Highland Lady

by Colleen French

  "Aye, m'lady."

  He turned to go in the direction of the great hall and she called after him. "Finley?"

  He looked back. "M'lady?"

  "The prisoner will attend my saint's day celebration. See he is clothed in a manner befitting his station. Have something of my father's taken in, if necessary."

  Finley nodded, but this time the look upon his face was clear to read. Disapproval, anger... and a hint of jealousy.

  * * *

  Munro stood in the tiny chamber used for storage underground below the great hall and held out his arms. The room was cramped with empty barrels and broken stools, but it was a damned sight roomier than the oubliette cell. A carrot-topped maidservant ran a clean rag over his bare back and warm water dripped into the shallow wooden tub he stood in. Outside a burly man with a wicked dagger on his belt stood guard.

  Munro gave a sigh of pleasure. Like any man, he had always appreciated a bath after a long day in battle or riding, but he had not realized until being imprisoned by the Burnard wench just how much he liked feeling and smelling clean.

  Music swelled from the great hall above him, and he glanced upward. He couldn't stop thinking about Elen. She was such an enigma—masculine in so many ways, and yet utterly feminine in ways he suspected she didn't even realize. "A big celebration tonight in honor of your mistress," he remarked.

  "Aye," the maid breathed in obvious awe. "Bread and meat for all. And ale."

  "So ye like her, do ye?"

  The maid came around his side, scrubbing his shoulder with the rag she had run through soap shavings. "Aye, my lord. She scares the wits out of me, but she has a heart big as a stag's. When my little brother took sick last month with a belly gripe, she come herself to bring him ale and bread. The lord, her father, was a good soul, but you never would have seen him beneath no crofter's roof."

  Warm, soapy water ran down his chest, and he closed his eyes to enjoy the moment. "And she's had no proposals of marriage? Odd, a woman her age in her position."

  The maid lowered her head over his shoulder. "They say she willnae ever marry," she whispered. "Nae wants to give up Dunblane to a mon." She gave a shrug of her thin shoulders and went back to scrubbing him. "Others say no mon would have her, but I think 'tis the other way around. M'lady, she might carry sword and wear her tunic too short, but she be a great woman. She got a heart no matter how she tries to hide it with them gruff words and ordering people about. Her da was the same way, ye know, so my ma say. Shoutin' orders, waving his arms like a madman. All growl, but no bite."

  Munro let the maidservant ramble on, but he was only half listening. The more he learned about Elen, the more intrigued he was. The more enchanted.

  Munro himself had doubted he would wed again, though he knew it was his duty to do so. He had married for political reasons once. If he ever married again, it would be for love. He had begun to think no one could have his heart, that no woman could stand up to his expectations, but perhaps he had been wrong.

  Munro shifted uncomfortably. Just thinking about Elen brought tightness to his groin. "Enough!" He grabbed the linen towel that dangled from a barrel and quickly wrapped it around his waist as he stepped out of the wooden tub. He didn't want the girl to think him a brute or that her attention had brought on this physical response, though it was obvious by the way she bathed him that she admired his physique.

  He was not unaccustomed to such reactions. Female servants had been bathing him since he'd reached puberty. It was a common practice both in his own household and others that guests were attended when they bathed, but Munro had never been the kind of man to take advantage of such situations, as many men were. It just wasn't in his nature, though at this moment he half wished it were. Perhaps if he could find some physical release from his torment, he could think more reasonably and figure out how the hell he was going to get away from Dunblane and her mistress and home to strangle his little brother.

  The girl took a step back, dropping the rag into a wash pail. "Ye want I should help ye dress, my lord?"

  He shook his head. "Nae, just leave me. I can attend to myself." He began to dry himself off with the towel. "Tell the guard at the door I shall be ready shortly to be escorted to m'lady's hall."

