“Lachlan will take you to Robbie,” he said. “I would speak with you in my solar after you’ve seen him.”
Linnet opened her mouth to speak, but he’d already stepped into the gloom beyond the door. She followed him, entering a dimly lit vaulted hall of enormous proportions. Without further acknowledgment of her presence, he strode briskly past rows of trestle tables and benches, elbowed his way through a knot of servants busily decorating the raised dais at the far end of the hall, and disappeared up a shadowy stairwell.
Speechless at being fair abandoned in a yet-strange hall, Linnet stared after him, grateful the sputtering rush torches did not provide enough light for those present to see how her cheeks flamed at his callous dismissal.
She bristled. Whether the arrangement pleased either of them or nay, she was entitled to be treated with civility. Apparently her husband-to-be considered a warm cloak and newly cobbled shoes adequate adherence to the codes of decency.
“’Tis not personal, my lady. He hasna been himself for a long time,” his squire, Lachlan, said, stepping up beside her. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where you may refresh yourself. After you’ve had a light repast, I’ll take you to Robbie.”
Elspeth joined them, placing her hands gently on Linnet’s shoulders. “Dinna look so lost, child; you’ve carried yourself so well thus far. Unless my perception is failing me, the man’s behavior just now has naught to do with you. Simply be yourself, and all will be well.”
“I hope you’re right,” Linnet replied, more to herself than to Elspeth. “For the love of St. Margaret and all that’s holy, I hope you’re right.”
“If you’ll allow me, I shall take you to meet Robbie now.” Lachlan the squire appeared just as Linnet finished a small portion of fish stew and pushed aside the empty bowl. “’Twas my master’s wish you see the lad as soon as possible.”
Linnet stood, patted her still-damp head veil and readjusted the dampish folds of her mother’s arisaid, then let the squire grip her elbow and guide her through the great hall. He skillfully dodged hordes of scurrying servants as they rushed about, their arms laden, no doubt tending to preparations for the next day’s wedding festivities. Some sent shy glances her way, others stared more openly.
Hopefully they’d think she still wore her rain-dampened garments because she was too tired to change clothes after the long journey. She didn’t want their pity should they guess she’d brought little with her besides what she had on.
At least, her new cloak was fine and well hid her ragged gown. And, blessedly, unlike her veil and precious arisaid, the splendidly woven mantle had stayed fairly dry… just as her betrothed had assured her it would.
Aye, let Duncan MacKenzie’s servants gape at her. Until she was more ready to face them, the cloak and her veil shielded her well.
The assessing perusals of dining clansmen followed her as well, their curious stares taking in her every move as Lachlan led her past their tables toward a spiral stone staircase barely visible beyond a darkened archway in a far corner of the hall.
Something lurked in the shadowy stair tower… a palpable air of sadness so well defined it seemed to have taken on a life of its own. It wasn’t the same kind of emptiness that filled and surrounded her husband-to-be, but a feeling of great dejection laced with a very faint trace of hope.
Linnet’s instincts told her the oppressive atmosphere had to do with the boy, and suddenly she knew, without yet seeing the child, that he was indeed Duncan MacKenzie’s true son.
Ne’er had she been so sure of herself.
The higher they climbed, the more certain she became.
When they reached the third landing and Lachlan made no attempt to halt their ascent, she yanked on his surcoat.
“Aye, milady?”
“Why is the lad hidden away in such a dismal corner of the castle?”
“’Tis not for me to say.”
Linnet folded her arms, driven to assertiveness by a sudden overwhelming desire to ease the great pain already reaching her from somewhere higher up in the tower. It came at her like a dark cloud and thickened with each step she took.
“I know Sir Duncan doubts Robbie is his son. Be that the reason he’s kept so far from the hall and in such a dark place?”
The flickering glow of a wall torch revealed the squire’s discomfort. “Indeed it causes my lord pain to look upon the lad, but I canna say why he’s quartered here. ’Twas my master’s orders, and I would ne’er venture to question his motives.”
