Shannon Drake - The Queen's Lady

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Joan Hammond, Judy DeWitt

and Kristi and Brian Ahlers, with love and

thanks for always being so wonderfully supportive

PROLOGUE

PART I: Homecoming

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

PART II: The Queen Triumphant

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PART III: Passion and Defeat

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Before the fire

GWENYTH HEARD THE SOUND of footsteps and the clang of metal, and knew the guards were on their way to her cell.

Her time had come.

Despite knowing since the beginning that she was doomed, despite her determination to die defiant, scornful and with dignity, she felt her blood grow cold and congeal in her veins. Easy to be brave before the time, but now, faced with the reality of the moment, she was terrified.

She closed her eyes, seeking strength.

At least she could stand on her own two feet. She would not have to be dragged out to the pyre like so many pathetic souls who had been “led” into confession. Those who had seen the evil of their ways through the thumbscrews, the rack or any of the other methods used to encourage a prisoner to talk, could rarely walk on their own. She had given her interrogators what they had wanted from the beginning, standing tall and, she hoped, making a mockery of her judges through her sarcastic confession. She had saved the Crown a great deal of money, since the monsters who tortured prisoners to draw out the truth had to be paid for their heinous work.

And she had saved herself the ignominy of being dragged—broken, bleeding and disfigured—to the stake.

Another clank of metal, and footsteps drawing closer.

Breathe, she commanded herself. She could and would die with dignity. She was whole, and she had to be grateful that she could walk to her execution, having seen what they were capable of doing. But the terror….

She stood as straight as a ramrod, not from pride but because she had grown so cold it was as if she were made of ice, unable to bend. Not for long, though, she mocked herself. The flames would quickly thaw her with their deep and deadly caress. Instead of adding to the agony of the punishment, further torturing the doomed and broken souls delivered to their kiss, the flames were meant to see that such damned creatures were destroyed completely, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Before the flames were ignited, the condemned was usually strangled. Usually.

But when the judges were infuriated, the flames might be lit too quickly, without allowing the executioner time to hasten the end and lessen the agony. She had made enemies. She had spoken up for others; she had fought for herself. Her death was unlikely to be quick.

She’d made too many enemies, and that had led to her conviction and impending death. It had been easy to put the pieces together—after her arrest.

There were many who believed in the devil, believed that witchcraft was the source of all evil in the world—including the queen Gwenyth had served with such loyalty. They believed that mankind was weak, that Satan came in the night, that pacts were signed in blood, and curses and spells cast upon the innocent. They thought confession could save the eternal soul, that excruciating torture and death were the only way back into the arms of the Almighty. In fact, they were in the majority, for now; in Scotland and most of Europe, the practice of witchcraft was a capital crime.

She was not guilty of witchcraft, and her judges knew it. Her crime was one of loyalty, of love for a queen who, with her reckless passions, had damned them all.

Not that the cause mattered, nor the sham of a trial and the cruelty of the judgment against her. She was about to die. That was the only thing that mattered now.

Would she falter? What would happen when she felt the scorching touch of the first flames? Would she scream? Of course she would; she would be in agony.

She had been right and righteous.

Little good that did now.

And beyond the fear of death and pain, she was sorry. She hadn’t realized how much she had traded away in adhering to her ideals. The pain of what she was leaving behind had become a ragged, bleeding wound in her heart, burning as if salt had been poured on the tender flesh. Nothing they were about to do to her body could be as heinous as the agony tearing at her soul. For once she was gone….

What would happen to Daniel?

Nothing, surely. God could not be so cruel. The trial, the execution…they were meant to silence her and her alone. Daniel was safe. He was with those who loved him, and surely his father would allow no harm to befall him. No matter what she had done or how she had defied him.

The footsteps came closer, stopped just outside her cell. For a moment she was blinded by the light of the lantern they had brought with them into the darkness of the dungeon. She could tell there were three of them, but nothing more. Then her vision cleared and for a moment her heart took flight.

He was there.

Surely he could not mean for her life to end this way. Despite his anger, his warnings, his threats, he couldn’t have intended this. He had told her often enough—accurately, she had to admit—that she was far too like the queen she had served, rashly speaking her mind and blind to the dangers inherent in such honesty. But still, could he really be a part of this charade, this spectacle of political injustice and machination? He had held her in his arms, given her a brief, shimmering glimpse of how the heart could rule the mind, how passion could destroy sanity, how love could sweep away all sense.

They had shared so much. Too much.

And yet…

Men could betray one another as quickly as the wind shifted. For their own lives, for the sake of position and wealth, property and prosperity. Was he indeed a part of this travesty? For she had not been mistaken.

Rowan was here in all his grandeur. His wheaten hair was golden in the flickering torchlight, and he epitomized nobility in every way—kilted in his colors, a sweeping, fur-trimmed cape adding to the breadth of his swordsman’s shoulders. He stood before her now, flanked by her judge and her executioner, chiseled features grim and condemning, eyes as dark as coal, cold and disdainful. Long fingers of ice reached up and gripped her heart. How foolish she had been to believe he had come to her rescue.

He had not come to help her but to further condemn her. He was not immune to the political machinations of the day. Like so many of the nobility, with skills honed through years of bloodshed, he was adept at straddling a wall, then landing on the winning side in battle, whether on the field or in the halls of government.

She stared at him without moving, the other men invisible to her. She forced herself to ignore her own filthy and disheveled state—clothing torn and damp, crusted with the dirt and mold of her dungeon cell. She refused to allow herself to falter beneath his stare. Despite the rags that clung to her now, she remained still and regal, determined to end her life with grace. He watched her, his scorching blue eyes so dark with condemnation that they appeared to her like stygian pits, a glimpse into the hell into which she would find herself cast once she had breathed her last in this life and endured the final agony of the fire.

She met his look with scorn, barely aware that the judge was reading the accusation and the sentence, informing her that the time had come.