“Isobel.” He stalked towards her, glaring.
“James. We wondered when you’d join us.” She set down her eating knife and reached for a linen napkin, calmly dabbing at her lips as he came closer.
“Where do you get that?” He stopped before his laird’s chair, gripping its high carved back. He didn’t bother to say what he meant.
Everyone at the high table knew. The flurry of coughs, cleared throats, and reaching for bannocks or ale cups, proved it. As did the averted gazes and, in some cases, the sudden attention to the castle dogs scrounging for scraps beneath the table.
Rarely had the beasts received so many prime bits of good meat.
“Isobel….” James ignored dogs and men, focusing on the soul he knew responsible. “That bit of frippery belongs to Catriona MacDonald.”
“So it does, I do believe.” Isobel gave him a sweet smile.
She set down her napkin, carefully folding it before she touched a finger to the necklace. The stones glowed like a living thing, gleaming brightly in the light cast by a wall sconce. For two pins, James would believe the hell-blasted ambers were heating, pulsing wickedly, catching fire beneath his eyes.
He tore his gaze away to glare at his sister. “Answer me. Where did you get the necklace? The last time I saw Lady Catriona it was around her neck.”
“Then she must’ve lost it, mustn’t she?” Isobel curled her fingers around the stones, all innocence. “I found the necklace outside the infirmary tent, long after the MacDonalds left for Blackshore.”
“Far as I know, Catriona ne’er removes the necklace.” James could almost see the word liar blazing on his sister’s forehead. “She wouldn’t have left without setting up a hue and cry to search for it.”
Isobel dismissed his objection with an airy wave of one hand. “She would if she didn’t realize she’d lost it. You know how fraugt things were for us all.” Her gaze gaze met his, almost reproachful. “I dare say she had more on her mind than a necklace.”
James scowled at her, not believing a word. “Where was it then?”
Isobel, master mischief-maker that she was, didn’t miss a beat. “It was caught in the heather near the spring. I spotted it when I went there to wash after we’d finished at the infirmary.”
“I see.” James took his seat, reaching immediately for his ale cup. He saw indeed, though he wasn’t sure where the two women’s trickery was meant to lead him.
Nowhere good, he was certain.
“Looks to me, someone will have to return the necklace to her.” Colin appeared then, claiming his seat with all the jaunty satisfaction of a man recently sated. “I’ve no’ been down Blackshore way in ages.” He plucked his eating knife from his belt and began piling his trencher with thick slabs of roasted meat. “I can ride there at first light-”
“We’ve men to bury on the morrow.” James wasn’t allowing his womanizing cousin anywhere near Catriona. He’d damaged her enough on his own. “If Catriona is distressed by the necklace’s loss” – James almost choked on the words, for he doubted she’d truly lost the damty bauble – “she’ll have to suffer her worry for a few days until-”
“I can go.” At the far end of the table, Hugh put down his ale cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can compose my lays about the battle on the ride there. The journey will inspire me-”
“Nae.” James was firm.
Just because, as clan storyteller, Hugh’s work kept him from other duties, didn’t mean he was the right man to go riding off to Blackshore to return a necklace that – James was sure – was at the heart of some perifidious scheme.
Sure of it, James looked down the table at Hugh, not liking how his brows had drawn together in a stubborn frown. “You do your best tale-spinning locked away in your turret. I’ll vow a stroll across the battlefield will do more to inspire you than a trek across the glen, eh?”
He lifted his ale cup, waving it in Hugh’s direction. “Aye, that is much better for your muse.”
Hugh’s face reddened, sourly. “You just want to deliver the necklace yourself.”
“I-” James clamped his mouth shut, furious. The cold prickles that had danced up and down his nape earlier now felt like a white-hot iron band clamped tight around his neck, suffocating him.
“He’s right, you know.” Isobel sipped her wine, delicately. “Who better than you to show our good will by returning what is surely an heirloom piece? The King did press us to maintain rapport with the MacDonalds and Mackintoshes. This is an excellent opportunity to prove we will abide by King Robert’s wishes.”
