The Queen's Lady. Shannon Drake

a pact with the Devil. But there were laws….

      “Do something!” Gwenyth cried. “Please, Rowan, they are about to light the fires.”

      “Hold, and watch at the ready,” he told Gavin, head of their escort.

      She had never before called him by his given name, Rowan realized, and in her eyes there was nothing but honest and sincere entreaty. Emotions, he thought; they become the downfall of us all.

      He spurred his horse forward, a display of power as he raced through the townspeople to confront the churchmen. “What is this mockery of justice?” he demanded angrily. “What right have you to impose the sentence of execution?”

      As he had hoped, the size and evident breeding of his horse and the colors he wore indicated his association with the royal house. Most of the crowd fell back in silence, but one black-clad minister stepped toward him. “I am reverend of the kirk here, my laird. She has been duly tried and found guilty.”

      “Duly tried? What manner of court do you have here? Is it authorized by the queen?” Rowan demanded.

      “It was a local matter,” the man protested.

      He looked around. The crowd had remained silent. The only sound came from the young woman at the stake, who was sobbing softly.

      “Release her,” he said quietly.

      “But…but she has been tried.”

      “By no proper court. In a matter of life and death, according to the dictates of both law and conscience, my good man, you surely know you should seek higher authority.”

      The pastor looked more closely at Rowan, noted his colors and the presence of his armed escort, and took a small step back. “You are Rowan Graham, Laird of the Far Isles?” he asked uneasily.

      “Aye. Sworn to the Stewarts of Scotland.”

      The pastor arched a brow. “The French Stewart?”

      “The Queen of Scotland. And I have long ridden at the side of James Stewart, Earl of Mar, the greatest law of our land, our regent following the death of the queen’s mother.”

      A woman stepped forward. She was middle-aged and stout, and despite the set look of her jaw, he felt sorry for her. She was worn, looking to be a bitter woman whose life had held little joy.

      “Ye do nae understand, great laird. She looked at me. Liza Duff looked at me and gave me her evil stare, and my pig died the next day,” the woman said.

      A man found courage and joined her. “My babe took sick with the cough after Liza Duff looked at me.”

      “Did no one else look at you?” he queried sharply. “Good people! Life is God’s domain. Do you so easily feel it your right, without seeking the highest authority in the land, to condemn any woman or man to so heinous a death because misfortune has befallen you?”

      He reached into his sporran, seeking a few gold coins, which he cast down before the two who had spoken. “Buy more pigs,” he said to the embittered matron. “And you,” he told the man. “Perhaps there is some medicine that you can buy.”

      They scrambled for the gold coins, clutching them. The pastor stared at him.

      Gwenyth rode forward, staring down at the pastor before turning to Rowan. “She cannot remain here,” she said. “If she is so despised,” she said softly, “they will take your gold, then try her again tomorrow, and we will only have delayed her execution.”

      She was right.

      He looked down again at the pastor. “I will bring this woman, Liza Duff, to my homestead, where she may serve in my household. Should we find there is truth in your accusations, she will be brought to Edinburgh to stand trial before the proper authority.”

      He wasn’t sure he needed to have added the last; his gold and status seemed to have turned the tide in their direction.

      “That sounds a fair and solid proposition. She will no longer be here to torment the tenants of this village,” the churchman said.

      “See her brought down,” Rowan said. “Now.”

      “And,” Gwenyth added quietly, “see that she is given a decent dress for traveling, and I believe we will need a horse.”

      Rowan stared at her, surprised but also amused.

      The pastor began to protest. “We’re to pay to see that a witch lives?”

      “Laird Rowan has just cast before you a sum more than ample to purchase a horse and a few pieces of clothing,” Gwenyth said pleasantly. “Even after purchasing many pigs and the services of a decent physician.”

      There was silence. Then the men nearest the pyre set about releasing the young woman from the stake.

      As the ropes holding her upright were released, she started to fall. Gwenyth was instantly off her horse, racing forward. While the men might have handled her roughly, had they deigned to help her at all, Gwenyth showed an admirable strength mixed with gentleness, allowing the young woman to lean against her as she moved back to the horses. She looked up at Rowan. “She can’t ride alone. And we need to be on our way, I believe.”

      Before someone changes his mind.

      He could see the last in her eyes, though she did not speak the words aloud.

      “A horse,” he said firmly. “For when she regains her strength. And clothing.”

      A horse was brought, a bundle given to Gwenyth, and then the pastor and his flock all stepped back. Again Gwenyth looked at him, and Rowan could read her eyes. The girl would indeed need to regain her strength before she could ride on her own. They would lead the animal meant for her use until she could handle a horse on her own.

      If she even knew how to ride.

      If not…they would take the horse anyway.

      He dismounted, took the young woman—who was looking at him with dazed and worshipful eyes—and set her upon his horse. He would have assisted Gwenyth to mount—as their guard of armed men continued to wait at a discreet distance at his command—but she was too quick, and was back on her mare before he could offer his help. “In future, take care what justice you decide to mete out on your own, pastor,” he warned very quietly. “I will be back this way.”

      With that, he rode to Gwenyth’s side, the “witch” sitting before him like a limp rag doll.

      They proceeded at a walk, lest any haste cause a change of heart and incur pursuit—something that he could see Gwenyth understood from the glance he cast her way—until they were well past the eyes of the villagers.

      “Now let us put some distance between us,” he ordered once they had passed the limits of the village and, as they hadn’t yet reached the rocky tors of the true Highlands, they were able to make good time. Strange winds and early cold were bedeviling Scotland that year, but the wicked ice and snow had not yet fallen, and that too, helped them as they rode.

      Finally he reined in near a copse of trees close by a small brook, lifting a hand to the others. The small party halted.

      “Ooh, me aching bones,” Annie protested.

      Gavin dismounted, helping the ungainly woman from her perch.

      “They’ll nae be a pursuit, Laird Rowan,” Gavin said, shaking his head, his disapproval for the village obvious.

      “I agree, Gavin,” Rowan told his man. “But it’s always best to get a distance from the scene of any trouble.”

      After dismounting, he was careful to lift the girl down slowly. Annie, clucking in concern, went to help her, as did Gwenyth.

      “Some wine, please?” Gwenyth said, looking to the men.

      “Aye, my lady, immediately,” Dirk, one of the other guards, assured her.

      Rowan