At the fourth landing, Lachlan led her down a dim passage, stopping before a heavy oaken door. “He may be asleep.”
“Then I willna disturb him,” Linnet said in a hushed voice, stepping past him into the shadow-filled chamber the moment he opened the door.
The cloud of sadness she’d sensed on the stairs fair knocked her back into the passageway, so heavily did unhappiness permeate the room. The very walls seemed saturated with distress, and it cost all of Linnet’s strength to keep from crumbling to the floor under the sheer weight of the boy’s anguish.
Although a fire burned in the stone hearth, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Purposely, she went to the small chamber’s one window and threw open the shutters. When she turned around, she knew her instincts had been correct.
On a canopied bed against the far wall, a small boy slept, one arm flung around an ancient-looking mongrel. The dog glanced warily at her, but the child slept on, unaware she’d entered the room.
Covered by a thick plaid woven in MacKenzie colors, and with only the back of his dark head visible, Robbie MacKenzie didn’t stir as she stared across the room at him… stared at him and the image of a stag’s head hovering in the air above him.
A loud buzzing sounded in her ears and the vision intensified in clarity until it seemed to glow from within. Then the whirring noise stopped, and the image vanished as if it had never been there.
“Are you ill, milady?” Lachlan hurried to her side. “’Tis pale you are. Shall I fetch you a draught of mulled wine? Or escort you to your lady servant?”
Shivers still raced up and down her spine, but she shook her head. “Nay, I am fine now.”
“Would you like to rest here afore I take you to Sir Duncan? Robbie will likely awaken at any moment. He doesna sleep well.”
Linnet glanced at the child. “Then we dinna want to disturb his rest, do we?”
The squire made no move toward the door, and a light pink tinge colored his cheeks. “My liege had hoped you’d spend some time… ah… getting to know Robbie.”
“’Tisn’t possible to do that when the lad’s sleeping, now, is it?” Linnet announced, exiting the room. “You can escort me to your liege instead.”
“But Sir Duncan—”
“—asked to speak with me afore I retire, did he not?” she persisted, deliberately evading the real reason she’d been ushered to Robbie’s chamber. “Will you take me there or nay?”
“Of course, milady,” he said, hurrying to join her in the passage.
As she followed him down the stairs, Linnet sent silent prayers to all the saints. She hoped they’d grant her the wisdom to choose her words wisely when she faced the mighty MacKenzie of Kintail. She knew what he wanted from her, and she knew the answer, too.
But she meant to keep her knowledge a secret.
She had a plan, and if the merciful saints were with her, it just might work.
Duncan heard her outside his private chamber long before she chose to make her presence known. She’d waited until his squire’s footsteps faded before she rapped on the door. But when he’d called out permission to enter, she’d hesitated.
While he waited, he glanced about the solar, his best-loved room. The only place where he could truly remove himself from the world.
Escape from the misery that was his life.
Except for the rich silk tapestries on the walls, the solar was austere. A small wooden table, one uncomfortable chair, and a large stron
gbox made up the furnishings. No cushions adorned the window seats and even the sweeping views of the loch did scarce little to ease the bleakness of the chamber. Only the fire in the hearth provided a semblance of comfort and warmth.
Not that he cared. ’Twas old Fergus, his seneschal, who insisted on keeping the firelog burning. Duncan liked the room sparsely furnished and cold… it matched his barren soul.
He’d purposely chosen to meet with his bride-to-be here, where the severity of the setting would emphasize the image of himself he wished to convey to her.
No longer wearing his sword, but still clad in his hauberk of black mail, he knew he made a daunting presence that would rattle her to her maidenly core despite her repeated displays of courage on their journey.
’Twas better for her if she thought him as cold and immovable as the thick walls of his castle.
He moved to the hearth and stood with his back to the door, waiting. After a moment, he called out again. This time she entered.
When he heard her close the door, he turned around. “Do you know why I chose to take you as my wife?”
