"True enough," she said carefully. Smoke had discolored the walls' wainscoting and painted paneling. She watched his profile for any revelation as to the purpose behind this visit.
"What were you doing in Jamie’s chambers today?”
“How did you know?" she blurted.
His smile was enigmatic. “I’m the seventh son of a seventh son.”
"What?”
He settled down before the fireplace and crossed his ankles. Thane dropped down alongside him.
She remained standing, arms folded, and studied him as he talked. "Every Highland glen and braeside has its resident wise man or woman. Traditionally, ’tis the seventh child of a seventh child who, through the power of fairies, inherits the gift of taibh-searachd.”
His rich accent didn’t make any clearer the Gaelic word. "The gift of what?"
“Taibh-searachd. Prophecy. Or seers.”
"Oh, spare me the nonsense.”
" Tis true. For instance, a century ago a Highlander, Kenneth Odhar, was given a magic white stone with a hole in it by the fairies and could see the future through the hole. It seems that Kenneth paid dearly for his gift. He was cam—blinded in one eye.”
She squinted at him. "You don’t really believe this, do you?"
He shrugged those immense shoulders. “Kenneth predicted the Battle of Culloden over a century before it happened.”
“Coincidence.” Yet despite his everyday tone, he sounded profoundly arcane. “I wager most of what he predicted did not happen,” she challenged.
"Weel, he did speak of a string of black carriages, horseless and bridleless and led by a fiery chariot, that would pass through the Highlands. I admit that sounds farfetched.” That grin again. "But then, how do I know ye were in Jamie’s room?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You spied on me.”
"And were you spying, mayhap?”
So, he had neatly boxed her into a corner. “I had gone to get a book for Annie to practice her reading.”
"And where is that book?"
“There wasn’t one simple enough for her to read.”
He brushed off his hands and rose to his feet. Thane rose, also, and looked to his master for a signal to leave. "Me thinks, Enya, ye are practicing your own kind of predicting.”
"What?" she asked again, taken aback.
He crossed to the door and paused with his hand on the latch. “Aye. Your confinement to the donjon, after all, should ye continue to make it difficult for me to treat ye as a guest rather than a prisoner.”
“Does the host make love to every female guest?” she retorted.
"Don’t mistake that, mistress, for lovemaking,” he said, and shut the door on her.
Chapter Thirteen
So, the redheaded one had been a virgin after all.
Ranald tried to keep his mind on his surroundings. On the noises that belonged—clink of metal bits of harnesses, creak of saddles, occasional snorting of horses, the baying of a hound. On aspects of the landscape that belonged— untrammeled snow; the glide of a golden eagle in a clear, cold sky; a single plume of smoke from a trapper’s cabin.
When one failed to notice small things that didn’t belong was when large things occurred. Like ambush. The long night march, followed by an early-morning raid on a small patrol party of the enemy, had left his weary men dozing in their saddles.
For over a year now it had been a matter of stalking and attacking whenever he could, sometimes moving his headquarters from day to day so no one knew where he would strike next. In this he was helped by people of the countryside who gave him the most recent news of the English movements.
On the northern horizon, blue clouds lay in a smooth line, a foreteller of heavy snow. Within another week the pass would be blocked. For the winter, Lochaber would be a snowbound island.
Why was he seeing dragon ships in windswept clouds? Why was he infatuated with a redheaded lass who seemed to wield over him the power of a pagan priestess? It was merely that she was so bloody unbiddable, distracting, and unpredictable.
At his side, Jamie said, "Hopefully, this was the last battle before winter. But after that, Ranald? Do we do battle for the rest of our lives?"
He glanced across at Jamie—his cousin, his friend, his confidant. A Redcoat’s bayonet had opened a small gash along his left sleeve. Jamie had not the eye-hand coordination of a warrior born. Seeing the bloodstained wool, Ranald was sorely tempted to reply that the fighting was ended forever.
