Page 24 of The Scottish Bride
“So you do not admit to a gift of prophecy? Your husband said you have the tendency. He was not keen on it. But I rather think the king would be interested to know you are very much like your great-grandsire. He likes—to know the future.”
“I cannot do that.”Not that I understand myself. Certainly not on command.
“The king would be pleased. But he thinks you are an old woman.” He laughed. “When he finds out—well, you can win his favor.”
“I do not want his favor.” She smoothed over her arms where he had gripped her.
“And if he wants me to marry you, he will be disappointed.”
“Not just that. He wants the Rhymer’s book.”
She looked up, stilled, her heart pounding. “Book?”
“Your husband said you possess a certain book. Edward wants it.”
Inwardly she reeled, grateful that Oonagh buttressed her. “Which book is that? I have many.”
“Sir John said you have a book of the Rhymer’s prophecies. Edward wants it. In return, you will have his thanks.”
“He cannot order me to give up my books.”
“But I can. A husband has the right to his wife’s possessions.”
“Sir John misunderstood what I have. Just a few of Thomas’s songs and poems. Only a bard would be interested in those.” Her mind raced. Something told her not to reveal that what she had was a collection of Thomas the Rhymer’s prophecies, written on scraps of parchment and cloth over the many years of his life.
What had Sir John truly known of her work? He rarely asked what she worked on with her pages and inks. She thought he understood only that she wrote about her great-grandfather. He had called her a little monk and left her to it.
The harper,she thought suddenly. The man who had died—he had wanted something too, had a message for her. Did it also have to do with the Rhymer’s work? Her heart pounded. She had given old Thomas her solemn promise to care for his work, to prepare clean pages, to protect his legacy. His family’s legacy.Edward of England had no right to that. Only Thomas’s kinfolk had the right.
“Give me the pages of the Rhymer’s prophecies.” Malise moved toward her.
“I do not have them,” she blurted. “I gave them to a bookseller for the pages to be trimmed and bound.” That was true. She had given the bookman a sheaf of pages to preserve for her family. Only for them.
“Where is this fellow?”
“I—I think he has a shop in Edinburgh,” she said, flustered. “Selkirk too. He promised to deliver the book when the work was done.”
“You lie,” he ground out.
“I never lie.” She stared, direct and defiant. She had said too much, she realized. But the Rhymer’s blood flowed in her veins. Truth ran through her very being.
“A bookseller who also binds books should be easy enough to find in those towns. If I cannot get the pages, I shall bringyouto Edward to prophesy for him.”
She drew a shaky breath. “A lot of trouble for a few songs. We are done here. Good night, sir.” She began to move away, the dog with her. Malise grabbed her arm again, and Oonagh gave a throaty woof.
“Listen to me,” Malise said. “We will marry, or I will burn Dalrinnie to the ground. We will marry, or I will see the Keiths destroyed.” His eyes went cold. His grip tightened. “You will tell the king what he wants to know—the defeat of Scotland. And, devil take it, I will have that book of you soon.”
“Let go.” She wrenched away, surprised he allowed it.
“Sir Malise.” Siward approached. Tamsin looked up in relief. “Sir, we would ask for your opinion on this map.” He glanced at Tamsin. “My lady?”
Campbell was just behind him. “My lady, you look pale. You should rest.”
“Aye. Thank you. Good night,” she said in haste, turning away. The dog followed.
“Sir Malise,” Campbell said behind her. “The lady seems upset.”
“The king’s orders surprised her. But his decision is in her best interest.”