Colin grinned and slapped the table. “A splendid idea!”
James glared at them both.
He didn’t bother to argue. It was true. And he’d known the moment he’d seen the necklace that this – him sallying off with the ambers tucked in his belt pouch, like a knight on a white charger – was Isobel’s plan.
No doubt Catriona’s, too.
For some nefarious reason, the two women were plotting against him. A shame they’d overlooked that, as a battle-hardened warrior and chieftain, he knew a bit about tactical strategies himself.
Indeed, he was a master.
“You will go?” Isobel was eyeing him over the rim of her wine cup.
Colin made a business of spearing more slices of roasted meat onto his trencher, selecting the largest and most succulent-looking pieces. He slid a glance at James, his dark eyes glinting knowingly. “The maid will surely be overcome with gratitude.”
James pretended not to hear him. His cousin knew him too well.
“So be it, then.” James kept his face as expressionless as possible. “I will ride to Blackshore in a sennight, no’ a day before.”
“Seven days!” Isobel lost her calm. “Catriona will be beside herself by then.”
James shrugged, pleased by the notion.
Then he applied himself to his trencher, plans of his own forming in his mind. And none of them had much to do with an amber necklace. Though they all revolved around the bauble’s owner.
She’d pushed him too far this time.
And when they met again at Blackshore, he’d teach her at last that maids who didn’t wish to get burned, shouldn’t tempt the devil.
* * *
“He’s not coming.”
Catriona cast a look over her shoulder at Maili who sat on the edge of her bed. “I know it sure as you’re perched on my bed.” Wishing she felt otherwise, she turned back to her bedchamber window. Small flurries of rain splattered the stone ledge, but she didn’t mind. The rain’s light patter soothed her and if she had to wait much longer for James’ arrival, she was sure she’d turn raging mad.
She glanced again at her friend. “It’s been nearly seven days.”
Maili tucked her legs beneath the coverlets, yawning. “I thought you weren’t counting?”
“I’m not.” She wasn’t minding the days. She’d been keeping the hours.
Now, she leaned against the cold stone edge of the window arch, something close to fury simmering inside her. She’d been so sure her plan would work. In truth, she’d been henwitted to put such faith in James.
She blew a curl off her brow, all her annoyances bubbling up in her mind, demanding a voice. “Don’t you see, Maili?” She could feel her face burning, the frustration making her heart pound. “If he intended to return my ambers, he would’ve done so by now.”
“He’ll come.” Maili leaned back against the cushions. “I’ve seen how he looks at you when he thinks no one sees him.” She stifled another yawn. “Such glances are always more telling than any direct looks.”
Catriona wanted to believe it.
But…
“That may be.” Catriona drew her night wrap closer against the cold. “But deeds count for something, too. His absence can’t be good.”
Maili didn’t answer her.
Catriona turned back to the window, peering out into the chill, wet night. A half-moon sailed in and out of the clo
uds, spilling a narrow band of silver across the loch’s black-glistening waters. And even at this late hour, she hoped to catch a glimpse of James riding over the crest of a hill. Or to see him suddenly come into view, torch in hand, on the far shore of the loch.
She’d counted on it until a short while ago.
As she’d been so sure he’d arrive on every other night that had passed since the trial by combat.
But he hadn’t come.
And now her confidence was flagging.
She knew Isobel hadn’t broken their pact. She felt that in her bones. James had her ambers and he was deliberately keeping them, ignoring her. And that could only mean that he truly did think of her as a plague.
Frowning, she stepped closer to the window. The night wind helped her stay awake and she did love the view. Her bedchamber was one of the highest in the tower and the vista was sweeping, taking in much of Loch Moidart, the cliffs rising at the loch’s edge, and even a bit of Blackshore’s bailey. Just now, the moon cast a blue and silver sheen over the hills, and the night was silent save for the slap of wavelets on the rocks and the creaking of moored galleys.
