The Laird

by Virginia Brown

  IN THE DAYS that followed, Judith created a routine that kept her busy. After the morning mass at dawn in the small chapel of the keep, to the first breaking of their fast, to the noonday meal, she scurried between duties with an agility that would no doubt have amazed Edith and all of Caddel Castle. They’d never given her the opportunity to lend her hand to their tasks, save for the most mundane they deemed a widowed English noblewoman capable of doing. But now Judith involved herself in everything from spices for the mutton stew to the proper warp in weaving cloth.

  It surprised her that the widows of the laird’s sons had no hand in the duties of the keep, for even at Caddel Castle, all the women were involved in the stewardship of daily life. Yet not even one resided at Lochawe, though they occupied residences beyond the keep, some walled and others just stone and thatch cottages.

  Only one had visited in the past week, a hollow-eyed woman with dark hair and two small bairns at her side. Her visit had been brief, and when she saw Mairi, she’d halted in her tracks, staring at the child.

  Protectively, Judith moved forward, an arm going to lie upon Mairi’s shoulder, though Mairi was more interested in the lad staring back at her with wide gray eyes.

  “The heiress o’ Caddel,” the woman said in broad Scots, and Judith nodded. A bleak light glimmered in misted eyes, and she reached out to touch Mairi’s red-gold curls. “A fair bairn, tae cause muckle sorrow.”

  “The sorrow came when she was taken from her home through no wish of her own,” Judith reminded softly. “’Tis a great grief that you have lost so much because of it.”

  “Aye.” Wet eyes kicked up, studied her for a moment. “I am Saraid, widow o’ Kenneth, heir tae Lochawe—a braw callant, he wa’, a bonny man.” She paused, swallowed hard, then said, “Glenlyon will ha’ it all naow, an’ welcome he is tae it. ’Tis cursed, a de’il’s lair. Me Robbie willna be sae cursed.”

  The lad at her side looked up, his face solemn. “Me da didna think it cursed.”

  “Aye, yer da didna think sae, Robbie lad.” A weary sigh accompanied the shake of her head. “Daffin, he wa’, and sae I told him more than once. Good day tae ye, lady.”

  Judith had watched them leave, Saraid walking beside a cart laden with bags of grain and a crate of chickens, her two bairns perched atop as it lumbered through the gates. A feeling of hopelessness swept over her. So many widows, so many orphans. . . . Life was tenuous at best, enemies lurking in unexpected corners.

  Old enmities were familiar. Here, it was Maggie who resented her presence, though she had not confronted her directly. She stayed in the shadows, a constant glowering presence muttering to herself in Gaelic. Only the arrival of Robert Campbell could render Maggie silent.

  Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, the most difficult and alien of all males Judith had ever encountered. He remained aloof, for all that he watched her. She felt his gaze on her at times, and when she looked up to meet his eyes, he rarely spoke. It was as if he wanted only to observe her, even at the meals taken in the great hall. It was unnerving.

  More unnerving was the fact that she found herself looking for him, unaware until she felt a peculiar jolt that she’d been waiting for him to arrive. What was the matter with her? How could she countenance even an instant’s empathy toward the man known as the Devil’s Cub? A name lent him for good reason, she was certain, though she’d had only glimpses of the ferocity for which he was famous.

  “Lady Judith,” an insistent whisper at her side implored, “may I play with Tam?”

  Judith glanced down at Mairi, who was gazing across the muddy expanse of byre toward a lad who looked to be about ten years of age. He stood stoically waiting, though his eyes were downcast as if expecting a rebuff. She’d seen him at work, rounding up sheep and swine, a cheerful lad for all that he was Auld Maggie’s grandson.

  “Yea,” she said after a moment, “but you must remain close enough that you hear me should I call for you.”

  Mairi’s face brightened. “I shall, oh I shall!”

  There was a little bounce in her stride as she made her way across the mud and offal to greet Tam, and Judith saw the boy’s swift grin of delight. They immediately made for a large stack of hay at the far end of the yard.

  “Are you not afraid the lass will be tainted by such close contact with a stable lad?”

