"Ah, hell," Alasdair said, spreading his hands. "Why not kill her now and be done wi' it? Save ourselves all that trouble."
The men gaped at him. "What the devil are ye on about?" Darach growled. His brother was not a cruel man by any reach of imagination, and he loved and was well loved by women. Why would he make such a gruesome proposal?
Alasdair shrugged. "If the wee little lass is too much trouble for all o' us, why not be rid o' her? Save us a length o' chain and some wasted manpower." He laid a slight emphasis on the word man. "Save us the food she'd require. Not to mention good ale."
"That's daft," Niall said, grudgingly.
"Is it?" Alasdair's eyes were wide with surprise.
Darach hid the grin that threatened to appear on his own face. His little brother was becoming quite a sage. Killing a helpless woman was beneath these men, and well he knew it.
"O' course it's daft," Gordon grumbled. "There's no call to execute the lass. She's no' committed a crime that we know of, for certain."
"No?" Darach joined in the ploy.
"No," Ross said quickly. "She's done naught but trespass. She shouldna hang for that. She's no' an animal."
"But ye can chain her up?" Alasdair frowned. "Hmm. Darach, when was the last time ye chained up Big Dog?"
Darach shrugged. "I canna recall. Have I ever?"
"Verra well," Liam said, wagging his head. "We take your point. What would ye do wi' her, Alasdair?"
Alasdair turned to Darach. Darach's amusement drained away. Insolent pup, he thought. Always about mischief.
''If she's to be here for some while, it would be cruel to keep her confined to the cell," he said slowly. "She'll have a chamber, one with a sturdy lock from the outside. The east chamber has bars at the window; we'll put her there. And she may come down to meals wi' us. She may go out once a day, but only under guard, and only when we can spare a man."
The men thought this over and nodded their assent. Darach dispatched Ross to tell their prisoner the news, and sent the rest of the men off to their work. He turned to Alasdair when the two of them stood alone on the green.
"Ye take too much upon yourself, oganach," he said. "Your mischief is goin' to get ye into deep water some fine day."
Alasdair shrugged. "I only thought to save the lads from a foolish plan."
"And force my hand to a decision about Julia."
Alasdair quirked an eyebrow. "Julia, is it?"
Darach refused to rise to the bait. "Take a fresh mount and ride the north hills," he said. "Check for strays. And be on the watch for Craigen's ilk."
He turned and walked inside the house, where his inconvenient prisoner was soon to move about, free of restraint.
Julia heaved a huge sigh of relief when Ross told her of the recent changes in the clan's plans for her. She wanted to hug the lanky Scotsman but restrained herself, knowing that this didn't mean she was in the clear, or that he wouldn't immediately hold up a cross and a rope of garlic to ward off her evil spirit. Nor did it mean, he made clear, that she was not going to be tested by the priest or subjected to other interrogations.
She sat down, instead of hugging him, and ate almost half a bowl of the watery, sour stew he'd brought her, feeling it was a reasonable price to pay for a chance at better conditions. This was progress, at least. Perhaps they were softening toward her, she thought. If she played her cards right, she might be permitted to leave, or get a message to Kinloch, anyway. Anything was possible.
When she emerged from below the stairs, going ahead of Ross, she breathed the smoky air as if it were fresh off the mountains. Freedom, however limited, proved sweeter than anything she could have imagined.
Darach appeared in the doorway to the great hall. She felt her joyful smile fading as she saw his glowering countenance. His suspicions showed plain in his eyes and she knew it was unlikely that he'd permit her to leave anytime soon. Still, she told herself, the orders to place her in better quarters had come from him. She owed him that much.
"I appreciate what you're doing," she said to him, gesturing up the stairs. "It's very kind, Mr. MacStruan." He inclined his head briefly. "It's no more than a man should do," he said.
"How long will it be before your priest comes?" she asked, approaching him.
"I don't know. Days, maybe weeks. Are ye impatient to be tested?"
"No. Would you be?"
"It would depend on whether my conscience was clear or no'."
