I am ordered—”
“Do not dare madam me, laddie,” snapped Janet, marching straight to him and poking his lean chest with one finger. “You know who I am?”
He gulped. “Aye, Lady Janet.”
“Then you understand I have the king’s ear, his great favor, and know his mind. Do you truly believe His Grace would permit his champion and his ward to be held in a dungeon?”
“Queen Margaret did so order,” protested the young man weakly.
Janet itched to slap him a dozen times, to scream in her righteous fury and agonizing fear. But only a cool head, a steely spine, would win this day. “That may be how matters progress in England. Are you certain our enlightened, anointed Scottish sovereign is fully aware of the young queen’s barbaric plan?”
“Uh…”
“Save your own neck, lad. Do not act in haste but confine the two so accused in chambers at my estate. There we can await the king’s orders and ensure all due process for a celebrated knight and a lady born.”
He turned to confer with his men, and Janet looked over at Lachlan and Marjorie, trying to convey without words her unwavering support, her affection, her determination to defy the devil-spawned Margaret Tudor until she drew her last breath.
After an eternity, the queen’s man turned back. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “We’ll send word to His Grace and await him at your estate. Any trouble, though, and it will be the dungeon for them both.”
Marjorie trembled, but she raised her chin, and Lachlan inclined his head before turning and very deliberately kissing her on the lips, another defiance and the act of an unashamed and affectionate husband. Then, he slowly sheathed his sword.
Relief at the respite she’d gained nearly sent Janet to her knees, but she could not falter.
The sternest battle of her life lay ahead: defeat the queen and win freedom for her lovers or be defeated…and lose them forever.
Chapter Twelve
After weeks of freedom, to be imprisoned again was unbearable. Although saints and Janet be praised, she’d been confined the past two days to a comfortably furnished chamber rather than a dungeon.
A dungeon.
Marjorie pressed her knuckles to her lips to halt a wave of nausea. She might still be sent there if Queen Margaret had her way. The king’s English wife was young, but she had a firm opinion on her superiority over anyone not of Tudor blood. She’d also already proven that she did not tolerate disobedience and would punish infractions in the harshest of ways.
Now, Marjorie’s only hope, and indeed Lachlan’s only hope—the brave, strong warrior who had sacrificed all to help her—was the king’s prerogative of mercy. Which he might not be at all inclined to grant, considering she had wed without his permission and ruined a much-needed alliance with an English border lord.
A sharp trumpet blast clawed her already shredded nerves, and she rushed to the window to see the king, queen, and a long retinue of others on horseback, plus several wagons, approach the manor.
The day of reckoning had arrived. And she had no idea what to do or what to say. Trays of food and watered wine had been delivered by
