She glanced up at him, wanting to make him understand she had already made her decision that Rancoff would not woo her. Perhaps she just wanted to repeat it one more time to make it clear to herself. "I nae want Munro's gifts. I have made it clear to him he may nae pursue me, but I don't think it's my land he wants. He's a different kind of mon than most. He's nae like that."
Finley leaned on the table, drawing closer to her. "All men are like that when the reward is great enough."
"I nae know the size of his coffers for certain," she said, unsure why she felt compelled to continue to argue her point, "but I suspect his are larger than mine."
"No coffers are large enough for a mon, any mon," Finley countered.
She met his dark-eyed gaze for a moment and then pulled away, sitting upright on the bench. She waved him away, impatient with him, with herself. "Just return the damned cloth."
"As ye wish. I'll send a courier right away; the message will be clear that ye willnae accept gifts." He picked up the bundle again. "Do ye want me to escort ye upstairs? Ye could work on the ledgers a wee longer in quiet."
He knew, of course, of her headache. He was only trying to think of her, of what would make her the most comfortable and wag the fewest tongues.
She began to gather up the thin sheets of parchment. "I'll go myself. If I need anything, I will send Alexi."
He watched her gather the paper and pick up the ink and quill. "Ye could leave the work for me."
"And do what?" she scowled. "Sit about? Or perhaps stitch a little needlework?"
He smiled and she smiled back. "Thank ye, Finley." She watched him depart and reminded herself how fortunate she was to have him.
* * *
Munro did not open the sack that had just been delivered from Dunblane Castle. Though it came with no message, he knew what lay inside. In the last week he had made no attempt to see Elen, but had instead sent gifts. His thought had been to ease his way into her good graces and then pay a call on her. After all, what woman did not like gifts?
But Elen was no ordinary woman, and he had been a fool to think she would be so easily enticed.
Cerdic glanced up from his hand of cards. "What's come from Dunblane?" He and Rosalyn had planted themselves at the end of the table closest to the fire in the great hall and there they had remained all afternoon, while the wind howled around the castle's eaves and sleet fell. While Munro had worked on his ledgers and settled several disputes between his tenants, his brother and his new bride had kept themselves warm by his fire, content with his mulled wine and entertained by playing cards. Cerdic had made no offer to lift a hand to aid Munro.
"Is it something for me?" Rosalyn popped out of her cushioned chair and grabbed the bundle of cloth.
Munro wanted to snatch it from her hands, but he knew he was being foolish. He attempted to concentrate on the columns of figures before him.
"Oh," Rosalyn breathed. "What beautiful cloth for a gown. Did my sister send it for me? She's such a dear."
"'Twasnae a gift for ye, but one returned to me," Munro said sourly. He dipped his quill in ink. "Put it down."
She dropped the bundle as if it were hot. "A gift to my sister. My goodness." She batted her lashes. "So there is truth to the gossip I've heard. And I thought it just lurid prattle."
Munro scowled, but did not take the bait. He did not like Rosalyn, that he had already concluded in the short time she'd been here, but out of respect for Elen he kept his mouth shut.
"So ye've discovered the charm of the Burnard girls, have ye, brother?" Cerdic shuffled the cards and began to deal them again.
Munro said nothing.
"She'd be a fine catch, fine indeed," Cerdic went on. "With the Dunblane lands added to your name, ye'd be one of the strongest men in all the Highlands."
"I already am one of the strongest men in the Highlands," Munro responded dryly. He was not boasting, only speaking the truth.
"Aye, that's right. I suppose ye are." Cerdic was still trying to please Munro, to make all right again between them, and he was not above false flattery. "But 'twould certainly make ye richer, such a marriage."
"Are ye saying my dower didnae add to your purse?" Rosalyn questioned, brows raised.
"Of course it did, my sweet," Cerdic stumbled. "I was merely saying that my brother and Elen would make a good match."
"If ye could put up with her," Rosalyn snapped. "Between her captivating personality and those tedious headaches, I cannae imagine why any mon would want her."
