by Dianna Love
She hunched her shoulders like a crone and walked down the center isle. Eyes squinting, she beckoned those that would follow with a crooked finger, “...over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore...”
She saw Kari’s face light in understanding and heard her exclaim, “Listen! Our lady tells a troubadour’s tale.”
Beth slowly spun, her voice imitating a conspirator’s stage whisper, “While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,” she rapped on a nearby table, “as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”
She almost sighed seeing many wide eyes following her every move. Too many, however, still looked torn between hearing her tale and joining the fray. She again beckoned them to follow. “‘Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this and nothing more.” To her relief, they could tell that it was in fact more, and many began following her away from Duncan and the bully-boys to the far end of the hall.
“Ah, distinctly,” she confided, “I remember ‘twas in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghosts upon the floor.”
Finally standing before the sitting area with most in the hall settled in rapt silence before her, she hoped Poe wouldn’t mind her changing The Raven up a bit so they could better understand. “Eagerly I lusted the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow—-sorrow for the lost Lenore—-for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.”
An excited murmur suddenly swept the group before her. Daring to believe she had them captivated with the tale of lost love, she glanced toward Duncan to see how he fared. All appeared calm, though two men still stood with fisted hands on hips in heated conversation.
She silently thanked her tenth grade teacher for forcing her to memorize the eighteen stanzas as punishment for nodding off in class before continuing, “...and the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purpure curtain thrilled me—-filled me with fantastic terrors never kenned before...”
By the time she came to an end, Duncan and the Bruce had disappeared along with Isaac. Flora and Rachel had joined the crowd before her. Seeing Flora wipe a tear away, Beth wondered at it. She wasn’t that great a storyteller.
“Another, my lady!” someone called.
“Aye, another,” somebody else agreed, “but this be it a tale of great joy, my lady.”
Great joy? Good Lord. Her mind flashed through the movies she’d seen only to discard them, one after the other, due to their very twenty-first century plots. Then Snow White came to mind and she smiled. The children present would enjoy it, at least.
Thinking how her own life now mimicked a fairy tale she began, “Once upon a time in a land far away...”
~#~
Flora studied the Black’s wife as she rambled on about silly dwarves and a poisoned apple. Aye, she could use one of those.
Nay, for surely she’d be as dead as yesterday’s fish if not for Lady MacDougall grabbing her about her chest and squeezing. And she did understand the pain of lost love, if her tale of the raven were true. Even a fool could see her mistress’s face couldna hold a man’s attention past a fortnight. Mayhap she did ken more than most the pain of dreadful angst and grieving. Aye, she’d not have the lady killed. She owed the woman that, but no more.
Chapter 20
Sitting across from the Bruce in the library, Duncan tried hard to mask his anger at his enemy’s impertinence, caring naught for what the Bruce claimed his strength in numbers to be, nor his conveniences to be.
“John, we need camp on opposing sides. I’ll not be traipsing across the damn valley every time I want to work my mount, so the answer is nay to ye stabling our cattle. As for the purses, I’ll not concede that either. ‘Tisna lack of trust on my part for ye, but for yer man. Though of Albany’s house, he is a newcomer. I ken Isaac’s honesty. He has repeatedly demonstrated his loyalty, and desire to remain within my holding. Ye canna say the same of William Kerr.”
“True, but what if yer man takes it into his head to weigh my portion with his finger on the scales?”
Isaac, fists clenched, came to his feet. Duncan couldn’t blame his friend for feeling insulted but waved him down. “Nay.” Turning his attention back to the Bruce he murmured, “By all means have ye man at Isaac’s side then, but Isaac collects and holds.”
“Agreed.”
Duncan narrowed his eyes, wondering what the Bruce plotted for ‘twas too swift a concession. He would have to see Isaac well guarded at the tournament, which posed another problem, of leaving Blackstone with less experienced men than he’d like. Damnation. Or did the Bruce really believe him easily defeated?
