"Set it all aright," Finley mumbled.
Elen halted and grasped Finley by the shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. "Finley."
He lifted his gaze.
"Ye have served me well as steward and my father before me. Please tell me ye will not fail me now."
Finley's gaze searched hers, his dark eyes so intense that his scrutiny made her uncomfortable. "For ye, Elen, I would do anything. I would lay my life down for yours. I would rip out my heart and serve it up on a platter if ye bid me do so."
Elen released his shoulders, laughing away his intensity. "I nae want your bloody heart, Finley. I want your mind, your hands. We've much to do before Saturday."
"Tell me what ye'll have me do. Where do we start?"
"Well, first send a messenger to Rancoff. The king left it up to me to notify Munro that he has been summoned here."
At the mention of Rancoff, Finley's mouth twisted in a scowl. Elen knew her steward did not care for Munro Forrest and she knew why, but still she did not appreciate his attitude. "Notify him of his summons," she repeated, coolly. "And send a separate note to my sister and her husband. They must, of course, be here to greet our king."
"As ye wish." Finley nodded.
"After that, I will give ye your next duties. I will make a list. A hundred lists." She strode through the arched doorway into the entryway that led to the hall. "See to the messenger and then come find me."
"Aye, m'lady."
Elen strode over the oubliette grate and took the steps two at a time into the hall. She could not believe her good fortune. A call from the king, and the return of her lands. Her father had always said good comes to those who wait.
Then she thought of Munro and chuckled to herself. Wouldn't he be angry when he discovered that the land would be returned to her after all? She knew it was un-Christian of her, but she could not wait to see the look on his handsome, arrogant face.
* * *
"M'lady." Alexi ran down the dark passageway of Dunblane's cellars.
"Here," Elen called, sticking her head through the doorway of a small chamber in the far corner. She was covered in dust and grime, having been in search of her father's traveling tents from his days of fighting.
Fortunately, her perseverance had paid off; she thought she had located them.
"A visitor, m'lady."
She blinked in the dim walkway that was lit by a torch on the wall. The flame spit and sizzled, curls of dark smoke drifting upward. "A visitor?"
"What must a mon do to get an audience with ye?" Munro grumbled, coming up behind the lad.
Elen could not resist a smile. "'Tis all right, Alexi," she called to the boy. "Go back to what Finley had ye doing."
"Ye nae need help with that, miss?" The lad pointed at the mountainous tent she had wrestled from its hiding place.
"Nay." She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, trying not to sneeze from the dust. "I am certain the laird of Rancoff can give me aid if need be."
Alexi looked doubtful, but bobbed his head and took off down the passageway again.
Elen grasped the heavy canvas heap and began to try to unfold it.
"What are ye doing?" Munro asked, sticking his head into the storage room.
"What does it look like? Arm wrestling a tent, of course."
His brow creased. "Is there nae anyone but the lady of the keep to wrestle tents?" He set the bundle he carried down on the packed dirt floor and took the other end of the stiff fabric she was trying to unfold.
"And who might that be? Let me see." She scratched her head with amusement as she walked across the edge of the canvas. Knowing she had the upper hand with Munro, she was tickled to see him. "Perhaps the cook could set down the pastries she makes for our sovereign and help me. Or Andrew and Albert could set aside their skinning knives from where they dress the stags for the king's sup. Or Alexi could leave the bedcurtains in my chamber to hang with dust. Or—"
"Enough, enough already, wench," Munro grumbled good-naturedly. "I will help ye."
She pushed back her hair, which had fallen loose from its leather tie. "My lord, I am honored."
He tugged on the canvas near where she stood, pulling it out from under her. She laughed as she tried to catch her balance, and he put out one arm to catch her.
"Come here and give me a taste of those lips. A man must have strength to work."
She let him lower her with one arm so that she was gazing up into his blue eyes. "Ye are certainly in an affable mood for a mon about to lose a plot of land," she murmured.
"And ye are certainly smug."
