Highland Lady

by Colleen French

  "Aye, m'lady." Towheaded Alexi squirmed, grinning. "Glad to see ye up and about and well."

  She offered a quick smile and jerked on her other boot. "What day is it?"

  "'Tis wash day."

  Monday. She had fallen ill Saturday night and missed all of the Sabbath, but two days was not bad. Acceptable, at least.

  "Where is Finley?" She strode toward the door.

  Alex stepped back. "In the hall. Ye want I should fetch him?"

  "I'll find him myself." After a headache passed, she was always famished and eager to get exercise. Lying in bed for two or three days a month was difficult for a woman so used to the physical rigors of the day-today running of the castle.

  Elen stepped out onto the stair landing. Above, the steps led to the castle's original rampart. Below, they led to the three lower levels of the tower, where rooms were used for additional food storage and sleeping quarters for her men.

  Alexi tripped over his feet to follow her. "He said I should run and fetch ye wine and bread. Ye want it afore ye go below?"

  She stepped over his straw pallet in the tiny hallway, thinking of Munro. Two days she had been incapacitated. Two days he had remained in the oubliette, for surely no man at Dunblane would dare make any decisions without her, not even Finley.

  She smiled to herself as she started down the steep stone steps that curved downward. No doubt her impatient prisoner was more than a little angry by now.

  "The bread, miss?" Alexi called after her.

  "Have no fear," she called up. "I will tell Finley ye tried to feed me. Run and fetch your own meal, and see if your mother needs help in the kitchen."

  Smiling and relieved to be free of the pain, she started down the stairs again.

  "M'lady!"

  She halted on a step as Alexi came barreling down after her.

  "Yer mantle. 'Tis cold out."

  She allowed the boy to drop the woolen mantle over her shoulders; then she continued on her way.

  Elen left the tower and crossed the bailey, which was lit with smoky torches. She spoke to the man-at-arms in the gatehouse and learned that all was quiet. She greeted one of her vassal's wives, inquired as to the health of their new babe, then entered the great hall.

  Once inside, Elen fully intended to pass over the oubliette grate and hold audience with her steward and clansmen in the great hall first. She could eat, be brought abreast of the situation with her sister, and then deal with the prisoner.

  But as she approached the iron grate, she could not push her concern for Munro from her head. She could not cast off the memory of the feel of his arms around her as he had carried her to her chamber. She could not forget the gentleness of his lips upon her forehead nor the stirrings his touch had brought to her in her confused, painful sleep.

  As if of their own accord, her feet halted on the center of the grate. "Munro?"

  "Elen?" he called up anxiously.

  She heard him leap to his feet, saw him appear below. In the darkness, she could barely see his face, but could strongly feel his presence. "Ye've no candles?"

  "Burned out."

  "Then I shall get ye more. There is no need ye should sit in darkness. Prisoner or nae, ye are still the laird of Rancoff and should be treated with that courtesy."

  She paused, waiting for him to speak. She knew what he would say next. He would want to know of her illness. She would have to silence him or bear the embarrassment of giving some explanation. She didn't want to tell Munro what malady had struck her. She did not want him to know what a weak female she truly was.

  "Are ye well?" he asked, in the same deep, intimate voice.

  "Aye."

  There was a weighty pause, and she prepared for his next words.

  "No word from Rancoff, I take it?"

  Utterly surprised by his change of subject, she glanced in the direction of Finley. He was seated at the dais, talking with one of the men. He had not yet seen her, obviously, or he would have been at her side already, clucking like a mother hen.

  "Let me speak with my mon, and I will tell ye what news he brings me." She continued to look downward, knowing their gazes locked, though she could not see his eyes. "Have ye eaten?"

  "A nibble upon a mouse that passed by."

  She liked his sense of humor; it was much like her own. She admired the way he dealt with a difficult situation, too. "Clean water to bathe?"

  "Only if I could bring it up from the tick."