Munro glanced up, his attention immediately tapped. He had not questioned Rosalyn about Elen's headache because he did not want to discuss her at all with this woman, but since she had brought it up... "When I was there she had one of the headaches. What ailment does she possess?"
Rosalyn gave a disinterested shrug. "No leach or barber has named the affliction. It comes and goes with her woman's moon cycle."
Munro nodded thoughtfully. He had not known such maladies existed, but he was certain there were many illnesses in the world he did not know of. "And once they pass, she is recovered?"
"Sweet as a lemon tart... until the next moon."
"A mon could tolerate a great deal for the amount of money my Rosalyn says Elen of Dunblane possesses," Cerdic put in.
Munro eyed his sister-in-law. She had no right to be telling Cerdic of Dunblane's holdings. It could be dangerous for the castle, or, more importantly, dangerous for Elen. He wondered if Elen knew just how perfidious her sister could be.
"So ye must be trying to bribe her first with gifts, eh?" Cerdic asked slyly. "Ye be a clever mon, brother."
"This subject isnae up for discussion, Cerdic," Munro said sharply. "Nae between ye and me nor your bride and me." He glanced at Rosalyn and then back at Cerdic. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Of course," Cerdic gulped.
Munro once again lowered his gaze to the scattered papers on the table. "I still wait for that count of kegs in the wine cellars, Cerdic."
"Aye, 'tis nearly done."
"Well, I would hope so." Munro made no attempt to hide his sarcasm. "'Twas a simple task that should have been complete two days ago."
Rosalyn gave a huff and flounced toward the door that led to the tower's private chambers. "Cerdic," she snapped. "I believe I've a headache myself. Run fetch me a poultice and come to our chamber."
Cerdic rose from his chair. "Aye, love." He halted halfway between the door and his brother. "If ye don't mind, I will just see to my wife and then—"
"Go," Munro muttered, already intent upon adding up another column of figures. "Chances are, ye will nae do it properly anyway."
Cerdic closed the paneled door behind him, leaving Munro once again in peace, but the third time he added a column incorrectly he dropped his quill and walked to the fire to warm his hands.
He could not add for thinking of Elen. He could not ride for thinking of her. He certainly could not sleep.
So the headaches were chronic. He found that thought more upsetting than he would have imagined. The time he had seen Elen overcome by her headache, she had obviously been in great pain, so pained that she was overcome. Yet after it had passed, she had not said a word of complaint.
He walked back to the table to try once again to complete his task. Rosalyn said the ailment came with Elen's woman's cycle. Approximately one month.
Munro halted midway to the table. One month. It had been one month since the last headache.
* * *
The pain hit Elen with such force she felt as if she were being crushed by the granite of the castle walls around her. Suddenly the heat of her chamber, the dim light of the glowing candles, all became the enemy, so fierce as to send her hiding beneath the counterpane.
Her entire body shook with the pain. She was hot, burning hot, and yet she shivered with a cold that shook her bones.
"Elen, shhhh, there, there," came a voice that seemed to float out of nowhere.
She recognized the voice. Munro.
H
e, of course, was not here. She was dreaming—half awake, half asleep, delusional. It happened some months.
She heard the rustle of parchment. Has she left her ledgers on the bed? She did not wish to wrinkle them, but she hadn't the energy to sit up to find them. She had only meant to close her eyes for a moment, but then the headache had hit her full force and the ledgers were forgotten.
There were more sounds in the room. Then Elen felt the pressure of a hand on her shoulder. She allowed the hand to roll her from her fetal position onto her back. She felt a cool touch on her forehead, then something wet.
In her dream, she relaxed a little and the pain seemed to ease slightly. She could hear Munro speaking, but she could not understand what he was saying. He was too far away. A figment of her wishful imagination. A ghost.
But the ghost did not slip away as most ghosts do. The ghost removed her short hose, the knee-length plaid she wore pinned around her waist, and the saffron yellow shirt. She felt a soft billow of fabric fall over her naked body. A nightgown? It smelled of herbs from her father's chest.
