Page 99 of The Guardian's Bride
Would he accept it once he knew? “The pool is in Fife, Sire. The saint who blessed the spring was Queen Margaret of Scotland, later made a saint.”
Edward glared. “Scotland!”
“She was English, Your Grace,” she said in haste. “Her father was a prince and her uncle and kinsmen for generations were kings of England. Your ancestors too.”
“Huh. I know. English queen in Scotland.”
She pulled the wax from the bottle and poured some water into the goblet. The small bottle did not contain much, another risk if he did not feel better quickly. She offered him the goblet in two hands. The binding rope had left pinkish rings around her wrists. His eyes flashed there, then to Malise standing a little behind her.
“Would you care to drink, Sire?”
He wiggled his fingers and she gave him the glass. He sipped, set it down.
“Well?” he said after a moment. “I feel naught.”
“It needs time to do its work, Your Grace.”
He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I want the Rhymer’s stone.”
“Sire, I cannot—” She hesitated. Even if she was willing to use the stone for him, she would not perform a healing as if she were a jester or an alchemist at court.
Behind her, she heard footsteps and voices raised at the door of the tent. Edward looked up with a sharp glance. She whirled.
“What is that?” the king demanded. “Sir Malise, go find out.”
Outside the tent, a commotion of men shouted, moved, pushed. As Malise ran out, she saw familiar faces through the wide cloth gap. Henry! And—Aedan!
But for hishands bound in front of him, Aedan would have flattened Malise as soon as he burst out of the royal tent. As it was, Henry and Patrick each kept a grip on his arms. But Aedan pushed forward and managed to trip Malise as he came out, so that the man stumbled.
“Sorry,” Aedan said, “I forgot your limp.”
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Malise demanded.
“Bringing Aedan MacDuff, as you wanted,” Henry said.
“The patrol’s instructions were to fetch me once you had him in custody.”
“I am delivering the prisoner to King Edward personally, in my capacity as a deputy sheriff,” Henry said smoothly. “This is Sir Patrick Wemyss—sheriff of Fife.”
“We have full right to deliver a prisoner to the king,” Patrick said. “Did Edward request to see him? Or just you, Comyn?”
Malise sputtered. “You may have the rank, but your loyalty to Edward may be far less than your loyalty to Bruce. Bring him in. Guards, stand back. The king wants to see this man.” He waved Aedan and his supposed captors into the tent.
Aedan was satisfied. This was just what he wanted—the chance to stand before Edward and Malise together, especially when he saw Rowena there near the king, who sat looking slack and old.
For the rest of his life, he would swear that when she turned, there was a golden glow all about her, like a saint, like an angel. Aedan stepped into the tent, oblivious to stares and exclamations, ignoring Malise, who flapped his hands, explaining to the king—Aedan discounted even Edward, glaring at him with fiery blue eyes. They were all a noisy blur.
He saw only Rowena, and his heart near burst in his chest.
She ran to him, threw her arms around his neck, and embraced him. “Aedan—dear God, Aedan!”
“Lass,” he whispered. “Love. Are you well? Are you hurt?”
“Fine. You, are you hurt—what happened? Why are you here? They will kill you!”
“It was the only way in here. You may not like this, sweetling, but I am here to bargain my freedom for yours.”
“Do not say it,” she breathed.