Elen had no intention of letting him kiss her; she was only teasing with him. She had no time for kissing. The king of Scotland was coming! But when Munro lowered his head to meet her lips, she could not resist. She tasted his mouth on hers even before it touched her.
"God's teeth," he murmured against her lips when they were both at last breathless. "I cannot get enough of the taste of ye." He pressed his face to her neck. "Nor enough of the scent of ye."
She brushed her palm over his cheek, noting he must have shaved. "I suspect right now I smell of dust motes and mildew."
"Nae, only of honey." He skimmed his mouth from the pulse of her throat over the rough linen of her shirt to the valley between her breasts. Even through her father's old shirt, she could feel the heat of his mouth.
"Munro." She gave him a gentle push on the shoulders. "Someone will come."
"So?" He nuzzled her breast, using his free hand to push up the shirt. "Ye are laird of this keep, master of all the eye can see. Ye have as much a right to kiss your neighbor as to wrestle tents in your cellar."
She laughed, the sound of her voice echoing off the low ceiling of the chamber. "A right to a kiss, mayhap, but not a right to where this leads." She gave him another push and, surprisingly, he released her.
"'Tis all right. I havenae the time to dally with ye today anyway, my wench."
She waggled a finger. "Do not call me that vile name. I am nae a wench—and even if I was, I would not be yours."
He gently bit the tip of the finger she waved under his nose. "Do not harass the man who comes bearing gifts."
"Gifts?" She wiped her forehead with her hand, wondering if it was the heavy work or the man that made her damp. "Ye bring gifts to the woman who has convinced a king to give her back what is rightfully hers?"
"I bring gifts to a woman who is sadly in need of a garment to wear befitting an audience with the king."
She glanced down at the bleached linen shirt and plaid she wore tied around her waist. Self-consciously, she brushed away some of the dustballs that clung to the fabric in clumps. "Ye think this not befitting?"
"He is the king, Elen." He reached out and rubbed her cheek. "Wear a gown, and wash your face."
She fully intended to dress suitably for a woman of her station, but she felt no need to tell Munro that. She rubbed at her dirty cheek with the back of her hand. "Do ye truly think a gown would be better, m'lord? And I thought I would wear these." She pointed at her mud-encrusted deer-hide boots. "Though I contemplated cleaning the soles of my shoes in honor of him."
Munro picked up the bundle he had left at the door and tossed it to her. She caught it and pulled aside the cloth wrapping. It was the gold, shimmering fabric he had sent once before to Dunblane.
She glanced up at him. "I told ye, I do not want your gifts. I already accepted the pelt when I should not have."
"Trust me. Ye will look better in a gown than a wolf pelt." He snaked out a hand and caught her forearm. "Now come, be sweet for just a moment and give me a thank-you kiss."
"A thank-ye kiss? All ye will get from me, Munro Forrest, is—"
He clamped his mouth down hard on hers, silencing her. She struggled for an instant, but once again could not resist the power he held over her. Did not want to resist. As his tongue pushed into her mouth, she let the bundle of cloth fall between them. A groan of pleasure rose in her throat.
"Elen—" Finley appeared in the doorway in front of her, startling her. She pulled away from Munro, dazed for a moment. Embarrassed.
"Finley—"
He stared at Munro for an instant and then turned on his heel. "I will come back at a more opportune moment," he intoned.
Elen pushed Munro's broad shoulder aside to climb over the tent and get by him. "Finley, wait!"
Chapter 18
"Finley, please wait!" Elen ran through the dark tunnel after him. "Finley!" She caught his sleeve and forced him to halt. When she turned him to face her, she saw by the dim light of the torch he held in one hand that tears welled in his eyes.
For a moment she was so taken aback, so surprised, that she wasn't certain what to do. She had never seen a man cry before, and she knew this was because of her.
Overcome by a guilt she didn't understand, she released his sleeve and glanced down at her muddy boots. "I am sorry. I dinnae intend for ye to see that."
