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  Rogue Highlander

  Played Like a Fiddle

  By: Sondra Grey

  ROGUE HIGHLANDER

  Played Like a Fiddle

  Chapter 1

  I t was an hour past the usual dining time and the king had still not emerged. The court was beginning to get anxious, the din was loud enough to cover the sounds of the desperate quartet in the corner.

  Black Brandon Cameron looked on the poor players with barely concealed disdain. Oh, he had sympathy for the poor wretches – they were no doubt told to stall – but an hour is a long time to stall when fifty-plus courtiers had yet to eat their dinner. The poor violinist’s bow was nearly bare of horsehair, so long had they been sawing away. No doubt the man would have blisters. Brandon rubbed at his own calluses, remembering the night, two years ago, when he’d drunk himself into oblivion and played for hours on end – played as if possessed by the devil himself. He’d woken up with his fingers raw and oozing. He hadn’t been able to touch the damned instrument for weeks afterward.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Brandon leaned against the wall and wondered what calamity had beset the King. James was nothing if not aware of procedure. Only an emergency would take him away from his courtly schedule. Brandon wondered whether he had the balls to be the first to leave the hall. No, indeed he did not. Not when he served at the King’s pleasure.

  Picking his nails, Brandon eased off the wall and began to circle, eavesdropping. Before he’d been exiled to that damned isle, he’d been his father’s most effective spy: a suitable position for a bastard-born son who’d grown up in the shadows.

  As part of Lochiel Cameron’s tentative truce with the crown of Scotland, King James had demanded Lochiel Cameron part with one of his sons. Lochiel had given him Brandon. Brandon could still freshly remember the day his father sailed onto the isle to tell Brandon the news:

  “James wants men for his French War. He’s promised us a good chunk of Mackenzie territory in exchange for settling with the Campbells and the Macleans. And a hostage, of course, for good behavior. Can you guess who the king demanded? Of all my sons, he wanted the Bastard Brandon. Why on earth might he want that?” Lochiel had stared down his son with cold, grey eyes, eyes that Brandon knew he’d see if he looked into a mirror.

  Brandon had given his father his most insolent shrug. “How would I know? I’ve not left the island for 1,110 days.”

  But Brandon was decently sure he knew who was behind the King’s request. Maclean. In return for the little Brandon had been able to do while Lochiel held Maclean’s wife captive on Adam’s isle.

  Brandon grinned, thinking about the incident. No doubt Maclean was furious that Lochiel escaped the King’s justice and was rewarded a fat piece of land in the bargain. Brandon, on the other hand, had traded one prison for the next. After the solitude of the Isle of Ruim, the noise and garish abundance of court was entirely too much to handle. So, Brandon went about his old routines, those he’d been trained to before he’d betrayed his brother Eudard to the Campbells. He strolled the room, collecting snippets of conversation, storing them away for a time when they might be useful.

  Black Brandon Cameron had a terrific memory.

  “What do you think is keeping the king?”

  “…daresay not his wife that keeps him abed…”

  “Can you believe he kept Melisande Beaumont in Sterling? The queen must be beside herself with jealousy…”

  “…any day they’ll declare war with the French, and then what will we do?”

  “…I’d be willing to guess it has to do with that rider who came in from the coast…”

  Brandon stopped, dipping his head to one of Margaret’s ladies in waiting, who stared at him with curiosity before moving on.

  “…saw Argyle storming up the walk with the messenger hot on his heels. Poor man looked wrecked with nerves. As if the king were ever known to kill the messenger!”

  The young woman, nearing her group of friends now, looked over her shoulder again, as if checking to make sure she’d really seen Brandon. He smiled at her and she looked away, heat staining her cheeks.

  Brandon could almost read her thoughts. She was wondering if she’d seen him before, why she might not have noticed him at court. No doubt she was asking her friends at that very moment. There’d been quite a stir when Brandon had appeared at court, but the stir had died down almost as soon as it had risen. Brandon was nothing if not good at keeping to the shadows.

  He had a theory that it was why the King had agreed to take him on as hostage. James was Fox enough to out-maneuver Lochiel, he had to know Brandon’s talents and plan on using them.

  Brandon wondered what message the man from the isles might have brought. Despite years having passed since James annexed the isles, decimating the Macdonald’s and splitting lands between Gordon and Argyll, he was still having problems with the territories.

  Brandon shook his head, watching as a moor wandered by with three matrons in tow, demanding he recount the tail of the African pirates. What a circus it was in here! Almost every night there was some new entertainment. And with James’s birthday coming up, the city was full of acts trying to gain admittance into the castle, to perform for the king and earn invitations to return.

  The clocks in the hall chimed the hour. The murmuring grew louder with people staring at the door, wondering who might be the first to leave. Brandon was now seriously considering attempting it. He figured he had a fifty percent chance of making it out unnoticed.

  But as if the clocks had summoned him, the door opened and James emerged from his chambers, fresh faced and beaming as if nothing was wrong, as if he were right on time. Behind him, the Earl of Argyll’s face was carefully blank, his eyes scanning the hall as if searching for someone.