Mayhap Enya was right when she had told him yester morn, "Don’t you see, Ranald? Surrender doesn’t bring the inability to survive but always the birth of something new."
He had just committed that small surrender, that giving of himself, of his seed. That moment when man is at his most vulnerable. And yet, she had held him to her, caressed him and crooned softly to him in her lyrical Scots Braid. And he had been renewed. In a sense, resurrected. If not spiritually, then, at least, physically. The sight and feel of her full, ivory breast in his palm was enough to accomplish that feat.
"Your thoughts are not of battle," Jamie said, bringing him out of his reverie.
His answering laughter felt liberating. “Nae. They were of a battle of sorts. With the Lady Enya."
In his thoughts was the image of her yester eve, sitting by the fireplace and teaching the village maid Annie to read. From his own Bible, no less.
Had the Lowland lass no limits?
She was not sweet-tempered as Ruthven had been. Tall, taut, and trying instead of small and soft and submissive, like his intended. But he was not afraid of crushing either the breath or the spirit out of Enya. Her body fit his well, and she challenged his perspective.
Fragile Ruthven. Redheaded Ruthven.
"Let her go, Ranald," Jamie urged.
"There ye go for a damned cowardly Italian," he joked, mimicking his sister.
" Tis not Simon Murdock I’m concerned about. Tis the Lady Enya.”
His lighthearted mood vanished. "Has the vixen witched ye, also?”
He recalled too easily Jamie’s earlier declaration of what an entrancing conversationalist she was: "Spirited, she is, Ranald, with a mix of wit and wisdom.”
And he knew how big and awkward he was. Awkward both of body and words, especially when it came to women.
"You know better than that,” Jamie said. “You must put the past behind you and trust again.”
Ranald pretended to scan the fields, where oats for the cattle were rotated with potatoes, turnips, and rye. Privately, he wondered if this redhead who presently occupied his bed could be trusted, as she claimed. There were mornings when he half expected her to try to bury his dirk in his heart while he slept.
Or, at least, she thought he slept. Experience had made a light sleeper of him.
Remarkably, most mornings she had been content to sit quietly and puff on one of his pipes. He knew she waited for an avenue of escape to present itself for her and her retinue.
Truly, he was going to be sorry to make the Lowland lass hate him.
* * *
Kathryn was sitting up, more than she could do a fortnight ago. December’s wan light filtered through her room’s high, narrow window and yellowed the skin of her hands, draped over the chair’s scrolled arms.
"I feel old,” she told her daughter. "When someone has to spoon-feed you, you might as well be buried."
Enya held another spoonful of the watery gruel for her to swallow. "Ridiculous, Mother. Bairns are spoon fed, also.”
"But the we’ans have a lifetime to look forward to. Mine is over.”
"I hardly think so,” said Arch from her doorway. He stood so tall, the lintel concealed the top of his head.
Neither Enya nor she had heard him open the door. He was the same age as she. How did he manage to look so full of energy and strength? "Come in and talk to us. Enya is regaling me with castle gossip while she feeds me."
“I’ll take over,” he said, "though I doubt the village gossip I have been sorting through
is more entertaining.”
Enya passed the wooden bowl and spoon to him, and he took her chair beside the bed. “Anything about any accomplice we might find here in the castle?" Enya inquired.
He shook his head, and his thick red hair fell across his brow. "Not a thing. If anyone is disloyal to Cean Mdr—"
"To whom?" Kathryn said.
“Cean Mdr. That’s Celtic for what the villagers call Ranald—Great Chief. And none of them are about to betray him. At least, not to me."
"I wonder why the fierce loyalty when he isna from Lochaber?” Enya mused.
He shrugged those yard-wide shoulders. “Have you learned anything?"
Enya shook her head. "I haven’t been able to find even a scrap of paper with writing on it. I went through some books in Jamie’s room. I couldn’t even find his name on a flyleaf.”
"If you could get him to write something for you,” Arch suggested.
