Bride of Fire

by Glynnis Campbell

  “’Twill be haunted,” Feiyan said, grinning.

  “By us,” Hallie said.

  Jenefer almost spewed her ale. “Us?” she squeaked.

  “Aye,” Hallie replied, motioning Jenefer off the oak chest.

  Jenefer gathered her five remaining oatcakes and half-finished ale and slid down from her perch. This she had to see.

  Hallie threw open the lid of the chest and began pawing through the contents. “What does a ghost look like?” She flung rags of clothing, scraps of leather, and bits of fabric here and there.

  “How should I know?” Jenefer smirked, taking another bite of oatcake. “Only fools believe in ghosts.”

  Feiyan winked. “Fools and Highlanders.”

  “What about these?” Hallie asked, showing them a couple of torn plaids of mud-colored wool.

  “Nay,” Feiyan said. “Those aren’t otherworldly at all. We’d look like beggars.”

  Hallie tossed the plaids aside and continued rummaging.

  Jenefer sighed and bit off another morsel of oatcake. This was pointless. The whole plan seemed far too complex. When it came to battle, she preferred direct confrontation. A face-to-face challenge. Hand-to-hand combat. A straightforward attack. And a clear victory.

  Even if they were capable of pulling off some sort of deception to make the Highlander believe that Creagor was haunted, they were never going to find a garment in that chest that looked like it belonged to a ghost.

  “Maybe?” Hallie asked, pulling out a huge threadbare cloak of black velvet. “If we tear it into three pieces?”

  Feiyan twisted her lips in indecision. “I fear ’twill be invisible. We’ll do the haunting at night, aye? Black garb will only vanish into the shadows.”

  Feiyan should know. As a lass, her mother Miriel had worn black clothing to steal invisibly through the woods.

  Hallie nodded and cast the cloak atop a growing pile of rejected garments.

  “This is a waste of time,” Jenefer said. “Unless you have angel’s wings tucked away in that chest—”

  “This?” Hallie asked, holding up a length of wispy white cloth.

  “That?” Feiyan cocked her head. “’Tis a veil, aye? Won’t we be mistaken for nuns?”

  Hallie wrinkled her nose and lowered the cloth. “You’re right. It does look like a nun’s veil.”

  But suddenly Jenefer saw something entirely different. She gulped down the oatcake and snatched the veil from Hallie. She draped it over the shoulder of her nut-brown surcoat, then twirled. The silky fabric caressed her in sheer, wraithlike folds.

  “I can make this work,” she decided with a wry smile. “And I promise you I won’t look at all like a nun.”

  Chapter 4

  Morgan ran a hand back through the dark tangle of his hair. He knew he should be pleased. In just under a fortnight, the company had finally crested the brae and caught their first glimpse of Creagor.

  True to its name, the sandstone castle resembled a gold jewel, set on a low hill of green velvet grass. Unlike his rugged Highland home with its majestic peaks and towering waterfalls, the Borders featured gentle glens and bubbling burns. The land here was fertile, the weather mild. Life would be easy in such hospitable surroundings.

  So his father had told him. His English mother, of course, had less pleasant memories of the Borders. Content in the Highlands, Hilaire didn’t miss the battles between the English and the Scots, where loyalties were constantly shifting. And she had no interest in returning to the stormed castle where she’d nearly lost her life.

  But despite the gasps of wonder and enthusiasm around him, Morgan felt nothing. He might be past the crushing sorrow of losing his wife. But he could take no joy in the world, no matter how beautiful. What he suffered now was a sort of numb resignation.

  Beside him, his old maidservant Bethac murmured, “I think your son likes it here, m’laird.”

  He glanced down at the bairn, who gurgled and waved his fists. But he still felt nothing.

  Bethac’s face fell.

  Morgan sighed.

  “We’ve much to do,” Colban announced in a strong, confident voice. “’Tis already midday. The sunlight lasts a wee bit longer this far south, but if we want to be settled in by nightfall, we’ll need to make haste.”

  He looked expectantly at Morgan.

  Morgan had nothing to say. He didn’t know where to begin. Colban expected him to take command. But he couldn’t even summon the spirit to respond.

