She crossed the empty courtyard and made her way up the main staircase, expecting at any moment to be challenged as to her intent.
But not even when she slipped into the dark entry hall inside did she see anyone. Her luck was holding! And luck, as her da had been fond of saying, could often save a man. Or, in her case, a woman.
If the little kitchen maid had told her true, the stairs toward the back of the great hall should lead her where she needed to go. The young woman had been adamant in her claims that though the lord and master of Tordenet slept in the laird’s chambers on the second floor, he spent all his days in this tower.
If this was where he spent the better part of his time, this would be where she would learn the most about him.
Brie’s feet slowed as she reached the heavy wooden door at the top of the narrow staircase. What if Torquil MacDowylt had not yet retired to his chambers? What if she walked in on him? It would be the end of her schemes before they’d even begun.
No! No more what ifs. She was here and she would go through with it.
The door opened easily, allowing her entrance into a tiny room illuminated only by dying embers in its small fireplace. This hardly looked to be a place for the great Torquil MacDowylt to spend his days. Castle MacGahan had storage rooms larger than this. This room, with its solitary chair, presented itself more as a guard’s outpost than a room a laird would use.
Brie turned in a tight circle, scanning the walls until she spotted a narrow door. A door with a slit of light splashing out where the wood didn’t quite meet the stone floor.
Her breath caught in her chest. A light that bright could mean he was in there. She crossed to the door and positioned her ear against the wood. Holding her breath, she listened for any sound coming from the other side. Nothing. Perhaps with his great wealth, MacDowylt thought nothing of leaving a fireplace burning in an unoccupied room.
Only one way to know.
Squaring her shoulders, she leaned against the door, pushing it ever so slightly open. A space large enough for nothing more to enter than her fingers. She waited, breath held, for the sound of boots against stone.
Not a single noise met her straining ears.
Another push and she slipped inside.
This room, many times larger than the one before it, was more like what she had imagined the laird of the MacDowylt might occupy. A great table, strewn with papers and a jeweled wooden chest, sat directly across from the door, an enormous candle burning brightly on either end. Two more candles blazed on the stone shelf behind the table, illuminating the bound manuscripts stacked there.
She stepped slowly across the empty floor, curious as to what might occupy the days of the beast of Tordenet.
Like many elder sons, Torquil appeared to have been well educated. Scrolls and manuscripts littered his table. One, apparently more special and obviously older than the others, lay neatly rolled in the wooden box next to the most fantastic sword she’d ever seen.
Her fingers itched to lift the weapon, to feel its heft balanced in her palm.
She resisted, though it took great self-control, satisfying herself with a stroke of her finger down the length of the engraved blade. The symbols there were unlike any she’d seen before, though they seemed similar to those on the unrolled scroll lying next to the box. Not numbers, not any letters she knew of, these were entirely foreign markings.
Only with a great force of willpower was she able to step away from the intense lure emanating from the box. She wasn’t here to steal from the laird, she reminded herself. Only to kill him. She might travel with Tinklers, but she was not one.
The thought had barely formed before a wave of guilt washed over her. Nothing she’d experienced of the Tinklers supported the rumors she’d heard her whole life. They’d been nothing but kind to her, and they’d certainly done nothing to make her think they were thieves. If anything, the minstrels were more likely to fit that mold than the Tinklers.
Another step back from the table and the pull of the sword weakened enough to allow Brie to collect her thoughts.
She was here for information, not treasures. Information that could help her determine the best way, the best time, the best place to gut the beast who’d murdered her father.
She turned her attention upward, to the tall ceiling and the unshuttered window high on the wall. Her eyes trailed down, to the landing under the window and the four stone stairs leading down to the floor where, on a pallet of pillows, lay the naked body of the fearsome laird of the MacDowylt.
Her breath sucked in between her teeth as if some other being were responsible for the action. Or perhaps it was only the natural result of her heart pounding so hard within her chest, likely trying to push the contents of her stomach back down where they belonged.
She waited, heart pounding loudly enough to wake the dead, expecting at any moment he would open his eyes and cry out for his guards to take her away.
Instead, he lay unmoving, eyes closed, as if he were the very dead she feared awakening.
Panic bubbled in her chest as the sounds of breathing assailed her ears . . . until she recognized that the breathing was her own.
Fool!
She was warrior born, not some dewy-eyed milkmaid to scurry away at the first sign of danger. Repeating that in her mind, she approached the body for a closer inspection.
What was wrong with him? It was as if he were a carving of a man, not actually the man himself.
And a beautiful carving, at that.
She’d seen him from a distance, on the landing of his great staircase, possessively surveying his courtyard. Up close, so close she could reach out and touch him, he was the very definition of beauty. Golden hair flowed out around his head, highlighted by two pure white streaks, one leading back from each temple like stripes on some exotic animal. Taut muscles shaped the skin of his arms, his legs, his torso, forming a perfect ripple along his chest, leading her eyes down to his—
Brie jerked her gaze back to his chest, her thoughts in turmoil. His manhood was not for her investigation, no matter how handsome he might be.