“So ‘tis agreed,” Duncan murmured, holding up his chalice. “We willna be paired in hand-to-hand, but have our lots drawn by the List Mistress. We will pair—-with ye first—in all mounted contests, arriving with face plates up, bring our own heralds, hold our own cattle, and Isaac holds the purses.”
The face shield idea had been Angus’s. ‘Twould be a hell of a thing for him to fight hard all day only to be challenged by the Bruce—-to have steel put on their lances tips in the final round—only to lose thinking he faced the Bruce when, in fact, he faced a fresh opponent. And the Bruce had several good men to choose from.
“Aye, ‘tis agreed,” the Bruce affirmed raising his own goblet. They drank deep, both parched from all the talk. “Shall we join the ladies now?”
“Why not.”
They rose and the Bruce laughed, “’Twasna so bad, aye?” He then delivered a powerful slap to Duncan’s left shoulder.
It took everything Duncan had to keep his face serene and not drop to his knees. Damn the man! He now had no doubt that the Bruce kenned his injury, but he could spare no energy in wondering how.
He forced a smile, hoping he hadn’t gone pale. The pain radiating down his back and left arm was such that had he had a dirk on his person he would have gladly buried it to the hilt in the Bruce. Then twisted it. Thrice.
Entering the hall, they found all before his lady wife; some in chairs, others on the floor, and some like Angus, with tears in his eyes, leaning against the wall. Apparently hearing his approach, his second in command straightened and blinked furiously. Angus nodded, thumping a closed fist over his heart. His friend’s signal confirmed what his eyes could see, that all was as it should be.
He turned his attention to Beth wondering what she could possibly be saying to hold the assembly so enthralled, for Angus wasna the only one who appeared moved. They couldna ken her well, surely? Then he noticed Rachael at Beth’s side.
As he approached he heard Beth say, “Alone with poor dead Elizabeth, the old crone...” Here Rachael interjected, “auld sotted widwife.” And Beth continued, “...opened the girl’s hand and found the prized locket.”
“Did she give it to Mr. Bumble, my lady,” the anxious child at her knee asked, “so the orphaned babe could find his clan?”
Beth ruffled the lad’s russet curls, “Nay, lad. The crone pocketed—-stole—-the locket before any spied it. Since they didna ken his rightful clan, Mr. Bumble christened the babe Oliver Twist.”
Wondering if only orphans peopled his lady’s tales, he came to her side and cleared his throat. “My lady, what say we retire? ‘Tis nigh onto midnight surely.”
Many an “Aw, but she isna done,” and “Oh, please, my lady, what of the babe?” went up from those at her feet.
She smiled. “This tale will take many nights to tell.” She stood and placed her hand on his arm. “I promise to continue tomorrow.”
Amongst much grumbling and yawning, the clan began to disperse. He covered Beth’s hand and found it cold and sweating. Frowning, he placed a palm to her forehead. “My lady, are ye ill?”
She grimaced as she threaded her arm through his. “Nay, Duncan, just terrified. I’ve just spent two hours trying to keep your clan well-occupied by telling stories only half remembered from my childhood.”
“Ah.” He watched mothers co
llecting their ale-besotted husbands and sleepy children, while others cleared the tables. “Ye apparently did it well.”
Nodding toward the Bruce who remained in conversation with his men at the far end of the hall, she asked, “Did your meeting go well?”
“As well as could be expected given the man’s predisposition to maneuver all to his advantage.”
Beth studied the Bruce for a moment longer, suddenly wondering about the attack on the night of her arrival. Even Rachael had said little about it. “Was it his men who attacked the coach I was in?”
Duncan nodded. “But the men were mercenaries, not of his clan. In the fray, I’d not thought to keep one alive to question, so I canna prove what I feel in my gut to be so.”
“I’m sorry if my arrival caused a further rift...” She stopped as the Bruce men inexplicably settle around the room in twos. “Duncan?” She clutched his arm. “Are they all spending the night?”