  Colban’s gray eyes flattened in disapproval. With a disappointed scowl, he motioned the rest of the retinue forward.

  The others descended the brae at an eager pace, exchanging cheerful expressions and excited whispers, while Colban marched beside Morgan in a cold silence so impenetrable a claymore couldn’t cut through it.

  Once they entered through the palisade gates, Colban remarked to the others with satisfaction, “At least the keep is in good repair. Until we find out if the neighbors are friend or foe, ’tis good to have strong walls between us.”

  While Morgan stood in the midst of the courtyard, activity commenced around him under Colban’s expert direction. The clan began the process of moving in—assessing the outbuildings and unloading the carts.

  “Perhaps ye should inspect the hall, m’laird,” Colban suggested.

  With a resigned sigh, Morgan made his way to the stone keep and hauled open the heavy doors to the great hall.

  The shutters were open, and light came in through three tall windows, reflecting off the bare, polished wooden floor. The great hearth had been scrubbed recently, but slabs of dry peat were stacked beside it, ready to serve as fuel. Iron sconces were set into the plaster walls. Some still held remnants of beeswax candles.

  His uncle had left no progeny of his own. Because of the castle’s strategic location near the English border, the king had wanted it occupied as soon as possible. His uncle’s few remaining servants had departed, taking most of the provender and supplies. But the keep was livable.

  Morgan headed toward the stone stairs that spiraled up one corner of the hall. Despite the early hour, he wanted nothing more than to seek out his new bedchamber and sleep the rest of the day. Even if it was on the bare floor.

  Before he could take the first stair, Colban entered the hall.

  “Morgan!”

  Morgan hesitated, but didn’t turn.

  “We need to talk,” Colban said.

  Morgan didn’t need to talk.

  He didn’t want to talk.

  He wanted to continue upstairs. Fall asleep. And never wake up.

  But that was not to be.

  Colban loped up beside him and set a firm palm on his shoulder. His gray gaze was stern and unrelenting. “We’ve known each other for—what—twenty years?”

  Morgan lowered his brows. This sounded like the beginning of a lecture. He didn’t need a lecture. Not from Colban, who’d never borne the responsibility of a lairdship or a wife.

  “And in all that time,” Colban continued, “I’ve ne’er spoken a word against ye. Ne’er questioned your good sense. Not once doubted your judgment.”

  “But?” Morgan bit out.

  “But…” Colban hesitated, as if the words were painful to say. “Ye’re not yourself, Morgan. Not since she died.”

  Morgan had thought he was beyond feeling. But Colban’s words hit like a hammer. They struck a fiery spark from his heart, immediately inflaming his ire.

  “God’s bones, what do ye expect?” he hissed, knocking aside Colban’s hand. “She was my wife, Colban. My…everything.”

  “I know.” Colban looked truly sorry. “I know that. But she’s gone now. And ye can’t bring her back. Ye’ve had time to grieve. Now ye have to think about the future.”

  Morgan didn’t want to hear about the future. Any future without Alicia was bleak. Empty. Hopeless.

  “Ye have a chance to start anew here,” Colban continued. “Ye have a fine keep, a substantial holdin’, and a hale son who—”
/>   “Who killed my wife,” Morgan snarled.

  Colban’s gasp told Morgan he’d been too frank. Colban might know him better than anyone. But he had yet to witness the dark side of Morgan’s raw grief.

  Colban’s shock didn’t last long. He wrenched Morgan about by the arm and pinned him with flashing silver eyes.

  “Don’t ye ever say that. Don’t ye believe it. That is an innocent bairn. He’s flesh o’ your flesh and blood o’ your blood, heir to all this.” He waved his arm at the great hall. “’Tis sorrowful enough the poor lad will ne’er know his ma. But for his own da to blame him for her death…”

  Morgan knew Colban was right. But the spark in his heart had grown into a burning coal. And anger felt so much better than melancholy.

  “Stay out o’ my affairs!” he barked. “What would ye know about fatherhood anyway?” He regretted his next words even before they spilled off his bitter tongue. “Ye don’t even know who your da is.”