He wiped at his eyes with the rough sleeve of his shirt, his pitted face red with embarrassment. "Ye told me that... that what happened with that mon was one night," he sputtered bitterly. "One night only, ye said. A mistake, ye said."
"I know what I said," she whispered. She wanted to say more, to explain what she felt for Munro, but how could she explain to Finley what she herself did not understand?
"He does nae care for ye. Does nae love ye. He only wants Dunblane."
"Finley, that is unfair."
He shook his head, unwilling to meet her gaze. "Your father, God rest his soul"—he crossed himself—"warned us of such men. He warned ye you could not trust anyone."
Slowly, impatience replaced her guilt. On one hand, Elen did not see why she had to explain herself to her steward. On the other hand, she felt bad for upsetting him. "Finley, 'twas a kiss, nothing more."
"He will only take advantage of ye," he went on. "Men like the laird of Rancoff wish only to take, to use. He would never give. He would never love ye as I love ye."
Elen stared at Finley in shock. Love her? Finley thought he loved her? For a moment, she entertained the idea that he meant brotherly love, that he loved her the way two siblings love. But one look at his face told her that was not what he had meant. He meant he was in love with her.
She glanced away, an ache coming to her chest. Now she felt like an inconsiderate dolt. How could she have been so blind as not to have seen this coming? How could she have been so wrapped up in herself that she had not noticed the pain of the man closest to her in her keep?
"I would never take advantage of ye," he said softly, speaking faster as he gained momentum. "We could share Dunblane. It would always be ours. Yours to do with as ye please." He took a step closer, clutching the torch so tightly that his knuckles were white. "I only want you, Elen. Not the land, not the castle, not the coffers. Just you. Just one kiss and..."
He reached out to her, beckoning with one hand, and instinctively she stepped back. She was not afraid of him, but the thought of him touching her... it repulsed her. The thought of any man but Munro touching her repulsed her.
"Finley," she breathed. She didn't know what to say, only that she had to say something. Tears filled her eyes as she forced herself to meet his gaze. His dark eyes were begging... pleading.
Firm. She had to be firm. Honest, but firm. "Finley, I am so sorry."
His lower lip trembled and he looked away, his body slumping. He knew a rejection when he saw one. "I... I must see to the benches in the hall. There are nae enough to seat the king's retinue." He turned to go.
"Finley." Again she grasped his sleeve.
He would not turn around, but he halted, one foot on the bottom step of the stair that led upward to the first floor.
"Finley, I want ye to know how much I value you. How much I appreciate all ye do for me. Your devotion, your dedication is beyond the—"
"But ye nae love me," he said so softly that she could barely hear him. "And ye could never love me."
She shook her head sadly. She did not want to hurt him, but she knew she must make her feelings clear. To do anything else would be cruel. "Nae, I am sorry. I love ye as a brother, as the man who stood at my father's side and now mine... but I could never love ye as a mon and woman love each other."
He pulled away from her. "I must see to the benches."
This time she let him go. A moment later Munro found her sitting on the bottom step. She glanced up at him from where she cradled her head in her hands. "How much of that did ye hear?" she asked glumly.
"Probably more than I needed to." He dropped down beside her. "But I must confess, I knew he had it for ye, sweet."
She looked up, frowning. "Ye did? How could ye have? I had no idea."
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles, dirt and all. "It is easy for a man who loves a woman to know who else loves her."
She groaned. "I feel so bad and I don't know why." She met his gaze, needing him to believe her, to understand. "I never encouraged such feelings. By all that's holy, I swear I dinnae."
He stood, pulling her up by her hand. "Do not worry. All men fancy themselves in love at one time or another with a woman they cannot have. Be gentle, give him time, and he will recover."
"He'll get over it? Just like that?"
Munro smiled sadly. "Nae. One never completely gets over unrequited love. I still remember mine." His eyes twinkled, but there was a sadness in them that touched her. "Mine was another man's wife."
