Looking at the burn, she glimpsed salmon hurtling their speckled bodies against the current. She was reminded of Ranald Kincairn’s penchant for fishing. "And your cousin preferred fishing to facts?"
His smile broadened. "Ranald secreted one of those lovely pink salmons into a professor’s bed."
"So the chieftain has a sense of humor. Warped."
"Ranald was but sixteen at the time and thoroughly detested schooling, you understand. And he—look, there! In the nearest bough of that alder. The goldcrest! Isn’t it lovely?"
She watched the bird, no bigger than her palm, perched on a branch. Something stirred in the underbrush, disturbing the goldcrest, and it took flight.
If only she could escape so easily.
~ * ~
A traitor lived within the walls of Lochaber Castle. Ranald knew this and didn’t know what to do about it. He scanned yet another time the cryptic message on the shred of paper he had found in the stable. The paper smelled of dung. The letters were scrawled—written by someone in a hurry?
Ranald and his Reivers ride to Glenfinnan within the fortnight.
Only someone sitting in on the council meetings could know have information . . . or an eavesdropper.
For instance, the Lady Enya?
Crumbling the paper in his hand, he started toward the castle keep, then sighted the maiden Mary Laurie. Her shoulder resting on the doorjamb, she was talking to Cyril, whose job it was to salt the carcasses of the weaker beasts unlikely to survive the winter months.
By the signs he had been noticing—heavier moss on the north side of trees, early-morning redheaded woodpeckers, increased activity by the squirrels, and the thickness of the spider webs—this winter was going to be a nasty one.
A heavy winter would be a blessing this year. The mountain roads would be impassable, giving his reivers respite from the English, giving the weary Scots time to regroup, rest, repair.
"G’day to you,” he said, bracing a hand just above her head. Inside the salt house, the husky young salter knelt in front of a slain cow. Its long, rust-colored coat was matted with blood.
Mary Laurie looked up at him with eyes the color of a tranquil loch: not quite blue, nor gray. Her soft mouth widened in a timid smile. “G’day to ye, sire.”
From beneath her mobcap, brown curls peaked with caution. Something her mistress assuredly did not practice. What was the Lady Enya doing in the woods with Jamie? He trusted Jamie. More than he could say for the Lowland lass. "Tell me, Mary Laurie, can your mistress write?"
The thickly lashed eyes grew wary. “Of course.”
“Does she do so these days?"
“You would have to ask her, though I doubt it. She is kept busy performing your chores."
So, the maidservant was loyal. And courageous enough to brave his wrath. “Ach, but ye do menial chores." He caught one chapped and roughened hand.
She withdrew it. “And I am rewarded for it with bed and board.”
"So is your mistress.”
“Aye, but she does not work here of her own choice. I read and write, but it is by choice I work for me mistress. She pays far better than I would receive elsewhere.”
“Ye read and write?”
“Some.”
Mayhap he was a fool. What if this seemingly reticent maid either wrote the note or hoped to find someone to smuggle it out? His eye fell on Cyril the Salter, a trusted lad from the hamlet.
But Mary Laurie no longer had the note, if she ever had it, to pass to Cyril, which meant she was talking to him purely out of interest. He ruled her out.
Perhaps it was time to change bases. He had found Lochaber Castle an excellent stronghold for sallies and a good defense position, since large armies could not advance on its mountaintop location. It had the added advantage of being unreachable until spring, once snowfall blocked the passes.
Mary Laurie slid him a nervous glance. "Is that all, sire?”
"Aye." Watching her go, he wondered why he did not simply confine her mistress to the castle rather than let her stroll about at her whim.
He wondered, too, why he should give her any thought at all. The Lowland lass was obstinate and arrogant. The defiant tilt of her cleft chin symbolized these abrasive qualities. Nevertheless, she had proven capable of surprising fortitude and resiliency. And had proven of arousing his intense interest in her, something new for him.
Admittedly, hers was not a classic beauty. Not compared to the petite and passionate Lady Hayward. Mayhap another expedition to Oban and Lady Hayward was required before winter’s snow locked in Lochaber.