  Judith turned to see Glenlyon behind her. A light wind blew his black hair back from his face, and his eyes gleamed with something resembling humor. Resting his hip against the side of the well, a sardonic smile curved his mouth as he watched her with a lifted brow.

  “No more so than you’ll be tainted by being close to me,” she retorted.

  “’Tis worse than I thought, then.”

  “No doubt.” Despite constraint at his close presence, she found herself smiling a little. “You may be cursed by just being this near me. I might bewitch you into a turnip.”

  “I’ll take that risk. Auld Maggie’s predictions are usually wrong.”

  “Are they?” She lifted the empty bucket to the side of the well and attached it to the hook, then lowered it. “Yet she manages to terrify most of the village with her grim prophecies.”

  “Ah. I suppose there’s always the off chance that she might stumble across the truth. The people of Lochawe take as few risks as they must.”

  Eying him, Judith worked the well’s lever, heard the muted plop of the bucket hit the water below, and paused. “What of you, Glenlyon? Do you take few risks as well?”

  He moved forward, took the lever from her grasp, and began to haul up the heavy water bucket. She noticed the smooth flex of lean muscle in his back and shoulders as he worked, evident even through the loose tunic he wore over his trews.

  “I take what risks I must, milady.”

  “Such as talking to a witch.”

  Amusement creased his eyes. “Fine witch you are. Why don’t you conjure up a full bucket instead of go to this trouble?”

  “I conjured you up, and you’re doing it for me.”

  The wooden bucket clunked against stone as he set it on the well’s edge. Water dripped, formed puddles that ran down the sides of the well. He met her gaze for a moment, some of the humor fading from his eyes.

  “You don’t belong here, Lady Lindsay.”

  “I agree. Set us free.”

  “And if I do? What then?”

  Her heart thumped, an erratic lurch of hope that was quickly squelched. He shook his head impatiently.

  “You know that cannot be. The lass must stay. But you are free to go.” He swept an arm out to indicate the muddy byre. “You were not born to be a servant and nursemaid. Is this what you want for the rest of your life?”

  “What I want is not always what’s right.” She drew in a sharp breath of disappointment. “I cannot leave Mairi. Who here would love her?”

  “Love?” He seemed startled. “She’s but a bairnie. Love is nice, but unnecessary to survival.”

  “Tell that to the laird. He’s dying before your eyes because of the loss of his sons.”

  Her barb hit its mark. His mouth thinned into a taut line, and his eyes narrowed.

  “You dare much, milady.”

  “Yea, those who have the least to lose dare what they will because the risks are slight.”

  “You do not fear losing your life?”

  “Do not confuse life with living.” She indicated the keep with a flap of her hand. “I do not live here. I exist here as a prisoner. There’s a vast difference.”

  For a moment he was silent, staring down at her with an expression she couldn’t interpret. There was no hostility in those eyes the color of new steel, or even suspicion, only a thoughtful regard that made her more uneasy than blatant rancor. She shivered, an involuntary reaction to the moment and the brisk wind.

  Around them the sound
s of life went on, familiar yet alien to her, the daily chaos of living much the same here as at Caddel Castle. It was even similar to home, to the beloved soft gray towers of Wakefield where she’d spent her childhood, where she’d felt safe and loved. So long ago now, an eternity. Another lifetime.

  It had been a lifetime since she’d felt protected, since she’d felt as if she belonged. She hadn’t belonged in Caddel Castle, and she certainly didn’t belong here. There were moments, almost every hour some days, when the sudden sharp yearning for home nearly overwhelmed her, when she wanted to cry out like a child, I want to go home!

  How she kept from it was a mystery to her. It was so intense, almost painful to hold it back, to swallow the plea for something she’d never have again. And there was the despair and fear that she’d never again know love in its simple, purest form. A life without love was truly desolate. She clung to Mairi for the child’s sake but for her own as well.

  It was all she had to lighten the despair of her days.

  Love was all Mairi would have to save her from the same aching loneliness and isolation.

  “Where have you wandered, Lady Lindsay?”