"Drink." The ghost instructed and pressed something hard against her lips. The pain of the crushing headache was so intense she could not remember how to drink, but her body knew. She parted her lips and a cool, pungent liquid passed them.
"This will ease the pain," the ghost whispered as he stroked her forehead with the gentlest of hands. Ordinarily when the headaches hit like this, she could not bear to be touched. Even the weight of a counterpane pained her. But Munro's ghost touch was so light it calmed her.
Elen wanted to speak. She wanted to tell the ghost he need not stay. He could not. Someone would come. Find him here. She wanted to tell him she would be all right, that it was like this each month. But a part of her wanted him to stay. She liked the feel of the weight of him on the edge of the bed beside her.
He had blown out all the candles and pulled the bed-curtains. Perhaps specters did not like light, either.
Ye should not be here, ghost of Munro. She wanted to say it, but she could not find her voice to speak.
"Shhhh," the spirit soothed. "Do not try to speak, just relax. Sleep. Stop fighting it. I willnae leave ye."
She felt his hand close over hers. It was large and cool and reassuring.
Usually her headache dreams were riddled with nightmarish scenes of battles, either of ones related to her or imagined. Often she dreamed of her first pup, trampled by soldiers when she was young. Or of dying relatives, tortured by the English. But this time there were no nightmares, only the comforting feel of her ghost's hand and the soothing sound of his voice.
She liked this dream much better than the others.
* * *
"Shhhhh," Munro whispered. "That's it, Elen. Relax. Sleep," he soothed. And slowly, as if by his command, he saw her relax in her great bed. Her muscles slackened and the lines of pain on her face seemed to ease. At last, she was drifting off to sleep.
Munro smiled grimly to himself and placed the lichen poultice he had brought from his keep on her forehead. He knew he had taken great risk to enter the castle this way—over the wall, through the tower, up her back chamber stairs—without being detected. But somehow he had known Elen needed him. And he had been right.
Munro could not understand why they left her like this. Even Finley, who was supposed to be so loyal to her. Why was there no maid here to undress her, give her water, change the poultice for her head? Why did she suffer alone like this?
And then he wondered how he would suffer if he was cursed by the same affliction. Would he want others who depended on him to see him in such a weakened state?
He gave a sigh, easing onto the stool he had pulled up to the bed. Nae, if he were Elen, he, too, would suffer alone. But the thing was, he did not want her to suffer alone. He wanted her to trust him enough to allow him to do this each month for her.
He wanted her to let him love her.
Chapter 15
The next gift arrived two days after the headache had come and gone. It was still hazy in Elen's mind as to whether or not Munro had actually come to her chamber that night, but she was fairly certain he had.
The realization hit her with a mixture of anger and concern. She was angry that he would dare to presume she needed him, dare to enter her household uninvited. She was concerned he was able to penetrate the walls of Dunblane, to slip into her chamber and out again without being detected.
Elen, Finley, and Donald stood side by side outside the castle wall watching their clansmen practice shooting their bows and arrows. Targets had been set at various distances from a long line of men. The frozen ground was dusted with snow, and the air was sharp with the sting of more snow to come, but the men had thrown aside their woolen and fur mantles. The men laughed and bantered back and forth, yet still took their task seriously.
It was true that the Bruce and his armies had run the English off Scottish soil once again, but no one in the Highlands who had fought or had loved ones fight thought for a moment the English were gone for good. Word was King Edward was merely regrouping, changing strategies. Word was he and his soldiers would return, and it was Elen's responsibility as the laird of this castle to keep her men sharp. If Scottish freedom called, Dunblane would respond.
A bareback rider approached, but her clansmen and vassals gave him only passing notice. It was the messenger everyone now recognized from Rancoff. The two men beside her exchanged knowing glances, and Elen scowled. The rider, the red-haired laddie called Robert, carried a bundle in front of him on his shaggy pony.