"Which might prove nothing," Kathryn said. "The person who wrote that missive might have deliberately disguised his handwriting."
“Open your mouth," Arch told her. Obediently, she did as he commanded and swallowed the gruel. "Tell Elspeth even her potions taste better than this,” she said to Enya.
After her daughter departed, she asked, “How do you keep your passion for life, Arch? I tire so easily.”
"You are my passion."
Her heart fluttered. "Don’t talk that way.”
"Why not?” He set the bowl and spoon on the floor and leaned over her. "If you are determined to languish away, then I shall speak my mind.”
"You already did," she said, and held up a forestalling hand. "We’ll speak no more about this!"
"Aye, my love. The time for words is past." He gathered her in his arms. She was too weak to push him away. He cradled her to him, his smoothly shorn jaw resting against her temple. "You are me one true love. As I am yours."
"No,” she protested. "Do not say these things."
"If not in this lifetime, then in the next you will be mine." He lowered his head even farther. “If I can do no more than kiss you now, then in the next lifetime I will make you mine and give myself to you in return."
His breath warmed her, fanned inside her the embers of life she thought had died. Her heart took flame as his lips kissed hers. Her body, aglow, responded as it had all those many years ago. If only for this one wondrous moment, she was young again.
“Mam!”
With a gasp, she yanked away from Arch to behold her daughter in the doorway. Enya’s expression was aghast. “Enya, you don’t understand—”
Arch drew her back within his encircling arm. “Come in, Enya. Tis time you knew the truth."
Her daughter’s gaze of astonishment darted from him to her. Slowly, Enya closed the door and rested her back against it. Her expression was one of incomprehension.
“I love your mother, Enya."
"Obviously," she said dryly. "What about your priesthood vows?”
“I have yet to take them. I am only a brother.
Surprise stunned Enya momentarily. Then her daughter looked at her. “What about my father?”
She was grateful for Arch's strong supporting arm. She drew a deep, steadying breath. "Arch is your father, Enya."
Their daughter’s eyes widened. For a long moment, the obvious fought the unacceptable. Then, "You betrayed your vows then, Mam. Your vows of marriage.”
At the anger in her voice, Arch said harshly, "Do not judge, Enya. That is the worst of sins. The only sin, mayhap.”
Her words were a mere whisper. "How could this happen?"
A measure of strength restored, she drew away from Arch. "Does it matter? We were young. Unwise. Inexperienced. The important thing is that we dinna want to hurt anyone, least of all Malcolm. We still don’t. What you saw was a moment of weakness on my part.”
"No," Arch declared, "it was a moment of love on my part! It will not happen again, but I will not let even you make something ugly or evil of what was—’’
"Did you know this?” Enya asked. "That I was your daughter?”
"I suspected the truth a long time ago.”
Enya sank into a hidebound chair.
"I never told him—or Malcolm,” Kathryn said, "that he was your father."
“I think I always knew," he said, releasing her. “But I thought it best for everyone to leave the matter be.” He rose to his feet. “As far as I am concerned, Enya, things don’t have to change. Malcolm need never know. Tis up to you."
Enya bit her lip, glanced down at her knotted hands, raised her eyes, and smiled tentatively. “I’d like time to know you better. As more than an old friend."
Arch grinned. "Clearly, we’ve nothing better to do for the winter.”
* * *
"Look! See there, off above that peak. The golden eagle.” Jamie’s breath frosted the air. "Tis the biggest bird in the Highlands.”
Enya pulled up on her pony. Her gaze followed the direction in which Jamie pointed. Above the snow-capped summit the bird’s wings were stretched wide, seeking a warm current of air in which to glide.
Warm air would be difficult to find today. Even so, she was willing to brave this newest onslaught of cold weather. With her work in the kitchen finished early and Ranald absent, she had pestered Jamie to take her riding to escape the stale air of the castle.
Where was Ranald? Was his heart’s devotion given over to some maiden in the village? A Highland lass whose hair color did not offend him?
