James kicked over a nearby barrel. The velvet of his brandy-colored overcoat couldn't conceal the flex of his lean muscles, and the fabric pulled tight at his biceps and shoulders as he leapt nimbly atop it. He unsheathed his sword and rapped the base of the Mercat Cross.
The hiss of whispered voices swept like a wave over the crowd, and their cries dulled to a low hum.
"Good sir!" Feigning confusion, James shouted louder, "I beg your pardon? Yes, down here, my good fellow."
He flashed the frightened crier a dazzling smile. Despite the strong carry of his voice, James's tone was equable as he continued, "So, to clarify, my good servant of His Majesty, is it that Charles, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France, etcetera, would have ministers read to their flock from behind pistols cocked upon red velvet pillows?"
The crowd, which had for a moment been mesmerized by the cavalier Scots nobleman, surged into renewed outrage. Shouts of "Popery!" and "A papist plot!" resounded through the square.
A drunken voice cried, "Keep your bloody English… popish… mass service book away from the Scot's Kirk!"
"Aye," another slurred, "dinna fash the Scot's Church!" Laughing, James resheathed his sword. "There's the spirit, lads!"
"James!" Tom scolded, grinning despite his shaking head and furrowed brow. He jabbed an elbow in his friend's calves and pleaded, "James, get down from there. I swear, you'll not be at rest till you yourself be lifted above us in three fathom of rope."
"Why Tom!" He hopped down from his perch. "Dear man, you flatter me! But you are the thespian, not I. Do you think it possible that I could play the hero in the court's next spectacle of public humiliation and shame?" His friend grimaced, but James only laughed.
"Come now. Tom." He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Fear not. You're of brisker stuff than that, I know." Tom was sweating mightily in the press of people, and a stripe of perspiration ran down his back, darkening the fabric between the shoulders of his tightly buttoned coat.
Market sounds gradually replaced the hum of the crowd as the mob began to thin and merchants resumed their daily business. "It looks like you could use some refreshment, my good man. I'd spot you a pint. Or," James added, "think you that the king has outlawed ale in Scotland as well?"
" Wheesht." Tom silenced him, looking around nervously. "You'll be the death of me, James Graham. If you manage to keep your own self alive so long."
"Nerves, man," James exclaimed. "I'm a Scotsman in the middle of Edinburgh. My king cannot hear me when he's nowhere to be found."
"Hush, I say. The king's men are everywhere, and I'll not join you on the gallows." Fleshy cheeks blotching crimson, Tom pursed his lips in thought, his normally jovial demeanor turned solemn.
James barked a quick laugh. "But I've upset you!" He hugged his friend to his side. "Let's see to that pint, aye? I'd have a spot of refreshment be fore we go."
"And pray, where are we going?" Tom asked with exaggerated dread.
"Back to my home in Montrose." James walked them briskly to a public house on the edge of High Street. "I need some time by the sea before we fight."
"Alright, James." Tom stopped in his tracks, and the apprehension in his voice belied the lightness of his words. "You have my attention. Before we fight whom?"
"And who else?" James cocked a single brow as a rakish smile split his face. "Before we fight our king, of course."
Chapter 3
It was a pleasant walk from the Fifty-Eighth Street library to the Met, surrounded by the whir of traffic on one side and the happy squeals of kids and distant thumps of boom boxes emanating from Central Park on the other. The early morning brought a light breeze, and Magda was reminded how much she loved New York City. Long walks buffeted by the sounds of the city always blunted the sting of loneliness she'd felt since her brother Peter died.
The rare ringing of her cell phone shattered her serenity. Spying the number on the caller ID, she girded herself to answer. "Hi Dad."
"Magdalen, dearest! How's my little butternut?"
"Oh I'm alright," she sighed, "I—"
"Your mother is very upset with you, you know."
And just like that, her father executed his greatest signature move, the sudden flip from Daddy-boisterous to Daddy-business. It was a skill she could just picture him using in the boardroom. Skip Deacon lets them in with his chumminess, gets their defenses down, then goes in for the kill. And damned if she didn't get sucked in every time.
"We had a lovely time at last night's Founders Gala," he added, "though your presence was sorely missed."
"Uhhh… oops." Magda had forgotten her mother's latest benefit. The usual parentally induced headache seized the top of her skull. Rubbing between her brows, she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Remind me, what'd mom found this time?"
"Magda, you know how much your mother does for the community."
"Sorry," she said. And she did know, having witnessed her mother's glory from the sidelines as she was raised by a series of well-meaning, albeit thickly accented nannies. "I got pulled into a project at work and couldn't get away." "Your mother and I do not understand why you keep that job. If you're so set on a museum, join your mother on the board. You'll never "—