~ * ~
"The man, this Ranald, is not one of the superstitious Scots’ Auld Folk.” Simon Murdock’s flint-colored eyes stared over his pyramided fingertips at the nervous, scarlet-coated staff officer standing at attention. "Anyone who can slide a dirk between Captain Fenwick’s ribs so deftly has to be human. I want him found and brought to me. Alive."
The lieutenant, his plumed hat tucked beneath his arm, saluted smartly. “Aye, sir!"
After the officer left, Simon adjusted his scarlet coat’s turned-back cuffs and the small coil of gold braid on one epaulet before having his aid usher in the waiting couple.
His gaze traveled past his desk to the scribe, Archibald Alistair. He stood behind the woman’s chair. Why was he here at Fort William with Lady Kathryn Afton?
Snowflakes still flecked those tendrils of pepper-and-salt hair that curled beyond the range of her mantle’s hood. Despite her age, she was still beautiful. He might seduce her. A pleasant menage au trois, her daughter, her, and himself.
However, before that delightful scenario could be played out, he had to find her daughter, his wife.
"I apologize for the chill of my office, madam. The Jacobites blew up portions of the fort, and Parliament did not see fit to include an office fireplace as part of the restoration.”
Good King George, fat King George, could not afford to build forts and pay the troops to garrison them. It cost the king £80,000 a year to fortify newly won lands, and he received but a fifth of that sum in taxes from the Scottish people.
Lady Afton waved a hand of dismissal. "I am impatient with your progress. Two months is long enough to, at least, locate the renegade."
He didn't understand it himself. The man had not yet asked for a ransom.
He withdrew the wrinkled leather pouch from his waistcoat pocket. “We’ve set a reward on the reiver’s head, madam. Tis only a matter of time until someone betrays him for the proverbial thirty pieces of silver.”
And only a matter of time until he acquired another pouch made of a fool's testicle.
Chapter Eight
Enya’s mouth compressed. The Highland "mist" filled her wooden clogs like bathtubs as she squished across the bailey toward the bakehouse. The mist was more like sleet.
Now she understood more fully how the Gaelic word dreich encompassed so many descriptions—dreary, dismal, drizzly, misty, gray.
The Reiver was back. From her window this morning she had watched him, astride his shaggy, big war horse, and his men canter from beneath the twin gatehouses through the morning dark toward the stables. The booty this time was a wagon-load of English muskets with powder and ball. Enough to keep the raiders supplied through the winter.
She hoped anyone searching for her would not undertake the trek to the mountain village of Lochaber any later than the end of October. After that, it could well be spring before Buachaille Etive’s retreating snows yielded their bodies.
October’s end. All Hallow’s Eve. The height of supernatural activity. She knew that this part of Scotland was pagan to the point of superstition. Belief in things unseen—along with the mountainous geography—had left it straggling behind in ignorance.
What demonic activity did the Reiver plan for her on All Hallow’s Eve?
The long, covered wooden trencher she carried was crowded with loaves of bread dough. She spared her red and chapped hands a sympathetic look. At least they, and
an occasional backache, were the worst she had yet suffered.
But the Reiver would be riding out less and less as the winter deepened. By All Saints’ Day his attention would be directed at her, if not before.
“M’lady?”
She turned at the sound of Annie’s voice. The young Highland woman, hurrying to catch her, slackened her pace. Once Enya had reassured her she had no romantic interest in any of the Cameron men, especially Jamie, the young woman had accepted her and accorded her the courtesy due a noble lady.
A hoary mist frosted Annie’s reddish brown hair. At Enya’s suggestion, she had ceased using henna and allowed Enya to take a pair of scissors to the dead ends. A definite improvement. Regular baths in cold weather, no matter how heated the water, were not yet a consideration. "Aye, Annie?”
"Ranald’s sister ... uhh ... requests your presence.”
She watched the young girl’s breath steam the air while thinking rapidly. Unlike Annie, Mhorag would have nothing to do with her. Why summon her now? Unless she had seen Duncan talking to her in the greensward of the inner courtyard yesterday and believed Duncan and she were plotting to escape?
