Malcolm pulled a neatly folded vellum packet from his sporran before taking a seat and accepting an ale from Robley. The packet was sealed with wax imprinted with the Douglas crest. “The rumors are true. Our James is to wed a Sassenach, Joan Beaufort, the daughter of the earl of Somerset. Since our king is marrying into English aristocracy, they are finally amenable to negotiating his freedom.
“Archibald has been arranging James’s ransom in secret. He’s forming a contingency of Scottish nobles to finalize the treaty.” Malcolm pushed the sealed vellum across the table to his father. “This missive gives the details. The earl of Douglas wishes you to join the delegation traveling to London within the month. He’ll send word when all is in place.”
His father opened the vellum and read it through.
“Will you join them?” Malcolm asked.
“I will.” He handed the missive to his brother. “Robert, I want you to accompany me.”
“Who will act as steward in my absence?” Robert asked.
“Your lads have trained at your knee since they were bairns. ’Tis time they had the chance to prove their mettle.” He grinned at Liam and Robley. “Malcolm, you will act in my stead while I’m away. Nephews, I’ll depend upon you both to take up your father’s responsibilities. For eighteen years our king has been imprisoned by the Sassenach. For eighteen years we’ve been under the ruthless thumb of our self-appointed regent, the duke of Albany. ’Tis high time our king came home to rule.”
“Aye, and the Comyn clan will at last be exposed for the traitorous lot they’ve always been.” Malcolm grinned. “Speaking of Comyns, have you discovered any more of their men lurking about in our absence, Father?”
“Nay, not since we increased the number of our garrison billeting in the village.”
“Good. Will you take Mother with you to London?” Malcolm asked.
“Nay, the unrest in Britain since King Henry’s death is reason enough to leave her here. The palace must be rife with intrigue and treachery. His heir, the young Henry, is no’ yet fully weaned from the teat. Were it not for James and the future of Scotland, I’d have no wish to go myself.” He shook his head. “Besides, as you know, your mother has no love for that cesspool and even less for travel.” His father fixed him with a pointed look. “What of the earl of Douglas’s niece?”
“She will not suit,” Malcolm answered tersely.
“I grow impatient for grandchildren, and you need heirs, Malcolm. I agreed to let you choose your own bride with the understanding ’twould be done in a timely manner.” His father scrutinized him. “What happened to your lip?”
“Uncle William,” Robley said, grinning from ear to ear, “you must ask Malcolm what we found by the side of the road on our journey home.”
“What has that to do with my finding a wife?” Malcolm shot his cousin a dark look.
Alethia studied the great hall in amazement. A fireplace massive enough to roast a whole hog filled one end of the room, and the opposite wall boasted another hearth just as large. The acoustics in this place must be outstanding. Exquisite tapestries depicting hunting scenes in rich crimsons, golds, blues and greens adorned the walls, along with weaponry of all sorts and shields bearing two distinct crests. Being torn from her life was frightening and horrific, but to see something like this castle, to exist in this time after years and years of fascination with everything having to do with this historical era—it truly filled her with awe. She’d treasure this memory for the rest of her life once she got home, and she would get home.
The sudden sting behind her eyes brought her back to more practical matters. What was Malcolm’s position in the scheme of things? His arrogance and the way he strode through the bailey, the deferential greetings he’d received and how he went so freely up the stairs leading to the castle’s private chambers could only mean one thing—Alpha-Jerk had to be family. “Figures.”
Eager to test the hall’s acoustics, Alethia retrieved her violin case and looked around for the most advantageous place to play. Reverently, she placed the case on the trestle table and undid the latches. One look at the eighteenth-century German violin, with its reddish brown varnish and inlaid rosewood edging, and the link to her real life snapped back into place. Once she held the instrument in her hands, everything inside her settled. Her violin, the last gift she’d ever received from her father, always brought her comfort.
Stomping her foot, she listened for reverberation, repeating the process as she walked around the room until she’d chosen a spot before the dais. She tightened and rosined the bow, and struck the tuning fork against the edge of the table, tuning her instrument with practiced precision.