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Starcatcher
By Patricia Potter OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1998 Patricia Potter
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0112-0
CHAPTER 1
The Highlands, 1660
It was a splendid day for a wedding. Everyone said so.
The sun sparkled, its rays dappling the rich green fields and nearby loch. The previous day's wind had eased into a gentle breeze.
A good omen for a future filled with happiness, Marsali's father had insisted. A fine day. A splendid alliance.
That he—and others—said it with apparent sincerity impressed the bride. The level of self-delusion among her clan had risen, she thought as she allowed Jeanie to brush her waist-length hair, then braid it with fresh flowers. "Edward Sinclair is a bonny man," Jeanie said hopefully.
"Aye," Marsali agreed. Jeanie was her maid, as well as her best friend. Indeed, she could not quarrel with Jeanie's assessment of the man her father intended her to wed. Still, she could not believe that no one else saw the coldness in the depths of Edward's eyes, the ruthlessness in his smile—a smile that, to her, seemed as stiff and unreal as a mask.
Four more hours. Four more hours of freedom. Four more hours to dream of a young man who, once, long ago, had offered to pluck a star from the sky for her.
She'd heard no news of Patrick for such a long time. Twelve years had passed since the evening he had taken his leave of her on the ramparts of Abernie, but she had never forgotten that night. Nor had she forgotten his next visit, when she was fourteen. She'd seen him note the changes the years had wrought in her, the look in his eyes transforming from mere kindness to something else altogether, something that made her tingle inside with delight and anticipation. She had treasured that look these past six years.
It seemed she had waited for Patrick all her life. She'd waited when he had gone to war to fight against Cromwell and been outlawed as a result. Their wedding had been postponed first one year, then another. In all that time, only two messages reached her, both stilted and formal and saying only that he was still alive. She would have waited forever.
But today she would become another man's bride.
Marsali's heart ached, but she knew that she had no choice. If she did not go through with the ceremony, her fourteen-year-old sister would be forced to take her place, and she could not abide the thought of sacrificing Cecilia to Edward Sinclair.
A splendid day for a wedding, they all continued to insist. Her brother. Her father. Even Jeanie.
Why, then, did she feel as if she were preparing for a funeral?
One of her ferrets climbed onto her lap. Tristan and Isolde had replaced Cleopatra and Antony, who she imagined were still together in ferret heaven. She wasn't sure why she kept naming her pets after legendary—and tragic—lovers. Perhaps another omen.
A tear trickled down her face and dropped onto the fur of the elongated animal.
"Ah now, lass," Jeanie said. "It is so bad for ye?"
Marsali pressed her lips together. There was nothing to be done anyway. Even if Patrick was alive, her father would never permit her to marry him. Not now. Not since he, as laird of the clan Gunn, had declared a blood feud against Patrick's family. The betrothal had been cried off by both her father and Gregor Sutherland, and though the two families already had many blood ties to one another, they were now more likely to kill each other than to feast together.
And it was all because of Marsali's aunt, Margaret, who had married Patrick's father on the same day that her betrothal to Patrick had been formalized. There had been much rejoicing that day by both clans, and for years afterward Margaret and Gregor had appeared to reside happily enough at Sutherland's Brinaire.
Then, two years ago, Patrick's father had accused Margaret of adultery and publicly branded her a whore. He had sought a divorce through Parliament, but the only two witnesses had disappeared. The divorce had been denied for lack of proof. A week later, Margaret vanished. Murdered, Donald Gunn claimed. Murdered by the man he had once called a friend: Patrick's father, Gregor Sutherland, the marquis of Brinaire.
Marsali didn't know the truth of it. No one did. She knew only that her aunt Margaret was her father's only sister, and that he was grief-stricken at losing her. Grief-stricken and enraged that her honor, and the honor of their clan, had been impugned.
Donald Gunn filed charges of murder against Brinaire, but again there was no proof. Marsali watched her father's hatred grow until he lost reason, until nothing was more important to him than revenge. She'd realized then that she would never have Patrick as a husband, even if he still lived.
She turned to Jeanie, wiping the tear from her cheek. "I do not like Edward Sinclair, nor do I trust him."
"And why, lass?"
Marsali could only shrug in response. How could she explain the cruelty in Edward's eyes? She'd tried to tell her father that she mistrusted Edward, but he had proclaimed it a woman's whim. Look at Margaret, he had argued. She married for love and was betrayed. No amount of talk had changed his mind.
But Marsali knew that what her father really wanted was the added strength an alliance with the Sinclairs would afford him. He could attack Brinaire and take his revenge. He had closed his mind to all else, including questions about Edward's character and rumors about the suspicious death of his second wife. As far as Donald Gunn was concerned, they were hearsay created by the lying Sutherlands. After all, had not Edward shed tears at the grave?
