He went to stand in front of Glynis and took her hands. Though there was nothing more he could do for her, he felt unsettled leaving her.
Despite the panic in Glynis’s eyes, she would be fine. She was the most capable and determined woman he’d ever met. This sweet auntie would prove no challenge for a lass who put a blade into one Highland warrior and convinced another to take her across the breadth of Scotland. In a week’s time, Glynis would have this household running like she thought it ought—and the Humes would be the better for it.
No matter what Glynis believed now, Alex was certain she would end up married again. Any man who wanted a wife would be a fool to pass her by. The next time Alex saw her—if he ever saw her again—she would belong to another man.
“I wish ye happy, Glynis,” he said, squeezing her hands. “Ye deserve it.”
“You as well,” she said, her voice a bare whisper.
Since they were not related, it was not proper for him to kiss her cheek. But when had he cared about propriety? He cupped her face and pressed his lips against the soft skin of her cheek for the last time. Despite the foul city air, her hair still smelled of the pine needles they had slept on the night before.
“I’ll miss sleeping with ye,” he whispered in her ear to make her blush.
But that was not all he would miss. For the first time in his life, Alex was close to making a fool of himself over a woman.
He was escaping just in time.
CHAPTER 18
After checking on Rosebud and Buttercup, Alex paid for a bed and a bath at the tavern. An hour later, he was on his way to Holyrood Palace. He tried to pry his mind away from Glynis and focus his thoughts on his meeting with the regent. But he felt on edge, as if he had left Glynis in the hands of pirates instead of her sweet aunt.
Fortunately, Alex was at his best when acting on his instincts. If Connor wanted someone who would plan it all out ahead of time like a chess game, he should have sent Ian or come himself. Alex’s goal was clear: reassure the Crown that his clan did not support the rebellion, while avoiding any specific commitment to fight the rebels.
As for his personal business, he’d lost interest in Sabine’s gift, whatever it was. Still, it had been foolish to arrive on the very last day of July and risk missing her. He had slowed his pace to spend a couple more nights with Glynis.
Ach, he hardly knew himself. And now, he felt irritable that Glynis had made no fuss when he left her. What had he expected? That Glynis would weep and beg for him to stay? There was no point in that.
The guards at the palace gate were MacKenzies, with whom his clan had no current feud, so they let him pass with no difficulty. At the entrance to the palace building, Alex found the Scottish court guarded by Frenchmen. This annoyed him, though he should have expected it. The new regent had spent little time in Scotland and spoke neither Scots nor Gaelic. According to the tavern keeper, the regent had brought a huge entourage with him from France, including jugglers, for God’s sake.
“Your weapons,” one of the guards said to him in French.
As Alex unstrapped his claymore, he scanned the crowded hall. Sabine had mentioned in her letter that D’Arcy, a French nobleman Alex had fought with in France, was here with the French contingent. Since both D’Arcy and Sabine knew the regent well, he hoped to get advice from one of them before his audience.
“Those as well,” the guard said, pointing at the dirks that hung from Alex’s belt.
Alex removed them, since he had no choice if he wanted to go inside.
“Your name and your business?” one of the other guards demanded.
“I am Alexander MacDonald of Sleat.”
Before he could state his business, the guards began shouting. “Il est un MacDonald!” He is a MacDonald! “Un rebelle!” A rebel!
In an instant, two dozen guards surrounded him with their swords drawn.
O shluagh. Alex briefly considered fighting his way out, but killing a few of the regent’s guards inside the royal palace probably would not serve his clan well. Still, a man couldn’t be faulted for throwing a few punches.
From the guards’ excited shouts as they dragged him up the stairs, Alex gathered that they thought he was Alexander MacDonald of Dunivaig and the Glens, who was one of the rebel chieftains. Apparently they didn’t know that half the warriors in the Western Isles were named Alexander or Donald after former Lords of the Isles.
Alex suspected he would have his audience with the regent sooner than expected.
The guards led him through double doors into an elaborately decorated parlor—painted pink, no less. Inside, courtiers and ladies dressed in silks hovered around a man in an ornate chair who had the beard and shrewd blue eyes of a Stewart. So this must be John Stewart, who was the Duke of Albany, the current regent, and third in line to the throne after the two royal babes.
When the two guards holding Alex’s arms attempted to toss him onto the floor at the regent’s feet, Alex knocked their heads together and let them fall. He glared over his shoulder at the other guards before dropping to his knee.
“Your Grace,” Alex said in French. “Your men have mistaken me for a rebel leader because the fools don’t know one damned MacDonald clan from another.”
Albany raised his eyebrows. Whether it was in admiration for his perfect French or because he had called Albany’s guards fools, Alex didn’t much care.