  The girl bobbed a quick curtsy and retreated through the door, taking the bucket with her. A few minutes later, Munro was dressed in a dark green woolen tunic, black stockings, and his own fine leather boots. Over his shoulders he wore the green and blue plaid of Dunblane, pinned with a claspbrooch. The garments were simple, but he knew the weave was the best the keep's loom had to offer. He wore a leather belt at his waist, but felt only half dressed without a dirk or some sort of weapon. Even an eating utensil would have been better that this feeling of nakedness—of vulnerability.

  Munro took a deep breath, ran his hand through his damp hair, and walked out the door. The guard escorted him up the dark steps with nothing more than a grunt to point him in the direction of the hall—not that he needed it, for the music beckoned him.

  Munro walked over the oubliette grate, thankful to be above ground, and entered the great hall. It was lit with hundreds of candles and torches in the corners of the room. The lights were so bright that even the vaulted ceiling was illuminated. The massive stone fireplace at the far end of the room roared and the horn of retention, proof of Elen Burnard's claim to Dunblane, gleamed above the great mantel. It was a splendid chamber, filled with bright light, the lively sound of pipes, and laughing men and women. Impressive even to him.

  As Munro entered the hall, he smiled to himself. The great hall was much cleaner. The old, soiled rushes on the floor had been swept out and fresh ones spread. Benches and tables had been set in some semblance of order, and the hawk roosts were vacant. The only dog he spotted tonight was a hound asleep on the hearth—too old to be moved out into the cold, no doubt.

  As Munro surveyed the changes, he couldn't help but wonder if they had been brought about by his comments. He'd like to think Elen had ordered the great hall cleaned because she was interested in his opinion. At the same moment, he realized it was dangerous to think so. Elen Burnard was nothing like any woman—or any man, for that matter—he had ever encountered.

  The guard at Munro's side gave him a none-too-gentle push. "She beckons ye," he growled.

  Munro almost did not recognize Elen without her man's tunic or plaid as she glided toward him in a forest-green woolen gown. She was utterly stunning, utterly feminine with her waist-length golden-red hair falling down her back and jeweled earrings glittering in her ears.

  She was so beautiful she took his breath away... and his heart.

  Chapter 9

  Elen was so mesmerized by the sight of Munro that it took her a moment to gather her wits enough to speak. He was clothed in one of her favorite tunics of her father's, a deep forest green that matched her own gown nearly perfectly.

  When she had ordered Finley to fetch some of her father's clothing, she had been acting practically. His clothing had been too fine, too expensive not to be used. But when the words had come from her mouth, she had tasted regret. She didn't want to share her father's clothes, didn't want to share his memory with others.

  Now, surprisingly enough, seeing Munro in Murdoch Burnard's tunic made her smile as she remembered her father in his valiant days when he had been an aide to Robert the Bruce. A part of her wanted to think that her father would have liked to have seen Munro in the clothing as well.

  Munro bowed as if she were the queen, then reached for her hand to kiss it. She let him, and felt a rush of heat when his lips lingered a moment too long on the back of her hand.

  "Good even', Elen." His voice was rich, melodious.

  Finley was right, damn him. The heir to Rancoff was trying to seduce her.

  "Good even', sir." Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand, feeling as if perhaps she wanted to be seduced. At least wooed. But too many Dunblane men and women were watching. Duty called.

  "I see Finley took care
to have ye attended to," she stumbled, searching for level ground to speak on.

  Munro brushed his hands over her father's tunic. Strong hands. Large. Capable. Could they be loving?

  "Aye. I thank ye." He glanced up at her, his eyes as blue as the sky that stretched over Dunblane on a sunny day. "Your father's." It was a statement, not a question, and he seemed to understand what an honor she had bestowed upon him in allowing him to wear Murdoch Burnard's clothing.

  She offered a slight smile, almost shy. It felt entirely uncharacteristic, but then this man always made her feel unlike herself. "It was always one of my favorites," she said. Without thinking, she reached out to adjust the lay of the green fabric across his shoulder. She had done the same for her father a thousand times, and yet this was inherently different.

  Munro gazed about the hall. "So many have come to celebrate your Saint's Day."

  She walked away, toward the dais. He followed.