  She cursed beneath her breath, a French word she had learned from her father. She would have Finley by his ear for mistreating Munro. He was laird of Rancoff, a man held dear by Robert, their king. Robert would not take kindly to injury to Rancoff by Dunblane. Leaders such as the Bruce tolerated feuds between clans only so long as it did not affect the kingdom. When good leaders, good fighters, were threatened, it became a different matter. For that reason, she knew those who held her sister at Rancoff would not dare to harm her. It was Elen's only consolation.

  "Such language from a lady," Munro remarked.

  She could not detect his meaning from his tone, but she could guess. "I take it ye nae approve."

  He chuckled. "Nae, actually I approve greatly. Sometimes there is nothing like a decent French oath to set a mon—or woman," he amended, "right with herself."

  "Elen!" Finley came down the steps from the hall. "Ye should have stayed in bed and rested the night."

  She was annoyed he had interrupted her conversation with Munro, though she wasn't certain why. He was only expressing his concern for her health; it was his duty.

  "I am well, Finley." She tried to hide her annoyance with him. "And I am famished."

  "Come sit and let me serve ye, then. There is roast duck stuffed with oysters, one of your favorites."

  She could feel Munro's gaze upon her, watching her.

  "First I want the prisoner seen to," she told Finley. "I nae approve of his abuse—"

  "His abuse?" Finley flared, taking a step toward her.

  She raised a finger, halting him. She would not stand for insolence, not even from Finley. She could not. Her hold on Dunblane, and thus a part of the Bruce's hold on Scotland, depended on her command. No man could second-guess her, question her authority, or all could be lost.

  "Bring him up and let him bathe. Give him clean clothing. Whilst he makes himself presentable, have that pit cleaned. I want a new pallet placed off the floor so he does not catch a chill. A brazier for the cold, candles. Water."

  Finley lowered his voice. "Elen, please. It isnae that I question your judgment, but—"

  "I have faith ye wouldnae," she cut in. "Now see to my orders." She started up the steps, not daring to meet Munro's gaze again. "And bring him to me when he is clean. He can sup with me."

  Elen heard Finley make a sound in his throat, but he choked it back. "Aye, my lord."

  "Aye, my lord," she whispered beneath her breath, smiling. "Aye, indeed."

  Chapter 6

  Elen returned to the hall, leaving Finley to see to Munro and his prison cell. She moved about the smoky room, talking to her men, laughing with them, pretending, as she always did after a headache, that she had not been ill. Nothing had changed since she was last here. It was almost like a tale from yore, where once a month the castle stood silent and still in time and waited patiently for its queen to awaken from her slumber.

  As Elen moved about the room, she feigned interest in all that was being said. She pretended to be totally engrossed in the latest gossip of infidelities, the reconstruction of the dairy wall, and a clansman's latest round with the gout. She pretended to listen to the advice of one of her clansmen as he explained that, in his day, Rancoff would have been attacked days ago. But in truth, every fiber of her being was focused on the doorway. She could not help herself.

  She waited for him.

  Finley entered the hall in a sour mood, but made no mention of the laird of Rancoff except to say that once he had been bathed and deloused, he would report to the great hall.<
br />
  As the kitchen maids carried in great bread trenchers of roasted meats and vegetables for the evening supper, she and Finley discussed her sister and the predicament they found themselves in. As she suspected, no word had come from Rancoff in her "absence." The men she had sent to watch the castle from afar reported that Rancoff had returned to its routine as if nothing was amiss, save for several extra men who stood watch on the stone walls.

  "It makes no sense," she mused aloud as she sipped ale from her father's cup.

  Finley listened obediently.

  "Why have they still nae contacted us?" she questioned.

  They stood near the fireplace, warming themselves. She had given the others leave to eat without her, and they had broken into groups to dine at their pleasure at the tables and benches scattered like rushes on the floor. The room was smoky and loud in a comforting, familiar way. Hounds barked and fought for tidbits beneath tables. A serving wench's babe wailed for his supper. A maiden flirted with one of the young men in a dark corner, her breasts swelling above the low neckline of her stained bodice.