"Let me slide the bread into the oven first."
The brown eyes admonished her. "’Oo'd best ’urry, me lady."
"I shall.”
The bakehouse’s communal brick oven was used by the villagers also, but was not in service at the moment. Its flaring red coals scorched her cheeks. As scorched as the rye bread would be if she were not careful.
While she waited, her backside froze and her face and hands blistered. At last, the loaves were an acorn brown, and probably as hard. A harping Flora despaired of her culinary abilities. "God help the puir chief when he eats yer meals.”
Enya frowned. The ‘puir chief’ was too often on her own mind. His grave eyes that lit only after a smile that was long in coming. The gentleness in his hand that stroked his collie. His voice, warm and lyrical, with a seductive quality.
Enya hurried back through the mist, dumped the loaves in a kitchen basket, and sped up a turret stairwell to the fourth landing and Mhorag’s private chambers. Except for being more spacious with a few more odds and ends of furniture, the room was almost as bare as her own. Elspeth had reclaimed some war- or weather-damaged tapestries from the castle’s ruined wing for Enya’s chambers.
A threadbare tartan carpet warmed the cold stone floor. Mhorag paced its perimeter like a hungry cat awaiting kitchen scraps. She wore knee pants, green lisle stockings, and a long-sleeve woolen shirt covered by a jerkin. Obviously, the young woman scorned feminine clothing. And scorned Enya herself.
At the sight of her, Mhorag whirled, fists planted on her hips. Her eyes were more full of arrows than a thistle of nettles. "Well? Did I give ye permission to dally, mistress?”
"The bread, I—”
Mhorag’s palm smacked Enya’s cheek. “I don’t want excuses. I want obedience. Is that understood?”
Astonished, she put her fingertips to her smarting cheek. Never had she been struck. She turned a sulfurous gaze on Mhorag, so much smaller that Enya could have pummeled her to bread dough had she so chosen. "Touch me again, and I’ll—”
Mhorag’s mouth curled in a tight smile. One finely delineated brow rose. "Ye'll what?”
Sudden comprehension enlightened her. “This isn’t about my quality of service, is it? Tis about my quality as a woman.”
"Ye are daft.”
She struck at the young woman's most vulnerable spot. "You are afraid to be feminine. I make you uneasy, don’t I? Each time you see me you are reminded of your cowardice as a woman."
The blue eyes were agates. "Aye, 'tis about your quality. Ye have chosen for a husband a man who widowed me, then caused me to lose the bairn I was carrying. Once Simon Murdock filled me with his seed, his officers took their turn.”
Treacherous sympathy filled her, but she retorted, “Then strike out at him!”
Her smile was chillingly sunny. “I do. Through ye. Now fetch a basin of water and a scrub brush. Ye may clean the privies. A task the castle’s former occupants overlooked."
“What?”
“Surely ye understand the King’s English?"
Enya’s fingers curled. "I pledged my service to your brother, not you."
"Did ye now? Then let me tell ye that my brother’s plans for ye are far more unpleasant than the task I have set for ye."
She clasped her hands in repose. "I’ll deal with that when the time comes.”
Mhorag’s head canted, and a cafe-au-lait lock tumbled over her shoulder. Her eyes glinted. "Besides, with the smell of the privy about ye, I doubt my brother will visit his attentions upon ye more than is absolutely necessary. So, in me fashion, I am helping ye, am I not?”
"Are you afraid I’ll find favor with your brother? Take your place, since he’s all you have left?"
“Clean the privy, mistress. Now.”
~ * ~
The medieval fortress that aspired to be a temporary manor was decidedly unprogressive in terms of its privies. Each private chamber included a privy set into an outer wall, built over a shaft fed also by latrines on other floors. Dirty water and other deposits were discharged through the gargoyles on the outside of the building.
Cleaning out privies was a most odoriferous experience for Enya.
At the end of the day she forwent dinner and retreated to the privacy of her own small chamber and a bath drawn by a chiding Elspeth. “By me troth, bairn, but ye smell like a pigsty.” She ladled another dollop of soft soap into the water.