"Mine is clear. But that doesn't mean that any of you would believe me."
She looked up at him. From her height, she had to tilt her head back quite a ways to look him full in the face. She felt as if she were trying to get a glimpse of the top of a giant sequoia. He had a face as unreadable as a tree, too, she thought.
"May I have my things returned?" she asked. "I'd like to be able to brush my hair, at least."
"Ross, fetch her pouch. But leave her comfits and such. Bring only her hairbrush and mirror."
Julia opened her mouth to protest and then shut it quickly. Don't push it, Addison, she told herself. There'd be time enough to get some Tylenol or a breath mint later.
"Thank you," she said again.
He made no reply, only turned around and retreated into the hall. Ross touched her arm and she preceded him up the stairs to her new quarters.
She managed to steal a look around her as they ascended. There wasn't a great deal to see from her vantage point but what she saw interested her greatly. The view from outside, and the size of the great hall, had already told her that Darach's house, while not a mansion, was a substantial structure with two stories and a tall tower at one corner facing the hills to the west. The walls inside were of natural stone, painted white, the floors upstairs constructed of what looked like solid oak planking. Here and there a niche had been carved into the wall for a rushlight, and torches were anchored overhead, so that while there were few windows, the effect was not gloomy. A broad walkway or hallway ran from the top of the stairs across the width of the house, its sturdy stone railing overlooking the entry hall below. Several doors faced the walkway; Julia assumed they were bedrooms. Which door led to Darach's chamber? she wondered. Or did the great barbarian sleep outside in a thornbush?
"This will be your chamber," Ross said, drawing the latch of the first door at the top of the stairs.
Julia entered and stood for a moment, looking about. The room smelled musty and unused, as if it had been closed up for some time. Still, the walls were bright with whitewash, the fireplace swept clean, and the high oaken bed at the far end of the room neatly made with a fat pillow and heavy woolen blankets.
She smiled at Ross. "It's very nice. Thank you." She carried her small bundle of clothing over to the chest by the wall and laid it down before walking to the window on the opposite wall. Ross's footsteps followed close behind her own.
She stood before the modest window, its shutters open to let in the morning light. The glass was heavy, she saw, and somewhat watery in its appearance. It must be very old glass, she mused, to have settled so much. She reached out her hand to grasp one of the iron bars that covered the panes.
She turned to Ross. "Do you lock everyone into their rooms in this house?" she asked wryly.
"Truth to tell, lass, there's bars on most o' the windows in Darach's house. It's been our keep for generations. The bars keep enemies out as well as in."
"How old is this place?"
He scratched his head. "Let me think. The tower keep was first built back in the time o' the Auld Alliance, before Robert the Bruce was crowned."
Julia gaped. "That old?"
"Aye. The tower, anyways." He shot her a glance. "Castle Moreston goes back night that far, o' course."
"Does it?" She turned back to the window. "It's hard to believe you've kept this place up for so many centuries."
"This part o' the house is aye newer," he said. "No' more than fifty or sixty years."
"Well, it's still very nice," she said, turning to face the room agai
n. "And all furnished with antiques, too." She ran her hand over the heavy bedpost. "Were these in Darach's family or did he buy them?"
Ross scowled. "That's a question for Darach, no' for me."
She shrugged. "It's no big deal. I was just thinking about my stepmother. She was a real antiques nut. If something wasn't at least a hundred years old with a price tag in the quadruple digits, she wouldn't allow it in the house." She gave a dry laugh. "Maybe that's why she never much wanted me around. I wasn't aged to perfection."
"Stepmother. Is that how ye came to be livin' wi' the Moreston?"
She put her hands on her hips. "The Morestons again! Did Darach put you up to this? Give you orders to grill me about my being either Broomhilda or Mata Hari for these Morestons you keep talking about?"
His shoulders slumped. "I was no' too crafty, was I?" He heaved a sigh. "Nay, Darach had no part in this. The others bade me learn all I could, lest we all come to harm at your . . . hands. . . ." His words trailed off.