  The only thing different this night than many others was that Elen had ordered the maidservants to set two places at the dais. She hoped Finley did not feel neglected, for normally she dined with him, but she wanted to speak with Munro alone.

  No, if she would admit it to herself, she wanted to be alone with him. She wanted to recapture the intimacy she had experienced in the oubliette just before she had fallen ill.

  "I dinnae ken Rancoff's intentions," Finley spouted. "Have ye asked our prisoner these questions?"

  "He doesnae ken why no one has responded. He is as angry and perplexed as we." She brushed her upper lip against the rim of her cup thoughtfully. "I think he suspects it is his brother who holds Rosalyn, though he doesnae come out and say so."

  Elen wished she could discuss with Finley what Munro had suggested—that perhaps Rosalyn had played a part in her own kidnapping. She wanted to ask Finley if he had heard any rumors concerning her sister and a man she met in secret, but could not think how to word it so as not to blemish the girl's reputation.

  Ordinarily she could trust Finley not to repeat anything said between them, but this was too delicate a matter. If Rosalyn was innocent, as Elen prayed she was, she did not want her clansmen to even consider her sister could do such a thing. So long as there was no scandal and Rosalyn was returned with her maidenhead intact, there was no reason why she could not still be married off to Campbell come Michelmas.

  That she could even consider Rosalyn might be a part of this nightmare set her teeth on edge. How could she, for one moment, suspect such scandalous disrepute?

  Because she knew Rosalyn.

  Her sister's purity of heart and piety were more feigned than real. In her gut, Elen sensed Munro's suggestion might be closer to the truth than any other she had contemplated so far.

  Still, she had no proof, and she needed to keep her emotions in check. She had to suppress the fear, the feeling of helplessness that nagged at her inner thoughts. Men did not govern with emotion; they governed with thought and deed. Until she had proof, she must believe her sister was safe, but being held against her will for ransom, be it coin or land.

  Finley met Elen's gaze and tugged at his short, wiry beard, his eyes stormy. He was obviously not pleased with Elen's decision to bring Munro out of the hole and into her hall. Fortunately, she did not care what he thought on this matter.

  "I nae ken why ye believe the prisoner so easily." Finley eyed her. "Ye must remember what your father warned. He told ye there would be men who would try to sweeten ye with lies, to try to take Dunblane by your bed, if nae by force."

  She laughed at that thought... and was flattered at the same time. Never before had she considered that any man might be attracted to her the way men were attracted to other women. Did Finley really think Munro would try to get into her bed to take her land? Did Finley really think she would let him?

  Her mouth twitched into a smile. "So ye think Cerdic's kidnapping of my sister was a way to force me into capturing Munro so that he might woo me from the depths of my dungeon?" She could not suppress a snigger.

  Finley frowned, put out that she was not taking him seriously. "Ye laugh, but stranger things have happened. Ye said yourself this wasnae the usual damsel-captured-for-ransom plight."

  He sounded hurt, and she reached out to brush his arm with her hand. "I'm sorry, Finley. I dinnae laugh at ye, only at our situation. When father left the responsibility of Dunblane to me, do ye really think he believed we could get ourselves into such a mess as this?" Again, she laughed.

  Finley did not. "I amnae certain ye take this situation seriously enough. I think—"

  Elen caught sight of Munro, flanked by two burly guards as he was led up the steps to the great hall, and Finley's voice faded from her mind. Her surroundings—her men, the tables, the dogs, the black smoky torches—all seemed to recede. Suddenly she saw nothing but Munro. Nothing mattered but this man who walked slowly, proudly, toward her, his head held high.

  Elen could not fight the feeling of warmth that spread from the inside out to her limbs, warming her from her stomach to the tips of her toes and fingers. Once again, she was in awe of the physical reaction of her body to this man. She was in awe of him.

  Munro approached her at the fireplace. Finley must have realized she was not listening to him, because he had gone silent.

  "This is poor judgment," Finley whispered. "He might attempt to escape, and then we would be forced to kill him. I, for one, wouldnae want to be the one to write that letter to our king."