She needed to know if he slept, or if someone had already done her work for her. Did his heart beat still?
She could wonder, or she could be certain.
Against her better judgment, her hand stretched forward, hovering over his chest. Would his skin be warm with life or as cold as the statue he resembled?
As if she’d been snared in some invisible web, she waited, unmoving, transfixed by the man in front of her. He was beyond handsome. He was magnificent. He was perfection.
Pain radiating up her arm brought her to her senses and she shook her head in an effort to rid herself of whatever it was that had held her back. For how long she’d remained there, she couldn’t say, only that it had been long enough that her arm ached from the strain of holding it out.
Her will once again her own, she dipped her hand, allowing her fingers to rest lightly on the perfect stretch of muscled skin.
Not beauty, not perfection, but pure evil incarnate waited under her touch.
Brie jerked her hand away, her fingertips burning as if she’d placed them in the flames of the fireplace.
Panic drove her steps backward until she stumbled and fell to sit, her legs stretched out in front of her, her back against a tapestry-covered screen.
Could some powerful Magic surround the laird? Powerful enough to confuse her purpose and steal her strength of will? Something certainly had and, given more time, she might devise a way around such intense feelings. But such time was not a luxury available to her at the moment.
A noise, like the beat and rustle of a great pair of wings, sounded from the open window, sending her scuttling on hands and knees to hide behind the screen.
Brie huddled on a tiny seat, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as if the self-imposed dark might aid her in regaining her courage.
Some semblance of calm returned and she leaned her forehead against the wood of t
he screen, realizing as she did she could see through the tiny slit between the pieces of wood.
An owl, the largest she’d ever seen so close, perched on the sill of the opening, his head cocked first to one side and then the other as if he scanned the room for intruders.
For her.
Another wave of panic washed over her and she fought the overwhelming need to step from behind the screen and surrender herself. She held her breath, terrified when she heard a great gasp for air that the sound might be coming from her.
Not from her, she realized, but from the laird, sucking in air as if he’d been holding his breath as well, but for much, much longer.
Her eyes tracked back up to the empty window. Where the owl had gone, she had no idea, nor did she have time to spend in wondering.
Torquil MacDowylt had risen to his feet.
He placed a hand to his chest, cocking his head from side to side, much as the owl had, before striding to the table where he slowly and with great care worked the open scroll into a tight roll and placed it inside the wooden box.
With the box under his arm, he crossed to the great fireplace, only feet away from her hiding spot.
Brie concentrated on maintaining her silence, picturing herself in the trees on a hunt, invisible to her prey.
His hand moved from one stone to another below the mantel until at last he pulled one stone free and shoved the box into the opening, before returning the stone to cover any trace of the hiding place.
Again he paused, his head swiveling back and forth, before he turned to cross back to his resting spot. Rather than lying back down, he lifted his clothing, one piece at a time, shook each one, and quickly dressed. With one last look around the room, he lifted a hand and all the candles were extinguished at once as if snuffed out by a chorus of maids in unison.
Magic! She’d suspected it before, but what she’d just seen was proof. She’d heard her father’s stories of the MacDowylt having descended from his people’s ancient gods, but she’d never believed them.
She didn’t move, not even when she heard the laird cross the room and shut the door behind him. She waited on her little stool, realizing only after her legs began to cramp and she at last stood, that the stool was in fact a pot, apparently used as the laird’s own private privy.
An almost hysterical giggle formed in her throat, contained only with a great reassertion of self-control.
Brie continued to wait for what felt like hours, but in reality was much more likely minutes. Her sense of time was as skewed at the moment as her nerves.
At last, after she felt sure MacDowylt was well and good away, she silently stepped from behind the screen and crossed the room to slip out the door and pull it shut behind her.
Once it was closed, she leaned against it, gulping great draughts of cold air to steady her resolve before she sprinted from the tiny anteroom.
Never before had she experienced the likes of what she’d encountered behind that door.
Dinna trust yer eyes, lass. Looks can be deceiving. Her father’s warning rang in her mind as she raced down the narrow staircase, desperate to get outside the gates of this wretched place.
Never had her father’s words made more sense. For all Torquil MacDowylt’s beauty, one touch had stripped it all away, confirming what her eyes had doubted at first sight of the man.
The laird’s body housed naught but pure, unadulterated evil Magic.
Twenty-one
IF THERE WAS anything Orabilis owned that he hadn’t spent time repairing today, Chase couldn’t imagine what it could possibly be. From the rickety fencing meant to keep her chickens out of the garden next spring to the chair turned upside down in front of him right now, the old woman had kept him busy from the moment he woke up.
The only bright spot in his day had been Christiana’s limping after him as he’d moved from one chore to the next.
Funny, how she could be both the best and the worst parts of his day. Best by virtue of her conversation and the rare reward of her quiet laughter that had made his day go by so quickly. Worst by virtue of what he suffered at her hands right this very moment.
He reached for the mug of ale at his elbow and downed a great swallow before continuing to work on strapping the chair leg.
