Paper Roses

  PAPER ROSES

  Copyright © 1999 By Celia Collier

  ISBN 0-9667995-7-7

  Electronically published in arrangement with the author

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing,

  E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information contact DiskUs Publishing

  http://www.diskuspublishing.com

  E-mail sales@diskuspublishing.com

  DiskUs Publishing

  PO Box 43

  Albany, IN 47320

  *

  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  * * *

  PAPER ROSES is dedicated with respect and admiration to Diana, Princess of Wales. Through these pages, I contribute to her memory the happily ever after she so richly deserved and was so horribly denied.

  Celia Collier

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  About the author

  Chapter One

  The North West Highlands, November 1524

  I beg you to come. You are the only one who can help me now.

  Ciara Mackintosh clutched the missive in her hand and seated herself on the worn leather top of her inherited trunk.

  The message, written nearly four months ago, reached her just a fortnight past. Rough seas and unusual weather hampered her efforts to return to her homeland. Now, she waited on the pier of this quaint coastal village and prayed the driver she hired would soon arrive.

  The cry of a fishmonger drew her gaze. Peasant women roamed the planks, hawking salmon and herring to the passengers arriving at the port. Ciara realized she was naught but a speck amidst a multitude of crates and boxes that lined the docks of Loch Broom.

  Beyond the stench of the wharf and the noise of the busy port lay purple-tinted mountains. The beloved hills and glens of Scotland embraced her like a mother welcoming home a long lost child. She closed her eyes and breathed in the crisp Highland air.

  When Ciara had departed her home at Glengarry, she had looked forward to experiencing a different culture. In her heart she carried the hope that returning her mother to her homeland in France would cure her failing health.

  The journey did not turn out as planned. Ciara soon discovered the so-called refined men of Paris were little more than pompous fops when compared to practical Highlanders.

  Now, as she gazed down at the letter, a sense of foreboding nestled in her heart. During the three years of her absence, Ciara kept in contact with her close childhood friend, Valerie. While she was away, Valerie married into the clan MacDonell and established a household near the village of Coygach.

  Ciara grimaced. MacDonell. What had Valerie done to deserve such a fate?

  Even though her friend had wed the laird, the MacDonells were naught but a brood of ruffians itching for a fight. She found the praise Valerie wrote of her husband difficult to believe. Surely, the MacDonell had bewitched her friend. 'Twas the only explanation that made sense.

  "Are ye ready tae go now, lass?"

  She looked up into the weathered face of an ancient man who swore no fear or fealty to the MacDonell, and was willing to escort her to Valerie.

  Ciara nodded and climbed to her feet. The old man hoisted the trunk onto his back, then promptly dropped it.

  "What have ye got in here, lass? Stones?"

  Ciara smiled. The trunk was indeed heavy, although it contained naught but her meager possessions. "Aye, 'tis filled with jewels I have gathered from many admirers during my travels."

  He stared at her through wise eyes, then scoffed, "Och, aye, ye poke fun at me."

  His words tugged the smile from her lips and she stared at the hem of her worn gown.

  Beauty was not hers to enjoy, she knew that. Nor was wealth among her attributes. She was not a pauper, but gowns had to be made of sensible fabric and worn for as long as the thread held. With the handful of coins her mother left for her, Ciara had hoped to have a couple of new gowns made.

  Then the missive from Valerie arrived, and with it went the hopes of a new gown. Eneas, Ciara's brother, agreed to pay her passage back to Scotland, but his offer came with a price.

  He wanted her to wed the chieftain of MacLean. While Ciara was no beauty, she hoped she could find a better match than the repulsive, aging laird of a withering clan. She had no choice but to decline Eneas' offer.

  She remembered her mother's dying words. She had pulled a promise from Ciara to guard her inheritance, and never surrender this old trunk to her brother. It seemed an odd request, for her brother would never want such a worthless item.

  The thud of her trunk landing against weathered planks of a makeshift wagon drew her gaze. The old man wiped sweat from his brow and climbed onto the only seat.

  "Jump on, lass, unless ye prefer tae walk."

  Foregoing dignity for practicality, Ciara lifted her skirts and crawled in beside her trunk.

  The old man clucked his tongue and the tired horse began a slow pace away from the docks.

  The fingers of her hand curved over the crude side of the wagon. Once she felt she would not fall, Ciara withdrew the parchment once more.

  What had the rotten MacDonell done to Valerie? What kind of peril did her alliance create? It had to be dire indeed for Valerie to beg Ciara's presence, especially when her best friend knew how she felt about the MacDonells.

  With firm resolve, Ciara shoved the parchment into her pocket and looked across the busy port that slowly disappeared behind her.

  Clouds filled with snow drifted over the sky and blocked the sun. Birds circled the air over two ships docked at the port, searching for food.