  "I did nae believe raucous merriment was appropriate, considering the circumstances," she said, "but Finley insisted we should still recognize the day in some way. For the others." She lifted a hand to indicate two red-faced men locked hand in hand in an arm-wrestling contest. "He says they look forward to it as much as Christmastide."

  "Finley is right."

  They reached the dais and, again, Munro pulled out the bench for her. This time in women's skirts, she felt feminine in the wake of his gesture, not in a weak way, but in a warm, confident kind of way. Somehow these skirts, the earrings, the unbound hair, all of which had seemed cumbersome in the past, gave her a control over this man she had not felt before. Was this what her father had referred to as 'women's wiles'? If so, why hadn't he told her of the potential power it gave her? He had taught her the power of her mind, of her sword over men. Why not of her body as well?

  She sat and he climbed over the bench, making the assumption he would sit beside her. It was nice to have someone else make a decision without leaving it to her, even such a simple one.

  "Ye know, he doesn't like ye." She lifted her lashes and reached for her wine.

  "Finley?" Munro lifted an eyebrow, and she wondered if he realized just how roguishly handsome he was. "I know," he said matter-of-factly.

  She ran her finger along the rim of her father's chalice. Scribed in its face, worn but still visible, was the Burnard name and coat of arms. "Do ye know why?"

  A boyish grin. "I have an idea." He paused. "And methinks ye know as well."

  "Would ye care to enlighten me?"

  He took a pitcher of wine from a hovering servant and filled her cup, then the one set for him. He added no water. Hoping to get her drunk?

  She added water to her cup from a wooden pitcher on the trestle table. She needed to keep her wits about her with this man.

  "Your man is only looking out for your interest. For Dunblane's." Munro lowered his voice, his next words meant only for her. "He fears I will take advantage of the beautiful, strong-willed Elen of Dunblane."

  She reached out to catch a drip of wine from the rim of her cup with the tip of her tongue, watching him. "And will ye?"

  He studied her, his response slow, lazy. "I would nae."

  She laughed and glanced away. "And what if I would like to be taken advantage of?" She didn't know what made her say such a bold thing, but she didn't have the desire to take it back.

  Munro slipped his hand below the table to rest it on her hand on the bench. "Ye surprise me, Elen of Dunblane. There are nae many who can."

  She sipped her watered wine, her confidence growing stronger with each swallow. Maidservants began to bring out food piled high on wooden trenchers. Someone played a fiddle while a group of vassals' wives sang to the tune, but Elen noticed little of her surroundings. The only one she saw or heard was Munro.

  "And do ye like surprises?"

  He squeezed her hand and then lifted it above the table again. "Aye, especially from a woman."

  "And have ye known many women?"

  "Would it make a difference to ye if I had?"

  She lifted one shoulder, enjoying the feel of the fabric of the gown against her skin. Funny, she had never noticed such detail before. "I nae know."

  Munro gazed out over the table into the great hall, his eyes glimmering in the light of the candles on the tables and the torches that burned behind them. "I was married once."

  She leaned closer. Her father had always said the key to understanding others was in listening to them.

  "Our families made the arrangements," Munro explained. "I dinnae set my eyes upon her until we met on our wedding day."

  Elen rested her chin on her forehand, studying his expression carefully, not caring if others saw her. "Was she beautiful?"

  Munro gazed into Dunblane's hall, but she knew it was not the present he saw, but the misty past. She imagined the ghost of a woman throwing herself into Munro's arms, her husband—her hero—just come back from war. Oddly, she felt sadness rather than jealousy.

  "Aye. A wee thing with hair as black as a raven's wing."

  "She died?"

  He gave a slight nod. "My son as well."

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, wanting to touch him, but not daring.

  He paused and glanced back at her, leaving the past behind. "'Twas a long time ago." He shook his head. "I dinnae make a good husband to her. Nae to anyone. Not then. I was too young, too impulsive. My priorities were nae what they should have been."

  She couldn't resist. "Do ye imply that you would make a good husband now?"

  He met her eye to eye. "I would."