And Edward, too, had grudges against Patrick's family. He was a natural ally in her father's eyes. Although not of noble birth, Donald Gunn acknowledged, Edward was laird of a fine clan known for valor. Known better, Marsali thought, for brutality and trickery. But again her father would hear none of it. The marquis of Brinaire was the greater villain.
Marsali felt Jeanie's hand on her shoulder. Was it trembling slightly?
She turned and looked at her friend. Jeanie had lost her husband and her bairn at twenty, and had been engaged as wet nurse for herself. She'd been with Marsali ever since. Forty now, her auburn hair had only a few strands of gray. Marsali was shocked to see Jeanie's blue eyes glimmering with tears.
Marsali whispered, "Father believes Edward will make a fine husband."
"But my wee lassie doesna," Jeanie said. "Ye still dream of Patrick?" Marsali sighed. "How can I do otherwise? I thought for years to one day call him husband."
"Ye have not seen him for a long time. Mayhap he has changed."
"Patrick?" Her voice softened. "Nay. The goodness in him will not have changed." Then, with a slow shake of her head, she added, "I see no goodness in Edward."
Jeanie was silent for a moment. "If it were not for your sister ..." "I would run away to Patrick," Marsali said without hesitation. "I know he still lives. I would know if it were otherwise."
"His father wouldna accept you," Jeanie reminded her.
"Then we could go somewhere else. South, toward the border," she said wistfully. She didn't even know whether Patrick would want her, much less give up everything for her.
"Truly?" Jeanie asked.
"Aye. But I canna sacrifice Cecilia for myself."
Marsali was silent a moment. Finally, she looked up at Jeanie's grim face. Reaching to place her hand over her friend's, she said, "I told Edward I want you to come with me."
"And did he agree?"
"He couldna do otherwise," Marsali said, remembering the argument. Edward had not wanted her to take her own servants. There were plenty at Haiford, he'd insisted. And although he'd eventually relented, Marsali feared that once married he would forgo his word.
She closed her eyes, praying for the strength to last the day. Thoughts of her wedding night made her clutch the fabric of her gown more tightly around her, and she trembled.
Jeanie's hand touched her cheek. "So cool," the older woman whispered.
With a heavy sigh, Jeanie laid down the brush and stepped away to eye her charge carefully. Her expression was tormented. Finally, she said, "Ye have been like me own bairn."
Marsali felt tears gather in her eyes, and she started to reply.
Jeanie cut her off, turning away as she spoke. "Take yer sister to the chapel," she commanded. "Pray for God's guidance."
Astonished, Marsali rose from the chair and took a step toward her. Jeanie was Catholic, one of those very few who refused to relinquish her ties to the Church despite the danger. She'd made little effort to conceal her contempt for those who'd shed their faith for self-interest and embraced Protestantism during the Cromwell years. She had refused to step one foot into the transformed chapel, instead slipping off at night to secret Catholic services. Why was she sending Marsali to pray to the Protestant God she disdained?
Jeanie moved away at her approach. "Get yer sister now. Prayers may well help ye." She gestured toward Tristan and Isolde, who had jumped to the floor when Marsali stood. "And take the wee beasties with ye."
Perhaps a few silent moments with God would lighten the enormous heaviness inside her soul. And perhaps Jeanie believed that, in such dire circumstances, it did not matter whether the building in which one prayed was designed by Catholics or Protestants. The chapel would be empty at this early hour; at least, Marsali thought, she would have a chance to say a private farewell to Cecilia.
Marsali found her younger sister in her room. Cecilia's eyes lit as she entered, but the brightness was quickly dimmed by dismay.
"Oh, Marsali, I'll miss you," Cecilia said. "You're the only one I can talk to."
"Gavin will look out for you," Marsali said.
"He's only interested in hunting and the estates," Cecilia said, adding with a hint of disgust, "and conspiring with Father to plan an advantageous marriage for me."
"You're still too young," Marsali said, knowing it was not altogether true. In her mind, Cecilia was too young, but age often meant little to men who used marriage as a tool to enrich themselves. She had once thought her father was different, that he would allow his daughters a choice, but the feud with the Sutherlands had disabused her of that notion.
"I wish ..." Cecilia began hesitantly. "I wish ..."
"What?" Marsali encouraged gently.
"I would have liked to have been a nun," her sister said quietly.
"You must never say that," Marsali whispered, alarmed. Such beliefs were so dangerous still.
"I know," Cecilia said. "But I do not believe I ever want to marry."
Marsali had no words of comfort. She had once believed in love and honor and happiness. Yet today she would marry a man she abhorred. And if she refused to speak the words, Cecilia would never have the strength to do likewise.
"Come with me to the chapel," she said. "I do not think God cares if it is a Protestant or Catholic house when we pray to Him."