Closer by, glimmers of red showed where guardsmen had lit braziers along the battlement’s wall-walk and, now and then, she caught flickers of light in the bailey. Wedges of yellow that spilled across the cobbles each time someone entered or left the gatehouse. And if she leaned out a bit and craned her neck, she could see that one or two of the other tower windows glowed from within, proving that she and Maili weren’t the only ones yet awake.
Resting her knee on one of the window embrasure’s padded benches, she took another breath of the cold night air, hoping to banish her sleepiness.
“I tell you, Maili” – she stretched, resisting the urge to sink down onto the bench – “if he doesn’t come on the morrow, I’ll have the guards bar the gate to him, whatever Alasdair says.”
No, you won’t, for you love him. Maili spoke from right behind her, the soft words breathing shivers down Catriona’s spine.
She spun around, ready to deny any such feelings for the scoundrel, but the words lodged in her throat.
Maili hadn’t left the bed.
And staring across the room at her, it was clear to see why she’d gone so silent.
Maili slept.
Catriona’s two favorite dogs, Birkie and Beadle, were curled in tight balls close to her side, though all Catriona could see of them was one small black nose peeking out from the rumpled bed coverings. And – she almost overlooked it – a tiny white paw that was just visible beneath a mound of plush, embroidered cushions.
As Beadle and Birkie were litter mates and looked very much alike, she couldn’t tell which dog’s nose or paw revealed their sleeping presence.
Not that it mattered.
What did, was that the three of them took up of most of Catriona’s large, four-postered bed. Maili lay sprawled diagonally across the bed’s high mattress. And the two under-the-covers lumps that were Birkie and Beadle, occupied the remaining space.
And – Catriona frowned when Maili began to snore – she didn’t have the heart to disturb any of them, even if they’d claimed her bed.
I loved him so…
Again, the softly-spoken words came from behind Catriona. Only this time the only thing behind her was the embrasure’s open window.
And now she recognized the voice.
Heart thumping wildly, she swung back around, her breath catching to see Scandia standing at the window, luminescent and shimmering.
Catriona stared at her, frozen, unable to move. She tried to say something – she felt such sympathy for the ghost – but her lips wouldn’t form the words.
The glowing raven-haired beauty didn’t acknowledge Catriona, her gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the window arch. But she did drift closer to the broad stone splay, her lovely face lighting, a wondrous smile curving her lips as she gripped the ledge.
Only….
Catriona’s eyes rounded. The window splay was now a merlon. Scandia was gripping the solid part of a crenellated parapet that now stood where the tapestried wall of Catriona’s bedchamber had been only moments before.
The dark, blustery night was also gone, replaced by a sun-washed blue sky stretching above an endless swath of deep, purple heather and bog myrtle. Thick piney woods and great rolling hills, some with narrow gorges gushing with cold, sparkling cataracts, loomed where Loch Moidart’s far shore should have been.
And – Catriona pressed a hand to her breast, her pulse racing – she recognized the magnificent stretch of glen, even though it’d been long since she’d seen the land around Castle Haven in summer.
It was summer, because the wind was warm. And the air no longer smelled of cold rain and smoldering peat ash, but of whin, bracken, and wild thyme.
As if she relished the day, the sights and scents, Scandia touched a hand to her own shimmering breast and closed her eyes, breathing deep.
When she looked again, she gave a little cry, leaning forward in excitement.
Catriona edged nearer, too. She only took a step, for she was too awed to disturb Scandia and risk her vanishing, the glorious summer day with her.
The day, and – Catriona’s jaw slipped – the shining young Viking warrior who’d just emerged from the piney woods.