  Colban growled and gave him a hard shove.

  Morgan shoved him back.

  What followed was a brawl more befitting beardless lads than grown men.

  Colban gave him a well-deserved punch in the jaw, hard enough to rock back his head.

  Morgan cursed and clamped an arm around Colban’s neck, pulling him off-balance.

  Colban gained release by pummeling Morgan in the gut, bending him in half. While he clutched his bruised stomach, Colban tackled him to the ground.

  They scrambled across the polished planks, kicking and clouting, wrenching at each other’s garments, grimacing and cursing, scratching and spitting like wildcats.

  As foolish as the grappling was, the rage was cathartic. For the first time since Alicia’s death, Morgan felt…capable. What he was capable of, of course, was senseless violence. But the fury flowing through him melted the ice in his veins.

  He might not be able to defeat death. But he could damn well leave Colban begging for mercy.

  If only he could catch hold of the slippery bastard.

  Colban escaped him and headed up the stairs.

  “Coward!” Morgan yelled, thinking he was fleeing.

  But when he charged forward in pursuit, Colban turned suddenly, using the advantage of height to leap down upon Morgan.

  Morgan collapsed under the attack, twisting his ankle and striking his brow on the stone wall as he went down. Stars floated before his eyes. His fingers found blood dripping from his forehead.

  Colban didn’t escape unscathed by the fall either. He rolled away, groaning and clutching at his knee.

  Morgan gave his head a hard shake to dispel the dizziness and struggled to his feet.

  Colban regained his footing as well, though he favored his injured leg. He limped before Morgan, taunting him with a smoldering glare.

  Morgan outweighed Colban by a wee bit in muscle and might. Unfortunately, Colban was the faster man.

  His quick punch caught Morgan’s left eye, blurring his vision.

  Morgan barreled blindly forward. Catching Colban about the waist, he slammed him into the stone wall.

  Colban grunted.

  Morgan reared back and drove his fist toward Colban’s fair face. But Colban dropped down in that instant, and Morgan’s knuckles crunched against the hard sandstone.

  Grimacing and cradling his injured hand, Morgan staggered back a step.

  Colban seized the advantage, lunging toward Morgan’s shins and knocking him backward.

  The great hall careened upside down at lightning speed. Then the planks of the floor collided with the back of Morgan’s head.

  The last thing he heard was his old maidservant Bethac asking what in the hell the two of them were doing.

  The last thing he saw was a black fog rushing in to eclipse his vision and render him senseless.

  Chapter 5

  Jenefer pulled her cloak tighter around her throat and peered out from the shadows of the trees. The castle below, lit by the last rays of the setting sun, truly did glow like gold.

  She meant to lay claim to that gold. And even though she’d sworn an oath of solidarity to her cousins, she’d always known this fight was hers alone.

  Besides, she wasn’t exactly acting on her own. The three of them had agreed on their strategy. They’d decided to make the Highlander believe that Creagor was haunted. And since they’d learned from a passing merchant that the Highlander’s household had arrived earlier today, they’d planned to begin the haunting tomorrow eve.

  Jenefer didn’t intend to veer from their objective. But she wasn’t about to wait for the morrow. It was better to strike while the iron was hot and the moon was full, before the enemy had time to prepare.

  Before supper, she’d feigned an aching head as an excuse to retire to her chamber. There she’d gathered her ghostly attire and stolen from Rivenloch by way of her Aunt Miriel’s secret tunnel into the woods.

  Jenefer already knew the way to Creagor. Years ago, when she’d first learned the castle might one day be hers, she’d sneaked over on her own to explore. She knew there was a wooden palisade surrounding the keep and a stone wall enclosing the courtyard. She even knew the exact location of the laird’s bedchamber. Now all she needed to do was to wait until dark and move into place below the window.

  Staying hidden at the edge of the forest in sight of the bedchamber, she perched on a lichen-covered boulder to keep watch from the trees. Then she opened the satchel she’d brought with her.

  Knowing she was settling in for a long night, she’d procured supplies from the buttery. She pulled out a chunk of hard cheese, a dozen oatcakes, three veal pasties, four bannocks, two apple coffyns, a slab of butter, and a full skin of ale. That should last her till morn.