For what seemed an eternity, the crackling of the fire made the only sound. Finally, she nodded. “Aye, ’tis because of my gift.”
He nodded in return, satisfied.
“You should know I canna make use o’ the sight at will. The visions—”
“Your soothsaying abilities are well-known in the Highlands,” Duncan cut her off. He’d seen an indefinable expression flicker across her face and didn’t want to hear whatever she’d meant to tell him. “I have no doubt you shall provide me with the truth of that which plagues me.”
He paused before posing the question he must ask. His dread of her answer sent more terror racing through his veins than he’d e’er felt when facing a full battalion of mounted English knights and their ever-present Welsh archers.
Still, he had to know. “You’ve seen the child?”
“Aye.”
Splendor of God, the wench said no more!
Simply ‘aye.’
Dinna she know he burned for an answer?
“And what did you see?” The words fair burst from his lips.
Rather than answer him, she smoothed her palms on the folds of her cloak and stared at the floor. With her obvious discomfiture, realization dawned. Duncan breathed a sigh of relief. He’d intimidated her more than was his intent, his warrior garb and the bleak solar made her feel small and insignificant.
That had to be the reason for her silence.
Moving to the small table, he filled two jewel-encrusted chalices with a blood-red liquid and handed her one. “’Tis herbed wine. Let us drink to a union that shall be beneficial to us both.”
She raised her glass and took a small sip, but the small gesture of welcome Duncan had hoped would put her at ease seemed to have the opposite effect for her hands shook, and she spilled a bit of the wine onto the rushes at her feet.
“I would like to ask a question if I may,” she said, her voice steady despite her slight trembling.
Duncan took a long sip of his wine before answering. “What would you know?”
“Our clans have ne’er been friends. Why did you not just kidnap me? Why marriage?”
“Knowing the truth of Robbie’s parentage is not the sole reason I chose you.” Duncan dragged a hand through his hair and drew a deep breath. Merely speaking about the lad caused him great pain. “Whether he is mine or naught, he needs the care of a loving adult. You shall provide that care.”
“And you, sir? A child needs both mother and father. A boy-child, especially, should have his father’s love. ’Tis not right to withhold it.”
At her boldness, Duncan’s fingers tightened around his chalice. “You are not here to question my motives.”
“I would only know why you need me? A nursemaid could do the same. Or you could foster him to a trusted ally.”
“Do not speak of that which you know naught.”
She raised her chin at him. “Of loving children, I know much, milord.”
Love for a child was something he, too, knew about, but his feelings were no concern of hers. Fighting the anger she stirred within him, Duncan set down his wine and folded his arms.
“So tell me what you saw. Is the lad mine?”
Looking suddenly nervous, she wet her lips before she spoke. “I canna say. Mayhap I need time to know him before my gift will show me.”
Not wanting her to see his searing disappointment upon hearing her words, Duncan returned to the fireplace and kept his back to her until he was certain his face bore no emotion.
Finally, he turned around. “How much time?”
“I canna say,” she repeated.
Fury, ominous and chilling like a dark wind, consumed him but he said naught. He needed her, for her abilities were genuine. His spies had sworn it. If he must, he’d wait to learn the truth.
But it was nowhere writ he must be pleased at the prospect.
By Saint Peter of Rome, he’d wanted the answer this night.
“When you know, you are to inform me immediately,” he said, his tone clipped. “Your duties are to look after Robbie and warn me of any treachery you may foresee. Naught else shall be expected of you.”
“Naught else?”
Duncan shot a glance at her. He’d thought she’d be relieved, but she gaped at him as if he’d grown horns and a tail. Then she lowered her head and began poking at the floor rushes with the toe of her new boot.
“I see,” she said in a small voice. “You dinna want me as a true consort.”
Thunder of heaven! Surely she wasn’t upset because he didn’t mean to seek her bed?