He patted her hand as they ambled past families settling around the hall. “Aye, but dinna fash. We’ve guards aplenty.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And ye already ken how to bar yon solar door if ye have a mind.”
“This,” she mumbled through clenched teeth and a false smile as she nodded to the child who wished her good sleep, “is not something to jest about. You just said you believe the man to be a murderer.”
To make matters more untenable, all the weapons had been put away as some sort of peacekeeping gesture.
She could picture waking—-if she hadn’t been killed in the night—to the hall looking like a monument to carnage.
He patted her hand. “Some would say the same of me.”
She huffed. Even if only half the tales she’d heard at supper were true, some might call her husband bloodthirsty or even a mercenary, but never a murderer. She knew to her bones that his honor had—and always would—hold him in check. But the same, she suspected, could not be said for the man Rachael now guided toward the third floor chamber designated for their elite guest.
Just the thought of the Bruce lurking only feet below their bed pushed any desire for romance out of her head.
Her hands started to perspire again. As she twisted the ring on her left hand to ease the itch beneath the band, she knew she’d get no sleep tonight.
“My lady.”
Beth turned to stare straight into Miss I’m Too Sexy’s huge brown eyes. The thought of taking shears to the woman’s long kangaroo lashes made her smile. “Yes, Flora?”
“Madame, I regret not having had opportunity earlier to thank ye for saving my life. I am most assuredly grateful, for I ken few would have made the effort.”
“You are most welcome, but I’m sure any here would have done the same. I just happened to see your trouble first.”
“Nay, my lady.” Flora cast a quick glance toward Duncan then about the room. “I fear...” She shook her head and dropped into a deep curtsey. “I humbly thank ye and am at ye service.”
As she glided away, Beth asked, “What do you make of that, husband?”
“She has the right of it. Had it been left to me, she’d have choked to death.”
“Duncan!” She swatted his arm. “Don’t even say that in jest.”
He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. “Lady, I must attend to matters before retiring. Can ye find yer way to our bed without me?”
“Yes, but hurry.” She didn’t care to be alone with the enemy just paces away.
He ran his tongue over her knuckles causing her to shiver. “Ah, ‘tis gratifying, yer impatience.”
She gaped at him. Here her stomach churned with worry—that their throats would be slit as they slept, and he’s got his mind on sex? God love a duck! Had she known he’d stop thinking with his head and start thinking with what dangled beneath his kilt, she never would have acquiesced to following him into the barn, let alone made love to him.
“Duncan, just do whatever it is you need to do in record time and get your butt up those stairs.”
When he wiggled a brow, she just rolled her eyes and hurried toward the solar.
She kicked off her ridiculous long-toed slippers as she rushed into their room. Dropping to her knees, she routed under the bed and pulled out Duncan’s heavy claymour. In the process she heard metal clanging to the floor and found a jeweled, ceremonial dirk. Great. Heaving them onto the bed, she wondered how her husband managed to swing the huge sword with one hand for minutes on end. It had taken both of hers just to lift the damn thing.
Satisfied with her defenses, Beth lifted the window’s woolen drape and studied the guards on the walls. Seeing none slept, she heaved a sigh and scratched at the skin around her ring.
Damn. Between all the cleaning she’d been doing and being nervous all night, she’d developed another rash. With no hydrocortisone ointment on hand, she’d likely claw herself raw by morning. Within a day, thanks to her unconscious but relentless nighttime scratching, the inflammation and swelling would spread across the entire back of her hand. She twisted the ring.
She had little doubt removing a wedding band had to be some kind of sacrilege, but she didn’t have a choice. If she didn’t get air to the area beneath the band, her entire hand could be swollen and stiff within days.
She carefully twisted the ancient gold and ruby treasure over her knuckle to examine the flesh beneath and felt a flash of stinging cold. Before she could draw her next breath, her skin, inexplicably, became luminescent. Heart pounding, she turned her hands and examined her now glowing palms. Her breath caught; her heart stopped, then kicked hard against her ribs as she stared through her diaphanous hands and saw the floor.