  From this vantage point, she spied a guardsman occasionally popping his head above the palisade of timbers that fenced the keep. The Highlander had doubtless brought men-at-arms with him, but he either didn’t have enough to post permanent lookouts at the four corners, or he was unconcerned about intruders.

  While she waited for the inhabitants of the castle to retire for the night, she chewed on a buttered bannock and considered what improvements she would make to the keep, once it was hers.

  The first thing she’d do was replace and expand the timber palisade with sturdy stone. Timbers could be put to the torch. But it would take a giant siege engine like a catapult or a trebuchet to fell a stone wall.

  As long as she was enlarging the palisade, she thought, taking a swig of ale, she might as well expand the interior wall. There was plenty of usable land to enclose a much larger courtyard. It was always best to protect as many of the outbuildings as possible, considering how tempting a jewel like Creagor was to the invading English along the border.

  The current palisade was far too close to the keep, and the towers didn’t even have narrowed arrow-slit windows for defense. She could have easily fired an arrow over the timbers and shot the Highlander while he stood at his open window.

  She arched a sardonic brow. That was still a possibility if her current plan failed. She’d brought her longbow with her. She never went anywhere without it.

  She washed down the bannock with a swallow of ale and resumed plans for improving Creagor. In addition to the usual kitchens, dovecot, orchard, gardens, and shops that filled the courtyard, a larger space could house some rather appealing amenities…

  A grand archery range.

  A splendidly appointed tiltyard.

  An impressive practice field.

  A generously furnished armorer’s forge.

  And a stable large enough to provide for the mounts of knights who came to participate in the illustrious tournaments she intended to host.

  Imagining the fluttering pennons and the clash of claymores sent a thrill through her. Her Aunt Deirdre hosted some of Scotland’s most distinguished tournaments every spring at Rivenloch. But Jenefer was sure she could rival Rivenloch’s events at Creagor in the autumn, once she put builders to work on the additions.

 
; She shivered. She told herself it was from excitement. Not the cold. But the weather had definitely taken a turn today. Fog no longer blanketed the ground. A chill breeze stirred the crisp leaves of the trees.

  Still, Jenefer was accustomed to cold. She’d be fine. Besides, what was a little bitter wind when men would shed blood for a holding as magnificent as Creagor?

  Two veal pasties, seven oatcakes, and one apple coffyn later, Jenefer had begun shivering in earnest. But she forgot all about the cold when she suddenly spied light in the window of the laird’s bedchamber.

  She sat up straight, her gaze locked on the window.

  That would be him.

  The Highlander.

  The savage who thought he could usurp her castle.

  Quickly stuffing the remnants of her supper into the satchel, she felt the fire of battle enter her heart. She prepared to give the performance of her life.

  Paying no heed to the icy wind, she threw off her cloak and began untying the laces of her surcoat. Once she’d loosened and hauled off the garment, the wind began to whip at her linen kirtle, wrapping it around her legs.

  Leaning against an oak for balance, she tugged off her boots and stockings, tucking them under the boulder. She untied her braid and ran her fingers through her hair, separating the long tresses.

  With a bracing, determined breath, she swept the kirtle off over her head…and lost it to the wind. She cursed as it flew across the sward, skipping away like a naughty child, alternately snagging on bushes, then blowing free. Figuring the garment was lost for good, she drew out the filmy white veil she’d packed.

  It rippled in the breeze as well, but she managed to drag the veil over her naked body, anchoring it atop her windblown curls with a circlet of silver.

  No one would mistake her for a nun now. The sheer veil afforded her no modesty. And no warmth.

  But this was war.

  Whatever discomfort she had to suffer, it would be worth it. She planned to win this battle. Her future and the title of Laird of Creagor depended upon it.

  Clenching her teeth against the biting wind, she emerged from the trees and made her way toward the candle glow in the window. The light of the full moon glistened on the grass, where frost crunched under her feet. The translucent veil, lifting and fluttering on the currents, looked even more ethereal and eerie than she’d hoped.