Sometimes he called her to his chambers; a few times he came to hers; often he ignored her. He had not summoned her in weeks now.
When teaching Annie to read she had asked her subtle questions in regard to her laird, but Annie never mentioned any dalliance to her. That he occasionally called Enya to his chambers was a duly accepted fact—the right of the laird.
Come morning, she was still a kitchen maid, was she not?
Still, she often wondered if all of his time was truly spent in deer stalking, visiting local crofters and burghers, hawking, hunting, presiding at justice halls, and counseling with his reivers.
The one person she found herself turning to more often for solace was Jamie. He was well read, educated, and of a pleasant nature. And, it went without saying, a very handsome and charming man.
Sometimes she plied him with questions about his time in Paris. Other times she listened wistfully as he told her anecdotes about luminaries he had discoursed with, men of influence like Voltaire and Franklin and Rousseau.
"The golden eagle is monogamous,” he was saying now. "He mates for life.”
"How perfectly fascinating. Can the same be said of the Highland laird?”
Jamie shot her a penetrating glance. "Are you inquiring about my cousin? If so, aye. Ranald mated for life."
Anguish struck like lightning. "Ranald is married?”
"No. The marriage never took place."
“What happened?"
His eyes shuddered over. "You had best ask Ranald about Ruthven."
Her enthusiasm in the ride went out of her. She rode on in silence for another league.
"Speak your mind with me,” Jamie said at last. "I beseech you."
Ranald was ever on her mind. She admitted as much. "I know that Ranald has suffered under Simon Murdock’s administration. And I can understand Ranald’s bitterness, but sometimes I feel that he . . .’’
She could not finish the thought. It would have been a betrayal of him. For all his short tempt, he had never treated her brutally, as her intended had treated him and his family.
Jamie paused. They had dismounted and stood on the perimeter of a fallow field. Jamie put his hand on her shoulder. "I canna agree with what he is doing to you, Enya.”
Rustling in the shrubbery behind them spun them around, is if by complicity. Ranald stood there, the merlin riding his gloved arm. The lacings of his leggings were filled with shreds of leaves and bits of bark. His face was smudged with a two-day growth of beard. Wrinkles of wea
riness fanned his eyes and mouth. His unnatural calm clad his presence with a kind of total menace.
How much had he heard? Nothing about his expression foretold the possible scope of his intentions. "My captive. Ye find her entertaining, Jamie?"
"Well, of course. She is a lady, for God’s sake, Ranald.”
“She is not to go out alone with you.”
“You are afraid I shall seduce your cousin into eloping with me?” she asked, her tone scathing.
“Neither is she to be left alone with Duncan," he persisted calmly.
Jamie’s mouth flattened with a mixture of both disgust and disappointment. “You should know me better than that, Ranald."
“I ken that flattered men can behave like fools.”
He looked at her. It was an impersonal appraisal that seemed to take no heed of her disheveled red hair or her becomingly flushed cheeks or the flame of resentment in her green eyes. "I want ye to keep in mind that I am no fool." With that he strode on past the two.
Jamie glanced at her, shook his head warningly, then turned to follow Ranald.
* * *
When the weather wasn’t inclement, which wasn’t often, Enya would sit on the castle ramparts after her chores in the kitchen were finished.
Often her thoughts turned to Brother Archibald—or Arch, as she now called him. It was difficult to address him as Father just yet. She didn’t know if she would ever be able to do so. At least she had come to the point where the thought of him as her father was no longer so utterly strange.
This afternoon was cold, but the usually blustery wind was lying low. Sunlight had melted the most recent snow, and she pulled back the hood of her cloak.
Soaking up the crisp, fresh air, Thane lay stretched out at her side. The collie heard the noise first. His ears pricked up, then he leaped to all four paws. She turned to see Ranald approaching. Tail wagging, Thane trotted over to his master, clad in a deerskin coat and leather trousers against the elements.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 38