She offered a tender smile, amazed his sentiment could bring forth emotion she had never known was inside her. "Thank ye, Munro."
"You are most welcome." He pushed the bundle of gold cloth yet a second time into her arms and pressed a chaste peck to her cheek. "If ye've no one to stitch a gown for ye at such short notice, deliver word to Rancoff and I will send someone."
She turned to watch him go up the steps into the light. She still felt bad about Finley, but Munro had made her feel better. Just his presence lightened her mood. "That's it? You're going to leave me with moldy tents, cloth but no gown, and a lovesick steward? How will I manage?"
"I am certain you will handle all three matters and any others you encounter as you always do, my love."
She dropped one hand to her hip. "And how is that, m'lord?" she asked with amusement.
"By throwing yourself headlong into it."
He winked and was gone, leaving Elen to her tent and gown and preparations for the coming of the king.
* * *
Elen stood on her rampart with her clansmen and awaited the arrival of the king. The biting, salty wind whipped her woolen mantle about her shoulders and tore at her hair and headcovering, but she was too excited to be cold.
Far below, the kitchen was ascurry with activity as the evening meal's preparations were completed. Dunblane's great hall was lined wall to wall with tables and benches, and every candle and torch the castle possessed would soon be ablaze. Every room in the tower, first floor to fourth, had been readied with as many beds as could possibly be squeezed on the floor, and there was more bedding to be laid out in the hall after the night's festivities. Every able-bodied man, woman, and child of Dunblane was busy with last-minute preparations for the arrival of the king, the expectation palpable. It had been more than a hundred years since a king had stepped foot upon Dunblane's land by the sea.
A trumpet blared and Elen glanced out with excitement. The king's herald. Robert the Bruce was approaching.
"Here he comes," Finley said from where he stood at her elbow. "I see the herald's banner. Do ye see?"
She glanced at Finley and smiled. Nothing more had been said between them about his confession in the cellars. Much to Elen's relief, just as Munro had said, Finley seemed to be better. It was not that she felt he had gotten over it already as much as he was accepting of the truth of the situation. She was greatly relieved she would not cause him any more pain, relieved she had him at her side to depend upon.
Finley turned to
her, a proud smile upon his face. He had trimmed his beard, as well as his hair, and was almost handsome in the fading light. "Are ye ready to receive our king, m'lady?"
She grinned. "Ready."
Elen crossed the narrow walk to take the stairs downward. Munro, Cerdic, and Rosalyn had arrived a short time earlier, but she'd not yet seen them. She had given the excuse that she was dressing and cleaning the last of her belongings from the room where the king would sleep tonight. In truth, she was too nervous to see Munro right now. First the king and the matter of the North Woods must be dealt with. Then she would deal with Munro. Only then would she consider Munro and her feelings for him, which seemed to be doubling by the hour.
As Elen took the winding stone stairs, she bunched the gold fabric of her new gown in her hands and lifted the hem high. She truly did not know how women wore these cumbersome garments day after day without tumbling to their deaths. She felt awkward moving in the dress, but secretly she had to admit that she liked the way the fabric slid over her bare skin, the way it fit tightly over her breasts to her waist and then flared downward. Alone in her chamber, she had actually spun to watch the hem float outward and then down again. The sleeves fit closely to her elbows, then flared like small golden trumpets. Around her waist, she wore a golden chain belt from which her keys and her dirk hung. On a whim, she had left her hair down and allowed the weaver who had stitched the dress to make a small golden headdress from leftover fabric. It was a pretty trifle that kept her hair back off her face and glimmered in the candlelight, enhancing the shine in her hair.
Elen reached the bottom of the tower and was surprised to find Munro waiting for her. He was dressed as a man fit to greet the king, if not be the king himself. He wore a green and burgundy plaid around his waist to his knees, a white linen shirt, and another cloth of Rancoff plaid thrown over his shoulders and pinned with an ornate silver claspbrooch the size of her hand. He offered her his hand, grinning broadly. "Ye take my breath away, m'lady."
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