  Brandon felt it when they landed on him: like patches of snow blooming on his brow. He met Argyll’s eyes and was surprised when the Earl held his gaze a moment before wandering off. Brandon inhaled. Something was afoot, and he had a feeling he was about to find out what.

  Chapter 2

  “I heard the king is terribly handsome,” whispered Glenna into my ear as our wagon bounced over the ruts in the road.

  “And you think he might be interested in the likes of you?” called Madame Babette from her seat inside the wagon.

  Glenna tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and stuck her nose in the air, and when Madame Babette went back to grumbling, she leaned back over to me, her voice a whisper. “And why wouldn’t he be!?”

  I had to admit, Glenna was attractive and many men who’d seen her sing had called her a siren and had followed the magical lure of her voice into their tents. It was entirely plausible the king might find Glenna as attractive as the cotters and blacksmiths did – but if I had to place my money on the line, I’d place it with Babette. The king had mistresses galore – women with fine breeding, ivory skin, and cultured accents. Glenna looked and sounded like what she was: a horse-thief’s daughter from Dowally.

  “If the king has any taste in music,” I said, “he’ll fall head over heels for you.” She did sing like an angel. Glenna patted my arm, satisfied, and called over to Robin, who was riding his mare nearby. “Be a sweet one and ride up to the front, ask Ned how long until
we get there.”

  I sighed. It was the fifth time in the last five hours that Glenna had asked that. I suppose I could have understood her hurry had I not been dreading this stop myself. Part of what I loved about The Troubadours was that they only performed in the highlands, going from village to village, castle to castle. This latest trip to Edinburgh had been announced only two weeks ago, when word of James’ birthday celebration had reached us, even in Tulloch, and the money had been too good to pass up.

  But bless Robin, who was absolutely smitten over Glenna. The young man grinned, tipped his hat, and trotted his horse up to the front, eager to be useful.

  “I just cannot wait for the opportunity to sing for the king,” said Glenna, her eyes scheming.

  “Yes girl,” said Ned, riding back on Robin’s horse. He must have traded places with Robin. “And should the king or one of his great lord’s pluck you from our orchestra and give you a good tumble, I’m sure that’s the last we’ll see of you. And then we’ll have to set poor Meg to singing.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing, when I happen to think that Meg has a beautiful voice,” Glenna sniffed.

  “Not as beautiful as yours,” I assured her. Glenna had to be best in everything. When I joined the troupe as a harpist, she was a terrible viper. Ned had assured me she was just insecure, and when it became evident that I was more than happy to sit in the back of the orchestra with my harp, sing harmony, and let the handsomest men ogle her – we became fast friends. “Did you get tired of driving?” I asked him. I wish I’d known, I’d have volunteered to take the reins. There’s only so much of Glenna I could take at a time. And sitting in the Wagon with Babette would be even worse. She was in a terrible mood, having been given the task to try and make our costumes court-presentable with what little money we’d made in Kintail at the Mackenzie fortress.

  “No,” said Ned, “I gave young Robin something to do other than moon about back here, staring down Glenna’s shirt.”

  Glenna glanced down at where her cleavage burst above the neck of her gown and she smiled to herself. Glenna had been on her own since she was a girl, she used every ounce of beauty she had to her advantage. To hear her tell of it, she’d snagged a Baron’s son by the age of fourteen, but left after a few years because she “missed her freedom.” I wasn’t so sure about the truth of anything that came out Glenna’s mouth. She was only a few years older than I, and her life had seemed unbelievable. That she chose to travel with the Troubadours said a great deal about the troupe as a safe space. I’d known that when I’d first seen them in the village at Grangemuir four years ago.

  Ned was tight fisted, but he loved the road and he recruited good talent. As a result, his band was loyal, and capable, and were well received at many a castle in the highlands. There were seven of us in total, though I wouldn’t be too sad when Roger departed our company after our stay in Edinburgh – he was lazy and, while he was a talented fiddler, it wouldn’t be too hard to find someone in Edinburgh who could play as well and was willing to wash a pot.

  “Well Ned, since you set Robin to driving before my question could be answered, are we anywhere near there yet!?” Glenna demanded.

  Ned smiled and gave Glenna the same answer he’d been giving her for the past five hours: “Nearly.”

  As it turned out, Ned’s definition of nearly was as off as his sense of direction. In fact, we were hours away from Edinburgh and reached the city well after the inns were closed. Hungry, but knowing we wouldn’t find much to eat that evening, nor would Ned allow us to spend coin at an inn, we parked our wagon at the foot of the Cowgate and slept inside, taking turns at watch.

  This wasn’t my first time in Edinburgh. I’d been here before, when I was a girl. I could still vividly remember the experience, down to its last detail. The smell of the meat markets, the throngs and throngs of people, especially the foreigners: the French and the Spanish, and the dark men from some far-off place of which name I couldn’t even remember…

  “Is this your first time in Edinburgh, Beetle?” Roger climbed up onto the wagon seat to take his turn at watch. I blinked at him, surprised he had actually roused himself on time to take his turn.