It wasn’t fair to hold her responsible for his current discomfort. He had only himself to blame for this predicament. Himself and his overactive imagination.
It had been his suggestion, after all, that a long soak in a hot tub would likely soothe her aching muscles; he who had carted bucket after bucket of water from the fire to the tub in the back room; and worst of all, his imagination that couldn’t seem to think of anything but her sitting in that tub, bare-ass naked at this very moment.
Something sounding suspiciously like a growl crawled up his throat.
“What’s that you say?” Orabilis looked up from the pot she stirred. “Is that yer stomach announcing hunger yet again?”
He grunted, a thoroughly noncommittal noise meant to allay her questions without his having to tell her an untruth.
“I’ve been out here by my ownself long enough that I’d forgotten how much a braw young lad like yerself could eat. Pardie!” she huffed, after reaching into the jar in which she kept her cooking herbs. “I’d forget me own head, I would, were it no so firmly attached.”
With an ongoing series of ever-louder grunts, she hoisted herself up to her feet and waddled over to the stack of cloth sacks she’d prepared for Christiana to take back to Tordenet with her. She quickly untied the one on top and dipped her clay jar inside, filling it before retying it and returning to her stool by the fire to toss a handful into the bubbling porridge she cooked.
“Wait a minute.” Chase couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen. “Why are you putting that in our food? Isn’t that the special mixture you prepared to send Christiana on her little vision quests?”
He’d heard of weed brownies, but this was ridiculous. Was the old woman senile?
“You pay attention to yer own hands there, lad. I ken well enough what I’m doing here.”
Chase dropped the tool he used and moved to stand over the old woman and her bubbling pot.
“We need to get something straight between us right now. I can toss back a couple of pints or a shot of whisky with the best of them.” With his Faerie constitution, he could polish off a whole damn barrel and it would have no effect on him. “But I don’t put that stuff in my body. No chemicals. No dwale, absolutely no opium or hemlock or any of that other shit. And, just so we’re on the same page, I’m going to do everything in my power to see that Christiana stops using it, too. It can’t be good for her, visions or no visions.”
Orabilis stared up at him, one eye squinted against the smoke from the fireplace.
“Oh, do sit yer righteous self down and stop yer fashing, aye? There’s no a sprig of any of those things in this mixture. None of it. If you must ken the truth of it, those bags I’ve set aside for Christiana to take with her are filled with naught but good cooking herbs. You should ken that yer own self since yer the one what mixed them for me.” She stirred the pot before fixing him again with her stern frown, shaking her porridge-covered spoon for emphasis and sending little globs of porridge flying in all directions. “But yer no to be telling my Christy about this. No a single word, you ken?”
“No, I don’t understand. Not one damn bit of it. How can harmless cooking herbs send Christiana on these wild-ass trips to the future she says she takes?”
The old woman made a clicking sound of disgust with her tongue. “I expected better of you. Of all people.” She shook her head and lowered her spoon to the pot in front of her. “Though I’ve a spell or two up my sleeve, this is no one of them. Those simple herbs work because she believes they work. She has the power all on her own to travel the Vision, but she doubts her own abilities. She’s no like us, laddie.”
That he could believe, since he sincerely doubted there were an overabundance of Faerie descen
dants walking around out here. Which meant even Orabilis wasn’t like him. What he wasn’t sure of, however, was that he swallowed her story about harmless cooking herbs being some kind of security blanket for Christiana. And he definitely wasn’t falling for the “spell or two” garbage she was spouting.
“Don’t you even try to suck me into the whole witch thing. It may work with those people back at Tordenet, but I know better. Witches aren’t real. They don’t exist.” He gave her a look he hoped was suitably withering.
Her responding grin was not at all what he expected.
“No? So witches dinna exist, eh? No more than, oh, let’s say Faeries exist? What have you to say to that one, young lord Noble?”
How could she possibly . . . He closed his mouth when he realized it hung open, sitting down heavily on the hearth as the old woman cackled, sounding every bit the witch people claimed her to be.
Orabilis was right. He of all people should know better than to question what exceptions existed in the world. It was only that, for some reason, his driving need to protect Christiana kept pushing common sense right out of his reach.
Behind them, the door to the little bedroom opened and Christiana emerged on a cloud of fragrance and steam, her face breaking into one of her rare smiles.
“What have you said to so amuse my Shen-Ora?”
“Only that, should yer brother’s men take another day to arrive, this one will gladly start the digging on a new waste pit for me.” The old woman returned Christiana’s smile, hoisting an eyebrow when she turned to face Chase. “Did you no agree to that, my sweet lad?”
Trapped, he nodded, his mind a blank.
“You should see to yer beastly big animal, Chase, dearling. Before the sun goes down and you lose the day’s light.”
Again he nodded, heading for the door. Only Christiana would fail to see how transparent her old “Shen-Ora” was in trying to get him out of the house and away from her.
“I’ll accompany you, if I might.” Christiana joined him at the door, lifting her cloak from the hook on the wall. “Keeping my body moving has helped me this day. And after the long soak, I’m feeling quite supple.”
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