"Pigs have it better than I.” She sighed and closed her eyes. She slid down into the copper tub until the steaming water topped her shoulders. "The master and mistress I serve are worse than pigs. They behave like villeins of the vilest—’’
"Is that so?” asked a male voice.
She recognized its smooth, trilling timbre. Her lids snapped open; her head jerked around. Arms folded, Ranald stood in the doorway. A swath of cream-and-whisky hair fell across his wide forehead. Over a linsey-woolsey shirt, a leather tunic stretched the breadth of his chest. His knee-high boots of soft Spanish leather were splotched with mud.
Every sinew, tendon, and muscle within her tensed but she strove to keep her tone on an even level. "What is the source of your ire now?”
He crossed to the tub. Tall, his strapping body bound with muscle, he loomed over her. His eyes, this time the green of lichen, bore into her. "Ye, mistress. There was not enough bread to go around today. Ye forsook your duties."
She bolted upright, then, seeing her bosom almost exposed, slid hastily back into the steamy water, her arms crossed over chest in maidenly modesty. "Your sister dragged me from my duties. Had me clean—"
He wrinkled his nose. "Don’t tell me. The stench in here is explanation enough."
Past forbearance, she almost sprang to her feet, then immediately sank once more back in the water.
“Stand. I wish to inspect my chattel.”
“No.”
“Shall I order ye dragged from the tub by my guards waiting outside?”
Elspeth stepped in front of tub, as if to shield her charge, and spat, “Ye scurvy scoundrel!”
He only looked at the old woman. She fairly bristled but knew enough that another word from her could send her and Enya from the frying pan into the fire.
He turned his anvil hard gaze back on Enya, but addressed Elspeth. “Bring me razor and strop, woman. I wish to shave.”
Elspeth darted an inquiring glance at Enya, who nodded. There was no reason for Elspeth to take the brunt of the man’s ire.
After the seething old woman huffed from the room, he reached for a threadbare linen towel she had laid out for Enya and tossed it to her. "Dry yourself. I do not wish ye to die of pneumonia before ye bring sufficient Highland bairns into the world.”
She hurled the towel back at him. "I shall jump from the battlements before I bear your seed.”
His massive shoulders shifted with
a shrug. "It won’t be my seed, madam. Your red hair offends me.”
The statement was made with as much dispassion as had he said it might rain in the morning. Apparently, emotion only overtook him when he played the pipes.
He began removing his tunic, then next his shirt. Hair, darker than that of his head, whorled across his chest. He tossed the white shirt over the open lid of a sailor’s chest that served as her armoire. “I have changed my mind,” he said. “Do not get out of the tub.”
“Surely you dunna intend to . . . to get in here with me?"
His arms akimbo, he eyed her judiciously. “What I intend to – ”
A sharp rap on the door diverted them both. Elspeth stuck her long nose inside. Enya saw the querulous look the old woman fired at him, followed by the more concerned one she spared for Enya. He took the razor and strop she passed him then shut the door on Elspeth’s glowering countenance.
He retrieved the towel, flung it over his shoulder, along with the strop, then crossed to hunker at the foot end of the tub. "Spread your legs for me, wench.”
Was this it then, the moment of reckoning? Her heart was thumping so hard, she was surprised the water did not slosh. “And if I refuse?” She thought she had spoken in a challenge, but her voice came out sounding like a raw whisper.
“Spread them – or else I might cut ye.”
Aghast, she watched disbelievingly as he dipped the razor in the soapy water. Then, when he laid the razor’s edge against that triangular patch of her rust-colored curls, her breath issued as a sibilant inhalation. "You canna mean to shave me . . . there!"
"Like maple leaves in autumn,” he murmured, anchoring a shovel-size palm against the lower portion of her flat stomach. A hard spasm shuddered through her. His other hand deftly wielded a path through the soft tuft of curls.
Her fingers arced, aching to dig into that granite countenance, but the slightest move could jar the razor. Tears of shame sprang to her eyes. "I hope you do your own barbering. Because if I ever – ”
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 31