"Truly?" Cecilia said. "Jeanie says—"
"Truly," Marsali said firmly. "There shouldn't be anyone about."
She took Cecilia's hand and led her down the stone staircase of the keep, staying in the shadows. The two ferrets scrambled after her. What would become of her pets when she went with Edward? He had made little secret of his distaste for them, and Tristan and Isolde were intelligent enough to keep their distance....
Noise came from the great hall, where her father was entertaining guests. She and Cecilia reached the outer door and went into the courtyard, which was humming with activity. Visitors had been arriving for the past two days, and any number of clan plaids were visible. Marsali recognized many of them, but some were new to her. Everyone except Sutherlands had been invited to the wedding and made welcome. She guessed even her father didn't know all the guests.
Marsali took a deep breath. She felt like crying, but she did not want Cecilia to see her fear. Her loneliness. Her despair.
Her thoughts of Patrick.
She led the way across the crowded courtyard to the chapel. Opening the heavy door, she peeked inside. Empty and quiet. A relief.
Motioning for Cecilia to follow, she entered the dark, high-ceilinged building. Their slippers made little noise as they moved toward the altar. So plain now that the rich carvings and stained windows had been replaced by boards and shutters to conform with Cromwell's Puritan ways.
Of course, now that Cromwell was dead and King Charles was on the throne, the chapel undoubtedly would change again. Her father had been careful to shift with the political and religious winds.
She and Cecilia made their way to a pew at the front of the chapel. The ferrets scrambled onto the bench and began exploring. With a glance and a nod at her sister, Marsali knelt and bowed her head. Cecilia knelt beside her.
Marsali tried to concentrate on God, but all she could think about was Patrick. She knew the very day she had lost her heart to him. She had been only five, and one of her father's hunting hawks had swooped toward one of her ferrets. Patrick had heard her scream and caught the jesses of the hawk before it grabbed her pet. His hand had been badly mauled by the bird in the process. He had been her hero ever since, her knight. Her starcatcher.
Her husband-to-be.
She had relished that thought, in her eight-year-old way, when he had gone away that first time. When he'd returned from fighting on the continent, a wanted man, she'd been fourteen and he twenty-two. He'd been taller than she remembered, and his smile had come more slowly. He'd also carried a new scar on his face, but his eyes had been just as warm and his touch just as gentle as he'd brought her hand to his lips and exclaimed what a beauty she'd become....
Marsali shook her head. She had to rid her mind of these thoughts.
Once more, she tried to pray. Then, suddenly, she felt a new presence. She started to turn.
Hands, strong and sure, seized her. At the same moment, she heard Cecilia gasp. She had no time to react. A piece of cloth was stuffed into her mouth, and her hands were quickly bound behind her.
A deep voice whispered in her ear. "My apologies, my lady." She registered a sharp pain at the back of her head, and in the next instant, everything went black.
Patrick Sutherland, earl of Treydan and son of the marquis of Brinaire, paced impatiently on the grassy knoll beside the waterfall.
Marsali had brought him to this spot during his last visit to Abernie. At fourteen, she'd been prettier than he'd ever imagined. He remembered vividly how she had appeared here, telling him shyly that no one else knew of her secret refuge. She had touched his heart as no one else ever had. During the last few years of horror, he'd thought frequently of that clear, bright morning, of Marsali's lovely face and giving nature. Instinctively, he believed she would bring him the peace he so desperately needed.
He was sick of war. Sick of slaughter perpetrated in the name of God and religion. Because he had been outlawed by Cromwell, he was unable to return home until the Restoration and the ascension of Charles II to the throne. In the meantime, he had survived as a mercenary on the continent, often under Charles's banner. After the last battle, though, he had sworn never again to raise his sword against a fellow Scotsman.
He'd left France when the young Prince Charles had been invited home; and along with Rufus and Hiram, he had ridden hard through England to get to Brinaire, only to find that his betrothal was no more, and that his intended was to marry Edward Sinclair, laird of the Sinclair clan.
Patrick had been chilled at the news. He knew the Sinclair. He had fought with him once, only to see the man's back at the height of battle.
Edward would not have his Marsali. Not the tenderhearted girl who could coax wild animals to eat from her hands, and whose faith had seen him through more death and destruction than he wanted to remember. No, it simply could not be.
Ignoring his father's warning to leave the matter alone, he had stormed away from the banquet planned in his honor. Another kind of honor demanded that he protect the woman who, for twelve long years, he had thought of as his bride.
He had taken with him Rufus Chisholm and Hiram Burnett. The three of them had saved each other's lives more times than Patrick could count. Together they had ridden to this waterfall, a hidden grotto on the border between Brinaire and Abernie.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Starcatcher by Patricia Potter. Copyright © 1998 Patricia Potter. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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