  His Scottish burr was rich but not as thick and nearly incomprehensible as that of many of those around her, and Judith’s eyes jerked to Glenlyon’s face at the gentle query.

  “Home,” she said before she thought, then flushed at the sympathy in his eyes. “This time of year is particularly lovely in England.”

  “So I’m told. Where is Wakefield?”

  “Below Weardale, near the River Tees.” She paused. “Why do you ask?”

  “’Tis not so very far from here,” he said. “You could spend May Day there if you chose.”

  “I hardly think that possible. May Day is a fortnight.”

  “Less than that.” He shifted position, leaned closer to her so that she caught the fresh, clean scent of him, a masculine aroma of leather and washed linen. Dark wool trews fit him snugly, his tunic of unbleached linen open at the neck and belted at the waist. He wore no plaide in the warm weather, and his knee-high boots were much cleaner than her own shoes. There was something appealing about him, despite his obvious desire to be rid of her.

  He reached out, tugged at the tail of hair she’d worked into a neat plait before leaving her chamber that morning, smiling slightly at her uplifted brow. “It sounds as if I wish to be rid of you, and perhaps I do, though not for the reason you may think. Lochawe is no place for you, milady. You’re as a blooded mare among the sheep. You do not belong here.”

  “No,” she said sharply, jerking her hair from his grasp, “I belong few places, it seems. I never belonged at Caddel Castle, I do not belong here, and it seems that I do not even have a warm welcome at Wakefield. I very much fear that you are burdened with me, sir, and you will have to make of that what you will.”

  Heat scoured her neck and face as she turned away from him, chagrined that she had revealed so much with her outburst. Tugging at the rope handle of the water bucket, she only succeeded in sloshing it over her thin slippers and wetting the front of her léine as it tipped.

  “Give that to me,” he said, and despite her efforts to avoid his help, he took the heavy bucket from the edge of the well, hefting it easily. “I assume you want this in the kitchens.”

  Before she could reply, he strode toward the kitchens, his long legs quickly crossing the muddy yard. Even with his stride betraying a slight limp, Judith barely kept up. Curse him for interfering and making her recall things she’d just as soon forget. . . .

  Inside the kitchen, she moved quickly to put the newly scrubbed table between them. The warmth of a fire glowing on the hearth reflected in burnished pots that hung neatly from proper hooks. Baskets of vegetables lined one wall, and iron utensils were arranged in tidy efficiency on wooden shelves. Even Catriona was fairly clean, with her short tunic belted now at the waist and proper shoes upon her feet. Her hair had been pulled back into a knot on the nape of her neck with only a few wayward strands escaping.

  Glenlyon stopped short, looking around. “Where am I? Surely not in the kitchens of Lochawe’s keep; it cannot be the same as I saw only a day or two past.”

  He meant it as a jest, she knew, but she couldn’t help a flash of irritation.

  “It would not have been so difficult to do yourself, if you had any pride.”

  Smoky eyes shifted to her face, and he slowly set down the full bucket on hearthstones blackened by usage. Rosy firelight briefly touched his face, glittered in his eyes as he stared at her.

  “Do you sharpen your tongue on flint, Lady Lindsay?”

  “Betimes, I do.” Her chin lifted slightly at his close regard, though her heart rate escalated alarmingly when he moved closer to her. He had behaved decently, she scolded herself, and she repaid him with sharp words, but could she trust him? He was the Red Devil’s son and the next laird of Lochawe, a man who made it clear he wanted her far away from Mairi and Lochawe. Trust was a fragile thing, and it was so hard to know what to do with this man, a mysterious stranger for all that he had his moments of courtesy and nobility.

  Nor could she forget that afternoon in the tower room when he had kissed her near senseless, leaving her more shaken than ever she had been in her life. It was a moment she’d relived in dreams and scalding memory since, and she didn’t know what to make of her reaction to him.

  Or what to make of his steely-eyed regard now.

  “You tread dangerously,” he said softly and put a hand on her shoulder.

  It was disconcerting, his touch warm, burning into her even through the thick wool plaide over her shoulder, a heavy weight that reminded her once again of her position.