“Pray do not be offended, lady. It has naught to do with you.” He crossed the room and took her chin in his hand, lifting her head so she had to look at him. “I swore upon the death of my first wife ne’er to wed again. By keeping you chaste, I shall not completely break that vow.”
Her lower lip began to tremble, but she met his gaze. “As you wish.”
“’Twill not be an unpleasant arrangement,” Duncan assured her. “You shall have your own chamber, the leisure to do as you please, and my protection. Mayhap you’ll come to enjoy living at Eilean Creag. It canna be as bad as what you’ve left behind.”
“Aye, ’tis grateful I am to be out of my father’s hall.”
“Good, ’tis settled then.” Letting go of her chin, Duncan stepped away from her and went to the door, opening it. “Can you find your way to the hall? Lachlan should be waiting there to escort you to your quarters. Rest well this night, for tomorrow shall be a long day.”
Although he held the door wide, she didn’t move. She stood staring at him with the queerest look on her face he’d e’er seen. When a single tear rolled down her cheek, Duncan silently cursed himself and stepped forward, intending to comfort her as best he could, to explain he didn’t mean to reject her personally.
He didn’t want any wife.
A score of dancing sirens, all naked and one more desirable than the next, wouldn’t persuade him otherwise.
But before he could tell her aught, she dashed past him and fled down the passageway. Duncan waited until the sound of her running footsteps grew faint before he shut the door and slammed his fist against its cold oaken panels.
Again, he swore.
She’d run as if the hounds of hell and the devil himself chased after her.
Duncan pressed his lips together in a grim line.
Mayhap he was the devil.
At the moment, he certainly felt like it.
3
“She refuses to come down, sir.” Lachlan joined Duncan near the chapel steps, a decidedly uncomfortable look on his youthful face.
Duncan dragged a hand through his hair, then glanced up at the gray morning sky. ’Twas not a good day for a wedding. A chill wind blew from the north, and if the ominous-looking clouds in the distance were any indication, the light drizzle they’d endured since dawn would soon be a full-fledg
ed downpour.
Nay, ’twas not a good day to start a marriage.
And now, in addition to her inability to ease his mind about Robbie with the swiftness he’d hoped, his bride-to-be would humiliate him in front of his men as well.
Dressed in their best plaids and armor, his kinsmen and knights stood in a semicircle before the castle steps, waiting to escort their new mistress to his side. Others formed a long line that stretched from the keep to where he stood in front of the small stone oratory.
They’d all been waiting since dawn.
Duncan glanced over his shoulder at the priest. The holy man stood serene, his hands clasped before him, his whole countenance fair oozing patience. Just beyond him, inside the chapel, dozens of burning candles did naught to dispel the gloom of the dreary morn.
And the clusters of Highland flowers, meant to symbolize fertility and joy, merely emphasized the travesty of what was about to take place.
Only the proximity of the priest prevented Duncan from uttering a string of blasphemous oaths.
“Is she dressed?” he finally asked his squire.
“Aye, milord.”
Duncan turned to Sir Marmaduke. The disfigured Sassunach knight lounged against the arched entrance to the chapel, looking for all the world as if he were highly amused by the morning’s unusual turn of events.
“Cease gloating like a dim-witted woman,” Duncan snapped at him. “’Tis naught funny about the wench playing stubborn.”
Marmaduke smiled as best he could. “Do not vent your anger on me. Mayhap you should ask yourself what you did to her to make her choose to stay in her chamber this morn?”
“What I did to her?” Duncan scowled. “I’ve done naught. ’Tis grateful she should be. I’ve rescued her from a drunken sire and gifted her with chests of finer gowns than she’s likely ever seen, much less possess.”
“Then what transpired in your solar yestereve to make her come running down to the hall as if a horde of banshees pursued her?”
Duncan forgot the priest and swore.
Marmaduke walked over to Duncan and slapped him on the back. “There is your answer, my friend. Whatever you said was not to her liking. I always told you to use more finesse with the ladies.”
Devil in a Kilt Page 4