Tall, powerfully muscled, and with long fair hair and a curling golden beard, he was colorfully dressed in a brilliant blue tunic and sweeping red cloak. An enormous silver-and-gold brooch held the cloak fastened, and countless twisted gold rings adorned his arms. A golden hammer amulet hung from his neck, proclaiming his trust in Thor. And when he looked up at Scandia, flashing a smile, the love that shone in his eyes made Catriona’s heart seize.
Donar!
Scandia cried his name when she saw him, leaning forward to wave both arms in the air, greeting him enthusiastically. Donar, my love!
Her smile was as dazzling as the young Norseman’s.
And tears of joy glittered on her eyelashes, a few trickling down her happy, blushing cheeks. She cried and waved, jumping in her excitement, gripping the edge of the merlon with one hand so she could lean into the notched crenel space between and wave some more.
It was then that she fell.
The joy on her beautiful young face turning to horror when she realized she’d leaned out too far. She lost her balance, hurtling over the battlements.
Donaaaaaar…! Her cry ended abruptly.
Scandia…no-o-o! The young Viking’s went on and on and on, unending.
Until Catriona felt a bump against her leg and then a small paw tapping at her knee. She came awake at once and looked down to see Birkie peering up at her, his round eyes filled with concern.
She understood why, for she lay slumped on one of the embrasure benches where she’d clearly fallen asleep. And the dampness on her cheeks proved what she already knew: she’d been crying in her dream.
If it’d even been a dream.
It’d felt so real.
Her heart still hurt. And her lungs pained her as if she’d screamed along with Scandia and Donar. Their cries did echo in her ears, horribly.
“Oh, Birkie….” She scooped the little brown and white dog into her arms, cradling him against her breast, grateful for his soft, warm weight. The sloppy wet kisses he gave her as he snuggled closer. “What am I going to do?”
She wasn’t sure.
But she did know one thing.
Lady Scandia wasn’t the Doom of the Camerons. She’d loved her betrothed with all her heart and he’d loved her as passionately.
She hadn’t taken her own life, she’d lost it.
And Catriona would set things right for her as soon as James arrived at Blackshore.
If he didn’t come, she’d go to him.
But a short while later, just as pale gray light began to smudge the eastern horizon, sounds came to her from the loch shore, waking her again.
Someone was moving across the shingled strand, the crunch of stone
unmistakable in the pre-dawn stillness.
Careful not to disturb Birkie, Catriona slipped off the bench and peered out the window, her heart filling to see a small party of men just coming into view on the far side of the loch, near to the beached galleys.
James was coming at last.
And she couldn’t wait to see him.
* * *
A short while later, though it may have been an hour, possibly two, James paced up and down Alasdair’s lovely painted solar at Blackshore and wondered why he hadn’t sent someone else to return Catriona’s amber necklace.
The knocks and slams he’d taken in the battle had surely had a more lasting effect on him than he’d realized, for they’d addled his wits.
And here, in Alasdair’s sumptuous solar – the well-appointed room was pleasingly warm with a crackling fire burning in the hearth – whatever might’ve remained of his good sense had flown out the window.
Catriona was to blame.
She had yet to show herself and he knew she’d seen him arrive.
She’d waited for him on the little boat strand near Blackshore’s postern gate where, so many weeks before, they’d exchanged such heated words. She’d stood at the water’s edge, clutching both hands to her breast as she’d watched his approach, her heart in her eyes.
At least he’d thought so.
But he’d lost sight of her when he neared the curving wall of Blackshore’s gatehouse. And it was then that her amber necklace started to pulse and burn, scorching his hip even through the leather of his belt pouch and the thick wool of his plaid.
Or so it’d seemed.
He’d credited the strangeness to his own nerves, for it wasn’t every day he rode to an enemy keep to bare his heart before a female who may well slap his face for the effort. If her brother didn’t first have him hauled from the castle and thrown onto his presumptive arse.
Yet Alasdair had greeted him as courteously as ever, ushering him, as before, into his fit-for-a-king solar and ordering a fine repast of belly-filling victuals and jugs of good morning ale.
Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1 Page 29