Heaven and the Heather by Elizabeth Holcombe

standing before him was more vixen than courtesan. And he was her hare. She had brought him into her den. How far could he trust her?
    “Is this how ye honor our agreement?” he asked. “Putting me into some sort of drama, orchestrated by Goliath over there?”
    “ Non . It is not,” she said. Her eyes held a triumphant twinkle. “You said you have a key. I gave you the door. That’s what you wanted.”
    Niall stared at her. MacGregors never had favorable coincidence nod their way. Nothing was easy.
    “In monsieur Le Canard’s capable hands you will see the queen; would you still trust me?”
    “Aye, but at what cost?”
    “Do you care?”
    Niall shook his head. “I dinnae.”
    “Well, good, Niall MacGregor. You will have your wish.”
    With that she took her leave. She only had to try once to open the latch with her deformed right hand.
    “Vixen,” Niall whispered. He turned to Le Canard , the Duck, and suppressed a hard swallow.
    He still had Sabine’s purse. She wanted it, and he had come this far.
    For now, he had to trust her.

    S abine paused just inside the grand entrance to the Great Hall. Moments before she had been with that Highlander, and now she stood on the cusp of the most civilized gathering in Scotland. Before her a glittering, colorful crowd danced and engaged in animated conversation. The feathers on some of their masks bounced lightly with restrained nods of their heads. Sabine stared in wonder at the lavish costumes. If Heaven required adornment for its occupants, this is surely what they would wear. Gold, pearls, and shining gemstones matched the elaborate array of colorful silks and velvets on the fine gowns and doublets. Sabine was practically dizzied by the colors.
    Or was it because her life was more contorted than the plum boughs in Her Majesty’s orchard?
    She stole a glance over her shoulder. The MacGregor had not followed her. Good. He had listened to her. At least he was not a fool.
    But why did a tiny bit of her wish that he had insisted on escorting her? She imagined the astonished faces of the Lords and Ladies when she entered the Great Hall escorted by what certainly must be as fine a Highland man as the royal court had ever seen. Lord Campbell’s look of shock alone would have made such an endeavor worthwhile.
    Suppressing a giggle behind her right hand, Sabine took one step forward into the masque and tucked her right hand into a fold of her gown.
    She adjusted her mask over her face. It was a papier maché falcon decorated with a multitude of black, sepia, and white feathers. At her nose was a pointed beak, a perfect representation of the Royal bird of prey made especially for her by monsieur Le Canard. Falcons were willful things, kept prisoner for the service of the monarch, this Sabine understood with all of her heart.
    The aroma of cooked meats, piles of fruits and nuts, pastries, and the finest French wines wrapped invisible tendrils about Sabine’s nose, reminding her that it had been quite some time since she had eaten. She wove her way toward the groaning board through the groupings of lords and ladies, the Scottish and French elite, with a few Italians sprinkled in.
    She spied one of the Italians at a long trestle table staring expectantly in her direction. He was Davide Rizzio, a dwarfish, well-muscled man, and Mary’s closet advisor. He wore a mask that, like her own, covered the upper half of his face. His was that of a rat. It sparkled with silver dust on the fur. He patted his pudgy little hand on the velvet cushion of the dark, carved chair beside him before he stood and offered her a bow.
    “ Signorina Sabine. You look to be searching for a chair. I have one just for you.”
    “How did you know it was me?” she asked.
    “Your hair. It is the color of obsidian. I’d know you anywhere, signorina .” Rizzio, unlike others, would never be so rude to tell her the truth, that her right hand betrayed her identity to him.
    He slid the chair out from the