  Swallowing the spurt of nervous fear that threatened to render her into quivering jelly, Judith affected a careless shrug of her shoulder that dislodged his hand. She put space between them by leaning back against the scrubbed oak table.

  “Do you threaten me, sir?”

  “No. Betimes I promise, but I rarely threaten. It’s a useless motion, I’ve found. Far better to act than waste words.”

  It was a warning; she felt it to her marrow, and a strange lump formed in her throat. She wanted to reply, to say something clever and devastating, but no words came. A heavy blankness invaded her mind, so that she could only stand and stare at him in the dim, moist kitchen shadows.

  He moved closer, a hand lifted as if to touch her again, but stopped suddenly, his head jerking toward the door. Tension vibrated in his lean frame, and he swore softly as he spun on his heel away from her.

  Judith blinked in confusion. Then she heard it, a thin wail of pure terror and the deep-throated baying of a hound. Fear nipped her with sharp teeth as she recognized the childish treble.

  “Mairi!”

  He was out the door before she was halfway across the kitchen, shoving past Catriona. Sunlight and chaos met her eyes when Judith burst into the byre. Sheer horror filled her as she saw the old wolfhound barking ferociously and Mairi clinging frantically to the spokes of a cart wheel.

  “The dog has run mad,” she shouted as Glenlyon sprinted across the yard, then saw her error.

  It was not the dog who had Mairi and Tam scrambling for safety but a vicious boar. Yellow tusks slashed at Mairi’s little legs, and she screamed again as she tried to gain purchase on the wheel and Tam tugged at her from the bed of the cart.

  Lifting the trailing ends of her léine, Judith ran across the mud, feeling as if she was moving far too slowly, legs churning like leaden weights as fear coursed through her body. Mairi, she thought she screamed, but knew she’d made no sound. All she could hear was the savage barking of the wolfhound and the piercing screams of the child.

  The hound lunged forward, nipping the boar’s hind legs. The hairy beast whirled, lunged, and the old hound barely escaped being ripped open with a tusk. Snarli
ng, Caesar circled the boar, snapping at it, presenting a new target that distracted the animal from the children.

  Small reddish eyes focused on the hound; white froth dripped from snout and tusks as the beast aimed a vicious blow at this new danger. It was muscled and powerful, fully capable of killing a man. Dogs were frequently killed on the hunts for boar, and Caesar was old—but successful in offering a distraction.

  For the moment, Mairi was safe as Tam succeeded in tugging her into the bed of the cart; she tumbled over the side in a flurry of wool and kicking legs.

  Yet the danger was not lessened for those still in the byre yard. Men scattered, shouting, seeking safety behind stone walls. The boar was wounded and crazed, breathing fury like a smithy’s bellows as it lunged at the old hound again.

  Judith paused now that Mairi was out of immediate danger, trembling knees threatening to deposit her in a heap on the ground as she grabbed at a stone wall of the granary for support. Glenlyon alone approached the beast, heedless of the peril, a stout cudgel in one hand. He wore no sword, had no weapon for defense, only the length of oak.

  “For the love of all that’s holy,” Judith cried, “let the dog keep the beast at bay until aid arrives!”

  But she saw, even as she said it, that the old hound was flagging badly. It had sustained a wound from one of the tusks, a long gash along the left rib cage that only seemed to inflame the boar as it smelled blood and victory. Squeals of hate rent the air as the beast lunged at Caesar again, hooking a tusk in the dog’s leg. There was a loud yelp, and Caesar went down as the boar lowered its head to finish the dog by gutting him.

  But Glenlyon had reached the combatants and aimed a mighty blow at the boar’s head with the oaken staff. The blow fell between the boar’s eyes and momentarily stunned it. It staggered slightly, shook its massive head, then turned toward this latest threat. A snort blew froth, dripping from evil tusks, slathering from the hairy muzzle as it charged toward this human tormentor.

  Judith watched in frozen horror as Glenlyon took a step back, gripping the cudgel with both hands as he swung it in an almost horizontal swipe that caught the charging boar across the poll of its head. To her amazement, the beast went down like a dropped stone, a heavy thud the only sound it made.