  She threw back her head and laughed, catching Finley's attention. He eyed her with disapproval. Feeling silly, as if she'd been caught stealing sweetmeats, she gave a cheery wave in his direction. Perhaps she had not watered her wine enough.

  "We are being given the evil eye," she whispered, with amusement.

  Munro glanced in Finley's direction.

  "Perhaps I should toss ye back into the oubliette," she murmured.

  "Or toss me into your bed."

  She cut her gaze to him, shocked by his bold overture. Flattered. "Something tells me ye nae take your situation seriously enough. Ye are my prisoner, Munro Forrest. Your life is in danger."

  "Oh"—he reached for his wine—"I fear 'tis more than my life in danger."

  She accepted a plate of boiled mussels from a maidservant and placed a heaping portion on her plate. "Finley is right, ye are an insolent mon," she told Munro. "I should have ye tossed back below."

  "Then why don't ye?"

  She waited until the servant served him and backed away. "Because ye amuse me." She met his unyielding gaze. "Because every breath I take is for others and it is nice to seek my own pleasure for once."

  He gave her a devilish half smile. "So ye are beginning to see my charm?"

  "I am beginning to wonder why I dinnae listen to Finley and boil your stones ere hanging ye by your neck from my tower until ye were dead."

  Munro laughed heartily and, after a moment, she laughed with him.

  Servants brought more food, and more food upon that. They sampled delicacies saved for special occasions: smoked pheasant, roasted hare with onion sauce, whiting soup teeming with butter. Elen and Munro ate until they were stuffed and then ate more. They talked mostly of subjects of little import, but they also talked of Scotland and of their king. Their loyalty to the Scottish crown and to the Bruce was a place of common ground between them.

  When neither Elen nor any Burnard in the entire hall could eat another bite, men and women began to line up to pay her homage. Some brought her gifts of baked bread, others of handkerchiefs or blankets they had woven. Munro sat back in the shadows behind her and waited quietly. Elen spoke to each man and woman who approached her. She thanked each for his gift, for his kind words, and for his loyalty to Dunblane.

  For more than an hour, Elen served as laird over her people. She smiled, she laughed, she humbly accepted their gifts. Last in line was a towheaded lad she did
not recognize.

  "One of my tenants' sons," Munro said quietly from behind her. "Joseph. It may be word from my keep."

  The boy approached at Elen's signal, then halted in surprise at the sight of Munro.

  Elen waved him forward, and the lad bowed and offered a gift wrapped in blue flannel. How clever of Cerdic to send someone from beyond the castle walls. It would be fruitless to question him. He would know nothing of what was happening with her sister, save perhaps a little gossip that trickled down from the kitchen or perhaps the stables. Elen glanced at Munro and knew he was thinking the same. She looked back at the object.

  "Rosalyn of Dunblane sends ye good wishes," the boy said carefully, obviously attempting to recall what he had been instructed to say. "She asks that I tell ye she is unharmed."

  "And?" she asked.

  The boy stared, panic in his eyes.

  "And, m'lady?" He stared quizzically.

  "And what else did she say? What has happened? Why has she been taken prisoner? What is it I am expected to do?"

  The servant lowered his gaze. "That is all I was told she said, my lady. I nae saw her myself."

  Elen stood up and slammed her fist upon the table in frustration and anger. The gesture was entirely unladylike and certainly not appropriate for her dress or position this night, but she didn't care. "That is all? That cannae be all!" She grabbed the flannel package. "And why does she send me a gift? How is it that a woman held prisoner in your dungeon is able to send gifts?"

  Elen jerked open the flannel to reveal a dagger. It was no longer than the length of her palm, blade included, and the hilt gleamed with tiny jewels.

  "A jeweled dagger?" she bit from between her teeth. "What kind of gift is this from a prisoner?" It was not, of course. No prisoner gave such gifts. The present could only mean one thing. Rosalyn was, indeed, a part of the kidnapping scheme.

  The boy shook visibly.

  Elen leaned over the table, unable to control her anger. "I say what kind of gift is this from a prisoner?"

  The boy's face reddened and his eyes filled with tears. "I be sure I nae know, m'lady."