She plopped down on the bed. "Look, I guess I can't blame you for trying. But if you want to know something, just ask me like a normal person. I don't have anything to hide." She felt her cheeks color as she heard these last words leave her lips. She did have something to hideshe was hiding herself. Wasn't that what had gotten her here in the first place? Ross studied her for a moment and then crossed his arms, drawing himself to his full height. "All right. Tell me this, lass. Are ye a witch or no'?"
She faced him squarely. "I'm not a witch. It's like I told you the other day. I don't even believe in witches."
His mouth popped open. "Ye dunna believe?"
"No. Okay, I know there's the whole Wiccan thing and pagans and Druids and stuff these days, but I think it's all just a fad."
He seemed to be struggling with the notion of disbelief. She grinned. "I have to hand it to you. You guys are really great at this reenactment stuff. I have yet to see even one of you break character."
"Reenactment?"
"Yeah. You know, dressing up like that and talking about witches and living in these old houses. When does tourist season start?"
"Tourist?"
It was her turn to slump. "You guys don't give up, do you? William Wallace to the end, eh?"
He frowned. "Wallace is dead, lass."
She lifted her hands. "Yes, I know that. Okay. Let's just skip the mutual interrogations. Where's the bathroom?"
"God's truth," Ross said to the men that night before the fire at Bruce's. "She went that pale when I told her where it was."
The lairds shook their heads and pondered this new piece of evidence that the prisoner in Darach's house was the oddest soul they'd ever come across. What would she do or say next? They eagerly anticipated the next evening, when, they were told, Julia Addison would join them for the evening meal.
The table was set for ten that evening. The lairds arrived earlier than usual, each of them glancing about the hall with an excitement that was mixed with anxiety. They drank their ale in quick sips, watching the doorway through which their "guest" would appear.
Julia donned one of the dresses she'd been given, hoping that wearing a costume might be seen as a gesture of respect for their life-style. She braided her hair down her back in a long plait and studied her reflection in the hand mirror that had been returned to her that day.
"So," she said to her image. "Here's another fine mess you've gotten us into, Addison."
She turned the mirror over and ran her fingertips over the silver tracing on its back. The initials MJA were etched into the center of the intricate design. Meredith Joan Addison, her mother. Julia had kept this mirror with her for years, through school and college and travels, all the places she'd been, through all the things she'd done. It was a small thing, not even very valuable in the monetary sense, but it was all Julia had left of her mother, save her memories.
She was glad Cammie, her stepmother, had never discovered it. Or if she had, she had deemed it not worthy of her attention, otherwise Julia would have been ordered to polish it weekly, and to keep it exactly in the center of the dreadful French Provincial vanity Cammie had picked out for her bedroom. According to Cammie, things of value were meant to be on display. If they weren't, how would anyone know that you were a person of worth?
Julia's sense of humor returned. She'd love to see Cammie in this place, squinting in the candlelight, trying to apply her Elizabeth Arden essentials in the reflection of an old silver mirror. If Darach and his lairds thought the items in her fanny-pack were strange, she could just imagine their reaction to Cammie's Dooney & Bourke duffel of a purse, loaded with everything from instant cooling gel to ward off the first hint of puffy eyes to her absolutely indispensable cellular phone. There'd be a mad dash for the garlic necklaces, Julia thought with a grin.
There was a knock at the door and the sound of a key in the lock. She set the mirror aside on the table and turned to see Darach's broad shoulders filling the doorway.
She caught her breath as she took in the change in him. Until tonight, she'd seen him only in his rough, work-worn plaid, his hair loose and tousled, stained boots on his feet. Tonight he wore his hair smoothed back into a leather-bound queue, a style that revealed more of his high forehead and placed greater emphasis on his remarkable eyes. His shirt was still rough-woven, but it was neat and clean and of a soft yellow that echoed a small yellow stripe in his fine green plaid. Black leggings and good black boots made his long, strong legs seem even longer and more powerful, adding the final dash to the image he presented of simple, utterly masculine grace.