  If the MacDonell had harmed her friend, Ciara vowed to kill the man and haul his rotten carcass down to the pier for the rats and birds to feast upon.

  * * *

  "Visitors approach."

  Alastair MacDonell looked up from the papers spread before him. Torquil, his most loyal clansman, stood in the doorway. Dark hair tumbled across his furrowed brow. Beneath the whiskers that hid his chin, Alastair saw a frown, a most common expression for his dedicated friend.

  "Can you identify them?"

  With a mighty shrug, Torquil approached a window that offered a commanding view over the loch. "An old man drives a cart that looks ready tae crumble. In the back sits a lass, naught special tae the eye." He turned to his friend and scowled. "She has a trunk."

  A trunk? With a sigh, Alastair rose from his chair. "How long before they arrive?"

  "Half an hour at most."

  Joining his friend at the window, Alastair peered through the open shutter. Hills covered with dormant brown heather sloped to the shore of the loch five miles below. In the distance he glimpsed the wagon.

  "Do I turn them away?" Torquil asked.

  Alastair frowned. No one came onto his mountain w
ithout permission. The locals knew that.

  "Nay, allow them to approach." He withdrew from the view and returned to his desk. "I will hear their reason for trespassing before tossing them out."

  With a grunt of disapproval, Torquil departed. Alastair ignored him and cleared the papers from his desk. Clan business could wait.

  He approached the hearth and reached for the sword displayed above the mantel. A small portrait of his wife caught his eye. Without a thought, he lifted the gilded frame and cradled it in his palm

  Valerie was a fine woman indeed. She embraced their marriage with a thirst he longed to share. He was very fond of her, yet could not return the love she proclaimed for him so freely.

  With a heavy heart, he replaced the portrait, then lifted the sword into his grasp. 'Twas a fine sword, one that had belonged to his sire and now served him. Alastair strapped the leather belt around his waist, then left the room with the comforting tap of the scabbard against his calf.

  In the quiet of his home, the echo of his boots striking against polished stone floors drifted through the hall. At the foot of the spiral staircase, he paused.

  Valerie. Could she have knowledge of these most unwelcome visitors?

  He shook his head and grabbed his cloak from a peg as he left the manor. Nay, his wife had been bedridden for nigh on three months. Any missive she sent would have gone through him.

  Alastair paused on the steps. Brisk highland air embraced him. Winter would be upon them soon. In the past, the season brought him great pleasure. Now, the thought of snow and the climate ahead filled his heart with grief.

  Valerie would not last the winter. Alastair knew this. Deep down, he thought Valerie knew it, too. The way she spoke about the future, of things he would do in his life, Valerie painted a vivid life for her husband. A life without her.

  The rattle of iron-braced wheels moving over rocky earth drew him from his thoughts. He peered through his men who milled around the yard.

  Their presence did not fool him. All visitors, welcomed or otherwise, drew them from their tasks. Their curiosity would soon be sated, for less than a hundred yards from where he stood, the wagon continued its slow, lumbering approach.

  Alastair recognized the antiquated man who held the reins, although his name escaped him. His gaze shifted to the back where a woman clung for dear life to the side of the wagon.

  He almost smiled. The ride up the mountain was rough enough on horseback. He could only imagine the bumps and bruises a ride such as this would cause.

  Amid a tousle of flame-kissed hair, eyes as blue as the loch in June met his. Unfortunately, that was all he could see of the lass. Alastair frowned and rested his hands on his hips.

  The creature looked frightened out of her wits, yet did not look away.

  "Whoa, ye auld nag," the driver grumbled and tugged upon the reins. The wagon creaked and groaned under the load, then jolted to a harsh halt.

  From the back of the cart, the lass tumbled to the ground. The patched fabric of her skirts flew to her waist. All that saved her modesty was an underskirt of white that looked to have as many patches on it as her gown.

  As Alastair watched, the creature shoved her skirts down and crawled to her knees. She fixed the driver with a deadly glare.

  "Merde! When I hired you, I never dreamed you would attempt to kill me along the way."

  The driver frowned and climbed down from his perch. "Women. All they ken how tae do is complain." He stopped at the back of the cart and pulled her trunk off his vehicle. It landed with a mighty thud in the dirt beside her. "I promised tae deliver ye tae laird MacDonell. I ne'er vowed the journey would be smooth."

  "Who gave you permission to approach my domain, old man?" Alastair asked, his voice echoing through the glen.

  "Och, I'm rid o' her, laird," the driver said as he climbed back on his wagon and gathered the reins in his gnarled hands. "If ye want her off the mountain, remove her yerself."

  The woman scowled and stumbled to her feet. As if noticing Alastair for the first time, she stopped and stared at him with eyes that resembled precious jewels. Rare sapphires and cherished diamonds flickered in her gaze.