"For m'lady of Dunblane," the boy called, grinning.
Elen eyed the large, soft bundle the steward's son balanced before him. It was nearly as big as she and wrapped in burgundy and green wool, but the wool was not the gift. "Me thinks your master wastes his time," she said. She pretended to be disinterested in the parcel, but in truth, she was intrigued.
Robert lowered his gaze in respect, then lifted it to meet hers. "I beg ye to forgive my forwardness, but I think nae."
It was not the words he spoke, but his tone. Obviously, he regarded her highly, though she didn't know why. He barely knew her.
Elen realized many of her men were studying her curiously, waiting to see what their mistress would do. There was speculation among her clansmen, vassals, and tenants as to whether or not she would accept Rancoff's proposal of marriage. Everyone clearly knew by now he was courting her, or at least attempting to do so. But no one save Finley said anything to her about Munro, and she simply made no mention of him. Let their tongues wag.
"Take it back," Finley ordered, striding toward Robert. "Take it back and tell Munro Forrest neither he nor his are welcome here." He waggled a finger, his Highland burr thicker than usual. It was always that way with him when he grew angry. "Nae so long as he lays claim to land that belongs to Clan Burnard."
Finley was right. She should not encourage Munro. She should let Finley return the gift... and yet she was so damned curious.
"Leave it," she told Rob softly, signaling with her finger for him to drop the bundle on the ground.
He pushed the gift from his horse to the snowy ground and turned away. "Is there a message, my lady?"
She shook her head.
"A blessed day to ye, then." Rob touched his hand to his burgundy bonnet in respect and rode off in the direction of home.
For a moment, Elen stood over the bundle, which was tied with several ropes of leather, and stared at it. It was as long as she, thicker, but when it fell it had barely bounced. Something soft, unbreakable. More clothing?
Finley stood beside her, a sour look upon his bearded face. She didn't care, and after a moment she reached down and yanked at the ties. The wool fell open to reveal a thick, glossy brown wolf pelt.
She couldn't resist a grand smile. It was beautiful. She squatted down again and ran her hand over the fur. It was softer than she could have imagined. Thicker, longer.
She spotted a tiny bit of parchment and lifted it to
read it. She recognized the scrolled handwriting. "Marry me and I will warm your heart as no wolf's pelt could," it read. And then, "Meet me on the beach."
She immediately glanced up in the direction of the ocean. She could hear the waves today, loud, destructive sounding. A winter storm was on its way.
She refolded the note before Finley could look over her shoulder to read it.
Gordon had come to stand beside her to stare at the pelt on the ground. "Weel, 'twould make a fine mantle," he grumbled. "By the size of it, two, mayhap."
"Put it in my chamber," she said and walked away.
"Where are ye going?" Finley called.
"A ride."
"Unescorted?"
Her answer was lost, this time on the wind that whipped her woolen mantle, but Finley did not follow.
* * *
Elen ordered her pony saddled and rode away from Dunblane into the wind toward the beach. It was cold on horseback and the wind fierce, but it felt good on her warm cheeks. The frigid air cleared her mind and set her heart to a normal pace again.
A wolf pelt. What an unusual gift from a man. But then Munro was no ordinary man, was he?
Elen rode through the meadow, along the tree line, over a crest of rocks, and through a stone gully where men of Dunblane had cut a path a long time ago. She took her time riding down the wet dune, but her short-legged, rugged pony was well suited to such a track and remained surefooted.
At the water's edge, she turned north toward Rancoff. She spotted Munro from a distance, seated on a rock that jutted from the beach at the rising waterline. The green and burgundy plaid he wore tied at his shoulder flapped in the wind. With each sweep of the incoming tide, the frothing gray-green water surrounded the rock and then retreated again.
He turned to watch her ride toward him, but made no attempt to jump down, not even to help her dismount.
She left her pony standing and walked through the wet sand. Water ran up over the toes of her boots, but the grease they had been oiled with kept her feet dry.
Highland Lady Page 15