Julia felt a sudden, tingling awareness throughout her own body. It was as if her very cells were responding to his presence, to his proximity. She suddenly found she couldn't speak. It wasn't as if she'd never seen a man before. Nor was it as if she hadn't known he was reasonably good-looking, in his Conan sort of way. But tonight, well, all she could think was that for a lunkhead with an attitude, he sure cleaned up awfully nice.
"It's time to sup," he said, motioning to the door.
"Oh." She started at the sound of his voice and realized she'd been rooted to one spot, gawking at him. Heat climbed into her cheeks and she moved toward the door. "Yes. Yes. Okay."
They descended the stairs in silence, Julia's senses still alive with the awareness of Darach MacStruan walking at her side. Another part of her mind wondered at her response, scolding her for her foolishness and reminding her that she needed to be looking for ways to make her escape.
They entered the great hall. Julia saw all the lairds gathered at the far end, cups in their hands. Their conversations came to a screeching halt at her arrival, she noted, and she had the ear-burning sense that they had been discussing her. She decided to seize the advantage and put them on the spot for a change.
''Good evening, gentlemen," she said, coming forward with her hand extended to Liam. "It's good to see you looking so well this evening."
Liam quickly wrapped both hands around his cup and gulped down about half its contents. She moved on to the next man.
"Good evening. It's Gordon, isn't it?"
She held out her hand. He looked at it as if it were a live squid. She turned to Niall. "Hello, Niall. It's good to see you again."
He raised his cup to her and gave a curt nod. She almost laughed aloud. These huge, hulking, sword-toting males were afraid of her! She, who stood five feet zip in her Nikes on a tall hair day, and who had heard every wisecrack about short people repeated since Aristotle, had these guys in terror for their lives. There had to be a way to use this to make them let her go.
The boy named Tommy gave her much the same reaction as the others, though his bright eyes showed as much curiosity as fear. Dugan gave her a nod and then crossed himself, as if for insurance purposes. Then she came to Alasdair.
"Good evening," she said, offering her hand.
He took it at once and pulled it through his arm, drawing her closer to him. "Good evenin'," he said, his smile growing slowly across his face.
"And how is our ain wee witch-woman farin' this night? Cast any good spells lately?"
Chapter Six
Julia gasped right along with the rest of the clansmen. Then she saw the glint of mischief in Alasdair's eyes and she couldn't resist playing along.
"I'm well, sir," she said, walking with him toward the table. "But my black cat coughed up a hairball on my best broomstick this morning and it won't fly for beans."
"Terrible," he replied, his tone grave. "I'm afraid we're no' very accommodatin' to your ilk hereabouts."
"Tell me about it." She pursed her lips into a pout. "But it isn't just here. It's getting so a girl can't even sell a teensy little bottle of Love Potion Number Nine to a friend without some people trying to spoil all the fun."
"Tsk, tsk," Alasdair began. Darach cut him off. "That'll do," he said, taking Julia's other arm. "Ye'll sit there," he said, pointing to a chair near the head of the table.
Alasdair gave her a wicked smile and sauntered off, stealing a cup of ale from Liam as he passed. She watched him go with a smile quirking her lips. Had she made a friend? Or did he just enjoy baiting his brother?
"Dugan, Gordon, ye may fetch in the pots," Darach said, taking his seat. He motioned for Julia to sit. She obeyed, her mind still sorting through the new information she'd just gleaned about Clan MacStruan.
Her heartor rather, her stomachsank as Dugan and Gordon came in bearing two large pots that gave out a suspiciously familiar aroma. It was more of the stewish mixture she'd eaten in her cell for the past two days. How did they all manage to look so hale and healthy on a steady diet of this stuff? she wondered.
Still, she wasn't about to offer offense by criticizing their cuisine. She watched the others digging in with gusto and joined in with a bite now and again. At least they had spoons, which looked to be handcrafted, and the wooden bowls and cups provided were beautifully carved.
"So, Julia Addison," Alasdair said from his seat across the table from her. "Where was it ye said ye were from?"
The Mirror & The Magic Page 6