  With an inward groan, he scoffed at such a flowery display of thoughts. He was married and had no business finding beauty in any lass, much less a lass who dared to trespass upon his land.

  He didn't know what this woman wanted, or what gave her the impression she would be welcome here, but he was about to make her see things his way.

  The wagon jostled into movement and disappeared down the path. The noise drew him from his thoughts.

  "Who are you, woman, and why did you dare climb my mountain?"

  "Your mountain?" the woman said as she dusted off her clothes. "Who died and named you God Almighty?"

  Alastair frowned. "I am Alastair MacDonell, laird of this region. Who are you and why the devil did you approach?"

  She shoved her long hair out of her face, giving him his first clear view of her.

  Beautiful she was not, yet ugly did not describe her either. Freckles tinted her otherwise ivory skin. Full lips puckered into a frown. Arms crossed beneath an average bosom and an even more average waist, as she surveyed him.

  "Valerie Macleod sent for me." With a superior lift of her nose she added, "As proclaimed laird, you must be her husband?"

  Unease and pain stabbed his heart. How dare the lying witch bring his wife into her scheme.

  "Aye, Valerie is my bride. I also know for a fact she did not send for you or anyone else. I see to her needs."

  The witch snorted and bestowed him with an evil glare. "Aye, I can just imagine how you tend her needs."

  Anger stirred in the pit of his belly. His hands curled into fists. "Begone from my sight, heathen. You have wasted enough of my breath." He turned to enter the keep. "Leave my mountain at once, or I will take the driver's advice and toss you off on your patched behind."

  "I am Ciara Mackintosh."

  Her lie, although more elaborate than he ever imagined, was enough to pause him. He turned and examined her more closely.

  The delicate curve of her mouth curled in distaste as she moved her gaze over him. "I can assure you, you arrogant -- lord, that I was asked here by your wife." She shoved her wayward hair across her shoulder and added, "I will depart only after I see Valerie, and then, only if she asks."

  Damnation, but the name was one he had heard his wife use often during the year of their marriage. He remembered only because Valerie had mentioned a strange hobby the lass had. What was it again? Flowers. Something to do with flowers.

  "Prove to me you do not lie," he said, still considering the possibility of tossing her into the loch. Perhaps that would cool her hot temper.

  The flame-haired witch who called herself Ciara grimaced and approached the steps. From the folds of her pocket she withdrew a crumpled piece of paper.

  With a feeling of impending doom, Alastair descended the steps and took the parchment from her grasp. On one side, written in his wife's hand, was the name Ciara Mackintosh with an address in France. On the other were the simple words begging her to come.

  He held the paper before him and lifted his gaze to her. Behind her, his men crowded around, waiting to see what would transpire.

  "This message is dated four months past. Why the delay arriving?"

  Ciara reached for the paper in his grasp. When he refused to yield, she sighed. "I came as soon as I could."

  Still, Alastair maintained his hold. He didn't want to believe her. This witch was the last person he wanted on his mountain.

  Through her unwavering gaze, the briefest flash of sorrow touched her incredible eyes. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I had to bury my mother first."

  Alastair released his hold on the parchment and watched her tuck it back into her pocket. What the hell was he supposed to do? Having strangers around, especially ones with venomous tongues, did not appeal to him.

  However, his wife was dying. If the tale
s she told about this woman were true, they were near sisters in heart. How could he deny his wife's wishes?

  "Well, what is your decision, MacDonell? Do you allow me entrance, or do I put the training my brothers forced upon me to good use?"

  Damn the woman! She reminded him of a wildcat caught in a trap. He wondered what had happened to make her so bitter.

  "'Tis plain your brothers neglected to teach you that a lady holds her tongue and shows respect to her laird."

  "Alas, you are not my laird."

  The witch was begging to be thrashed. With extreme control over his urges, he nodded. "You may enter as long as you agree to my terms."

  Ciara looked up at him and frowned. "Terms?"

  "Aye. Keep your tongue civil and try to avoid my presence." He turned and mounted the steps. "When I find a viper, I kill it. Out of respect for my wife, I will spare you -- for the moment."

  "I will do the same, MacDonell." He paused at the doors and met her amused gaze. "Spare you, that is."

  Despite his strong desire to toss the woman off his mountain, Alastair resisted. He hoped she would stay no more than a day or two; then, he would be rid of her forever.

  * * *

  "Ciara! At last you have arrived."

  Frozen in the doorway, Ciara could do naught but stare at the frail woman propped up in a sumptuous bed.

  Gone was the lass with rose-kissed cheeks and hearty laugh that Ciara knew so well. Hair once the color of honey had lost its sheen. This woman before her was thin as a rail, and looked as weak as a kitten.

  What had that no-good MacDonell done to her?