Highland Hellion (Highland Weddings #3)(38)

Along with disappointment.

But she didn’t loathe the frustration nipping at her insides, at least not completely. No, she was enjoying the flickering of heat, recognizing it as passion, along with the more blunt reality of what acting upon it would entail. What made it worse was the certain knowledge that she was savoring her time with Rolfe because she knew her future would be dim indeed. Although she’d accepted that the world was not always a pleasant place, she hadn’t wanted to give up on happiness completely.

But it seemed that she had.

*

The Earl of Morton was the regent for King James the Sixth of Scotland.

Mary Stuart’s son was Scotland’s monarch, but the boy was too young to rule, and there was no way the lords of Scotland were going to allow the boy to be raised by his mother. In a way, it was sad, because Mary had been raised in France from the time she was five years old. She’d been crowned as an infant and smuggled out of the country to save her from the English.

Morton took a moment to enjoy his success. Scotland was Mary’s country once more. The English stayed on their side of the border, and he wouldn’t apologize to anyone for the means he had employed to make it so.

He was Scotland’s leader.

His only true fear was that James was growing into a young man. His blood entitled him to the crown, but Morton couldn’t help but wonder if it might be better if the boy never succeeded.

Well, he must, at some point.

And Morton would serve Scotland until the boy was a man.

Morton recalled his thoughts to the issues that needed his concern. There were the Highland clans, a topic that took a great deal of his time. For years, he’d invested his time in quelling the fighting between them. Scotland needed to be united if she were to remain strong. England’s Virgin Queen had shown him the value of letting go of wars in favor of trade.

England flourished under the rule of Elizabeth Tudor, in spite of the fact that she had not wed. In fact, she had ignored all of the rules that should have applied to her as a woman.

Morton admitted to admiring her, because her country was strong and her people fat. It made them forget she wore the crown alone and seemed in no hurry to produce an heir. In fact, the nations of Europe were all loath to make advances on her realm, so they sent suitors to try to win England by way of marriage to its queen. Elizabeth played her part to perfection, never granting a clear answer to any of those men, and so she maintained her throne without firing a single shot. The battle for England was being fought in the queen’s court, with dances and flattery.

He wanted the same for Scotland. A state of peace that would produce a society with time to invest in producing goods for trade. So the clans would cease their feuding. He’d begun on that path years before, forcing a union between the Robertsons and MacPhersons to stop their fighting. He smiled as he looked at a letter from one of his spies in the Highlands. That feud had truly been put in its grave. He wasn’t fool enough to think that the Robertsons and MacPhersons were friends, but the bloody skirmishes had ceased. They contented themselves with stealing cattle now.

That brought him to the matter of Katherine Carew.

Strange how Fate delivered matters into his hands at the proper time. Marcus MacPherson had taken the girl home with him instead of wedding her as Morton had ordered the man to do. True, she’d been too young, but when it came to securing Scotland, Morton couldn’t afford to be too particular. He had to use the means available. Katherine was the natural daughter of the Earl of Bedford, one of Elizabeth Tudor’s privy councillors.

Scotland needed alliances, and Morton wanted the Highland clans to be aware of the power of the crown. He looked over the demand from Laird McTavish. He didn’t care for it, but he admitted to admiration for the man’s ability to see the girl’s value.

Which was her father’s blue blood.

Morton snapped his fingers at his secretary. “We will send a letter to the Earl of Bedford.”

His secretary never questioned him. The man withdrew a sheet of parchment and dipped a quill into his inkwell, waiting for Morton to begin. The chamber was full of the scratching of the quill until Morton was satisfied. He had the secretary read the letter back before moving over to the desk and waiting while the man lifted a small silver ladle sitting beneath a candle flame to keep the wax hot. The secretary poured it carefully onto a place at the bottom of the letter. It beaded, while the candle flame glittered off its surface. Morton curled his fingers into a fist and pressed his signet ring into the wax. It stung his knuckles, but didn’t burn because his skin had been toughened by the numerous times he’d sealed letters. When he lifted his hand, the crest of the King of Scotland was firmly displayed in the cooled wax.

Yes.

It was a good plan. The secretary rolled the letter and placed it in a leather case, ready for a messenger to carry to the border. Part of the Earl of Morton didn’t care for the English any more than his fellow Scots did, but countless centuries of war had yielded nothing and he’d be a fool to ignore that fact. Perhaps it was more a matter of better the devil he knew. The English were demons, and it would be better to have alliances with them than to deal with their armies marching onto Scottish soil.

So Morton chose the alliances.

And he would have one with the Earl of Bedford.

*

Rolfe didn’t ride to Edinburgh.

Katherine found herself in yet another stronghold, with another clan filling the yard to stare at her curiously.