Chapter 21
Beth’s scream rent the midnight stillness of the bailey then rolled like thunder off its walls. It caused the hairs on Duncan’s neck and arms to stand. He spun from the guard he’d been questioning.
“Please, God, dinna let me find her bleeding, or worse yet dead by a Bruce blade.” He charged into the keep.
Racing across the hall, he ignored the startled expressions and questions of those who’d also heard Beth’s cry. He took the stairs to the solar two and three at a time. The heavy pounding of many footsteps followed him.
Whoever, he swore silently, dared cause his lady to scream in such a fashion now breathed on borrowed time. He would slit the man from ear to ear as soon as he could lay hands on him.
Heart beating a frantic tattoo he forgot the latch and threw his weight against the solar door. It crashed against the wall as he came to a sudden halt and stared at the ghastly visage of his wife.
“Duncan!”
Tears coursed down her cheeks as she held out her arms to him. He scanned the room for the intruder as his long strides ate up the distance between them. Thankful she was quite alive, he snatched his claymour from the bed. It would better serve him than the sgian dubh in his hand.
She fell into his arms. She felt as cold as the stones beneath the keep and shook like the shutters during a gale. “God’s teeth, woman!”
He ran quick hands over her. Discovering her whole and unscathed, he clutched her to his chest. “What hath wrought such angst that ye screamed to stop a man’s heart?”
“I pulled off my—-” She glanced behind him as men piled into the room. “I...I...saw a rat,” she flung out her arms to the breadth of his shoulders, “this big.”
He gaped at her while his heart struggled to catch a steady rhythm. “Ye nearly killed me over spying a rat?” How one could survive around the prowling lymers and cats he hadna a notion, but she adamantly nodded and pointed to a far corner.
The Bruce’s laugh caused him to look to the crowded doorway. Short steel flashed in every hand. So much for the stowing of arms.
As the fifty-year-old Bruce gasped for air, he slapped Angus on the back. “Yer laird certainly can pick ‘em.”
Glaring at the crowd, Duncan bellowed, “Out! All of ye!”
Beth jumped, and he tightened his hold at her waist. Angus stepped aside so the Bruce
could take leave, and Rachael slid into his place.
“Madame, are ye all right?”
“Yes, Rachael.” Beth’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
“Shall I chase it down, my lord?” Angus bent to peek under the bed. “Nay. The poor beasty has nay doubt escaped if he hasna already expired from fright.” He waved Angus out.
He patted Beth’s back until she released the death grip she had on his tunic. “I swear, Beth, ye will be the death of me.” He tipped up her face. “Dinna rats abide in the new York?”
She went wild-eyed again scanning the room. “Are you telling me there are rats in the keep?”
Scowling, he forced her to arms’ length. “What the hell are ye then so frighten of, if nay rats?”
She blanched and started biting her lower lip. “I couldn’t tell you while they were here.” She waved at the door. “Please lock it. I have something to show you.”
The door secured, she paced the middle of the room twisting her wedding band. “Duncan, I don’t really expect you to understand this, because I sure as hell don’t. But one minute I was itching and as solid as you and the next I’m glowing and turning into some sort of wavering gas...” She started to weep. “Oh, just watch. Then tell me if I’m losing my mind or if what I’m feeling truly happens.”
She twisted his ring from her middle finger and slipped it forward, keeping it poised at the tip.
To his utter amazement and horror, she started to shimmer from head to toe like the undulating lights that occasionally lit the northern sky in winter. When the air in the room began to vibrate, to shift, he backed away, a hand before his face. As she slowly faded before his disbelieving eyes, becoming so transparent he could see the window at her back through her, he saw her usually calm visage reflected the awe and fear he felt.
“Holy Mother! What doth...”
Words eluded him.
Then, just as suddenly, she became as solid as the floor beneath his feet, or as it had once been, though now he’d not have sworn it so.