  "He willnae attempt to escape," she said aloud, surprised by the strength of her own voice. "Will ye, sir?"

  She met his gaze. His eyes smoldered... the fire for her. Even a complete innocent such as herself could see it.

  "Nay, I willnae," he said.

  "Stand guard upon the door," Elen ordered the two men who escorted Munro. "Should he attempt to escape, run him through."

  Munro gripped his stomach in mock pain. He wore one of her father's navy tunics that was a wee bit short, but fit him well. Over his broad shoulders, he wore a green and navy plaid woven on Dunblane's loom. "Egads, woman, ye have a taste for blood."

  Finley stepped between them, lifting a hand threateningly. "Speak rudely to my lord, and ye will find it a long fall into the oubliette again."

  "Finley." Elen laid her hand gently on his shoulder and he immediately backed down. "Let me try my way," she said quietly in his ear as she passed him. "We havenae been able to gain information with brawn. Perhaps honey will better serve us."

  She walked toward the dais. "Come sir, sit, and dine with me," she told Munro over her shoulder.

  He followed her to the head of the hall. At the rear of the scarred trestle table, he surprised her by pulling out the long bench they would share. Had she been a woman in skirts, she would have easily been able to maneuver the folds of fabric around the bench and take her seat.

  It was obvious he had offered such courtesy before. This was a man who had sat at daises with women of good breeding in the past. Immediately she was curious about them. What kind of women did Munro of Rancoff like? Blondes with ringlet curls and batting lashes? Dark-haired, mysterious lasses?

  Munro gracefully stepped over the bench and sat beside her. A hovering Alexi refilled Elen's cup and then her guest's, staring without the good sense to pretend he wasn't.

  "Do ye feel better with a bath and clean clothing?" she asked quietly. She would not have the serving boy repeating this conversation word for word to the others.

  "Much better." He lifted the horned cup and smiled over the rim. "Me thanks ye from the bottom of my heart."

  The way he said "my heart" sent a thrill through her. Elen knew she was being a goose. He was obviously playing her. She should heed Finley's warning, but she couldn't help herself. Everything she had ever done in her life had been for her father, for her sister, for her men, for Dunblane. When would s
he do something for herself?

  Elen set down her ale and reached for a trencher of roasted hare. She was starving.

  "I would serve ye," Munro said, covering her hand with his to take the tray from her, "if only ye would allow me."

  She lifted her lashes. Heat passed between them, a flicker of energy she was unfamiliar with but relished all the same.

  He felt it, too. She could see it in his eyes.

  "I serve no lords save my king and Him above," she said softly. "If I allow ye to serve me, will you come to expect the same in return?"

  She did not know where her boldness came from. Her father thought it was the headaches. He said it seemed each time she recovered she was born anew with appreciation for life and its frailties. And Elen did indeed love life.

  He smiled, showing even white teeth blemished by neither rot nor discoloration. "My only hope would be ye would come to wish to serve me as I wish to serve you."

  A play on words, for "serve" could hold many meanings.

  She pulled the trencher of hare from him and took a piece for herself with the dagger she had pulled from her belt.

  "Let us to business," she said, setting down the dish and pushing it toward him.

  He sighed, as if disappointed, and served himself. She reached for another dish, this of roasted onions and kippers. He made no attempt to serve her this time, and she couldn't help being a wee bit disappointed. Was this why men spoke of females' indecisiveness?

  Munro blessed the table for them both and they began to eat, falling into conversation as if she dined every day with a prisoner from her oubliette and he with those who held him prisoner.

  "There has still been no word from Rancoff." She tore off a bit of succulent hare from her knife with her teeth.

  "I suspected as much. Even with ye indisposed," he said diplomatically, "your Finley wouldnae have been able to suppress some word thrown down to me had ye heard anything."

  "Finley is a good mon," she defended, reaching for her cup. The hare was delicious, the bread hearty. It felt good to fill her gnawing stomach. "If a wee bit overprotective."

  "So what now?" he asked, diplomatically changing the subject.