  “Oh yes,” I lied. “I’m looking forward to getting out and exploring the city a bit more tomorrow. What about you? Have you been here before?”

  “Believe it or not,” said Roger, smirking, “This is my first time below Dundee.”

  “You don’t say,” I said. I’m never comfortable around Roger when I’m by myself. He’s made one too many advances on me while in his cups, and while Ned had always been around to fend him off, it hasn’t stopped Roger from trying.

  “I do say,” said Roger, sitting back. I could feel his eyes on the side of my face. “But I’ll learn my way around fast enough, I expect.”

  I expected he would too. And he’d learn where the whorehouses were soon enough. Roger managed to sneak himself off whenever we went into town. I had a feeling he was only still with the travelling troupe because he spent his money as fast as he earned it. There’d be gambling in Edinburgh too. We’d be lucky if we managed to keep Roger with us long enough to play for the King.

  “You don’t say much, Beetle, do you?” Said Roger, his voice low. He reached over and ran a finger down my thigh, and let it rest just above where my dress met my boot. I sucked in a breath and moved one deliberate inch to the side.

  “You know, I’ve always wondered about you. I’d never quite believed your little sob story about the abusive husband. My guess: you’re as green as they come. Else you wouldn’t be so scandalized at my touch.”

  “I’m in no way scandalized by you,” I said, and that was true enough. “But neither am I interested in experiencing your touch. The watch is yours. I’ll seek my bed.” It would be uncomfortable enough squeezing onto the mats between Glenna and Babette, but I’d prefer that to spending another unchaperoned minute with Roger. Ned was a gentleman, Robin was harmless, and Tamhas was devoted to his pregnant wife, Jenny (whom he’d left with her mother on our way back from Kintail). But Roger was wasn’t harmless. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And since he’d signed on with the troupe about nine months ago, he’d been relentless in his subtle pursuit of me. It would have irritated Glenna if she didn’t loathe Roger

  As I crammed myself into the small space between Babette’s hot, heavy form, and Glenna’s hard elbows, I closed my eyes and tried not to feel claustrophobic. I reminded myself that at least I had my freedom, and if I wanted to remain free, I’d better be careful in Edinburgh.

  Chapter 3

  B randon was surprised that it took a full two days for the King to summon him. James had made a great show out of Brandon when he’d first arrived at Edinburgh, but had quickly grown bored of Brandon’s ever appropriate, always correct responses. Brandon understood the game he was playing: one wrong move and he’d be returned to his father, replaced by one of his other brothers. One wrong move, and it was back to Ruim.

  So when the King summoned, Brandon put on his best hose and surcoat (he stuck out too much in his kilt) and attended James in his chamber. Brandon hadn’t seen James private Chambers in person, but wasn’t at all surprised at their practical sumptuousness. The King was a hedonist – that much was evident by his many mistresses and love of food. If he didn’t love to exercise as much as he loved pheasant, he’d be the size of his cousin, the English king.

  All the elegant candelabras, the tapestries and oil paintings, the rich leather chairs with their silver studs – all this was to be expected. But Brandon was surprised by the maps, by the desk with its mountains of paper, by the Earl of Argyle braced against the fireplace in his shirtsleeves, or the older, brassier Earl of Huntley, sipping whisky in one of the leather chairs while the King sat behind the desk, drumming his ink stained fingers against the beautiful gilt and cherry wood desk.

  “Your majesty,” said Brandon, bowing smartly over the doorstep and holding the bow until the king barked. “Come in Cameron.”


  Brandon straightened and strode through the door, feeling the watchful eyes of Argyll and the shrewd assessment of Huntley. If ever three men were a match of Brandon’s father, it was these three. Their intensity was the familiar intensity of powerful men, men who were born to their position, and who’d worked tirelessly to expand the reach of that power.

  Brandon paused by the desk and nodded at the Earls. “My lords,” he said. “What is it you wish of me, highness?” he directed his gaze at the King.

  James squinted at Brandon and continued drumming his fingers against the table. “What is it that makes you tick, Cameron?” he said, and Brandon got the distinct impression it was not a question he was supposed to answer.

  “What we know of you is little enough,” James said. “Lochiel’s bastard, his bloodhound and his bat. Exiled for your role in the death of your brother. A traitor to your family, and yet they let you live. And when I requested your service, your father was only too happy to let me keep you in place of one of his sons.”

  Brandon inclined his head. Lochiel had only two legitimate sons left. Brandon had been indirectly responsible for the deaths of the other two.

  James didn’t continue and Brandon realized he was supposed to answer the unasked question. “My father is a superstitious man,” he said. “He would dare commit filicide for fear of retribution from the fates, or from God, or from whomever it is he fears. His mother was pagan, and while he attends church, he still keeps his eyes out for faerie duns.” Brandon shrugged his father’s idiosyncrasies away. “He hopes, I’m sure, that I will fall victim to my base nature and do something unforgivable. You will kill me and take care of the problem for him. Or perhaps he plans on breaking his contract with you, and then my life is still forfeit. Either way it’s nothing to him. The real question, majesty, is why you chose me instead of one of my brothers.”