Heaven and the Heather by Elizabeth Holcombe Page B

before turning his broad back to her.
    He took a deliberate, direct path to the door. Was leaving just as difficult for him as it was for her? She had to erase such thoughts. Sabine glanced at her right hand. She grasped a fistful of bedclothes and squeezed tightly. Strength. Sweet Saint Giles give me…strength.
    “Rory, get yer hands out of the lassie’s skirts,” Niall ordered his friend. “Let’s away to the queen.”
    Strength. Sabine squeezed harder. The pain wrapped around her hand and seared up her arm. She willed herself to remember something pleasant, anything. All she saw was Niall’s back as he stepped to her chamber door.
    Then he paused and said, “Oh, to find peace where death haunts me not, ’tis best my blade stills my heart.” He slowly turned to face her from across the chamber.
    “You spoke those words during the comédie ,” she said, releasing the bedclothes. The pain remained. “They were your own, were they not?”
    “Aye,” he said, “they were.”
    The pain ebbed away as Sabine considered the words, so poignant, so beautiful, so much from the Highlander’s heart. “Do you believe you will die if you cannot find peace?” she asked. “Why do you want me to know this?”
    “Because it is why I must see the queen.”
    “She will be angered that you have broken into her masque. You could be imprisoned or die.”
    “Would she have given me an invitation?” he asked, stance so stiff and firm on the rush carpet.
    Sabine shook her head. “Of course not.”
    “Yet, you gave me an invitation,” he said.
    “You have my sac , I had no choice.”
    He paused, hand on the latch. “I will give it back to ye.” He opened the door and slipped out, his friend behind him. “Yer hope lies within.”
    Sabine gasped. Damn him for knowing her mind! And bless him.
    Niall, a contradiction in plaid, a cretin with culture, had left her more confused than in her entire life. He walked a strange and crooked path, one that was so intriguing it made her ache with longing to know where it would lead.
    As much as she hated to admit it, Niall MacGregor was far more a noble than a savage. Perchance that was what he wanted her to believe all along.
    But would Her Majesty believe the same? Sabine trembled. She slipped off the bed to prepare to return to the masque. Soon, she feared, she would have her answer.

chapter 5

    Audience for an Outlaw

    N iall and Rory hunkered in a niche in the great hall. They wore their masks and shared the dark, cramped space with a massive iron candle holder, the candles long gutted. There were many other candles lit, too many, illuminating the vast space. They had found the only safe place in which to observe the revelers. And for Niall to gather his wits. He would have one chance with the queen this night, best he make it a good one.
    “So, now what do we do?” Rory asked. He glanced quickly at the door they had just come through.
    “I ken yer mind,” Niall whispered. “Ye wish to return to that French lass.”
    “She seemed willing enough. But I’m no’ the only one who was captured by the French.”
    “One sympathetic member of the queen’s court could bode well for our clan.”
    “Is she? Sympathetic to our clan, I mean?”
    Niall stared at the door more than a dozen paces away. Sabine entered, mask on her face. “I don’t know,” he replied.

    S abine glanced about the great hall. Niall was not in sight. Had he found common sense and abandoned his futile plan? She glanced anxiously toward the throne where Mary sat with her escort. Niall was not there stating his case. She knew he would try to do so, and soon. The summer sky in his fierce, determined stare had told her so. It had stolen her breath, and she would never forget it. Soon, she hoped to sketch it from her memory.
    Sabine walked stiffly toward the queen. She wanted to be near her when Niall returned.
    Lord Campbell suddenly stepped in front of her. He was breathing hard and smelled of the garden.