Devil in a Kilt

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Of a sudden, Mauger nudged her from behind, almost knocking her off-balance as he came forward to rest his great dome-shaped head upon Robbie’s lap. The old dog whined pitifully, staring up at Linnet with mournful brown eyes as if begging her to ease his young master’s pain.

  “’Twould please Mauger if you’d tell me what’s amiss,” she tried, resting one hand upon the dog’s shoulder. “There’s no one here but he and I, and you know how much we both love you.”

  Fresh tears sprang to Robbie’s eyes, but he nodded and began to speak. “I went to the kitchen ’cause Fergus said Cook was baking spiced cakes and… and…”

  “And?”

  “A few of Cook’s helpers were lighting the fires and I heard them talking. They said you would give Papa a new son and then…” Robbie drew a great, shuddering breath, then seemed to crumple in her lap. His next words came out in a rush, “… and then he’d ne’er want me at all.”

  Linnet’s heart twisted, his fears lancing her very soul. Taking his face between her hands, she forced him to look at her. “Hear me well, child, for what I say is true: Your father loves you more than his own life. Do not ever doubt it, nor that you are his son. Have you forgotten what I told you the day we met his half brother in the woods?”

  Robbie shook his head but looked far from reassured.

  “Good. All ken you are your father’s son. I saw it, too, when first I laid eyes upon you, and I’ve told you ’tis only the truth I see in such a way.”

  She paused, getting to her feet and drawing Robbie up with her. She also searched for the right words and when she found them, she placed her hands firmly on his shoulders.

  “’Tis hard, I know, but mayhap the saints wish to strengthen you so you’ll be better able to face the responsibilities of being next laird. Those above ne’er give us heavier burdens than we can bear.” Stepping back from him, she crossed her arms. “If e’er I am blessed with a babe, ’twould be a brother or sister for you to love… a child who would naught but love you. And respect your place as future laird.”

  “But why can’t we tell Papa?”

  For the first time, Linnet doubted the wisdom of keeping such a secret. But her sixth sense told her ’twas the only way, and never had her instincts led her falsely.

  “Because,” she began, hoping he’d understand, “your father must find the truth himself. ’Tis a powerful ache he carries within, and only he can heal it. If we tell him, we’ll be taking away the lesson the saints have ordained he must learn. Does that make sense to you?”

  Robbie hesitated, digging at the hard-packed dirt floor with the toe of his shoe. “Do you think it will take him long to learn that lesson?”

  “Nay, I do not, for your papa is a well-learned and wise man,” Linnet assured him, praying to the heavens above not to prove her wrong.

  At Robbie’s age, a mere sennight ’twould seem like forever.

  “You think Papa is wise?”

  “Oh, aye, I do,” she agreed, pleased when the lad stood a bit straighter upon hearing her words. Even Mauger’s ears perked up as if the old hound understood her. “’Tis well-known he’s the mightiest of Highland warriors, too. The most revered in all the land. I’d heard of his daring feats in battle, of his valor, long afore he brought me here.”

  A pink stain tinged Robbie’s cheeks and he took his lower lip between his teeth. Then, looking sheepish, he said, “But you’re a MacDonnell. How would you know?”

  Her heart swelled at the way the lad instinctively puffed out his chest, pride in his MacKenzie heritage replacing his earlier distress.

  “’Tis likely there are none who do not know of him,” she said, gently tugging his tunic into place over his hose. “A grievance, even a long-standing one as betwixt our clans, doesna mean they hear naught of each other. Many are the traveling minstrels who sing your father’s praises, as they sang of his father before him.”

  “Have you heard them sing of my papa?” Robbie asked, his voice full of awe.

  “More oft than I welcomed,” she told him, a wry grin curving her lips. “The courage and spirit of the MacKenzie men is legend, and no matter what plaid a man flings o’er his shoulder, ’tis not a Highlander worthy of the name who willna respect another man’s valor, enemy clan or nay.”

  “Do you think the bards will e’er sing about me?”

  “I know they will.” She tousled his silky dark hair, then slipped her hand under his chin, lifting his face so she could glory in the hope she saw there. “’Tis a tall legacy you must follow, Robbie, but I dinna doubt you’ll make a fine laird one day.”

  He seemed to grow taller before her eyes, but Linnet could see something still troubled him. “I am sorry I cried,” he blurted. “Men dinna cry.”

  “And who told you that?” Linnet peered intently at him. “’Tis only a very brave man who is not afeared to show he cares.”

  At that, Robbie rushed forward and threw his arms around her legs. “I am so happy you’re here,” he said, gazing up at her, the ardor in his words melting her heart.

  “’Tis glad I am too,” she admitted, speaking the truth she couldn’t deny. Despite everything. “Would you like to help me sow a bed of cabbage seeds?” she asked, changing the subject. “A future laird must ken the workings of his castle just as he must learn to wield his sword and lance. So, will you assist me?”

  Robbie nodded. “But… will you…”

  “Will I what?” Linnet queried, gathering her supplies from the worktable.

  He shot her a shy look. “Will you teach me to throw a dagger the way you threw yours at Uncle Kenneth?”

  Linnet laughed and plunked a small sack of cabbage seed into Robbie’s hands. “Aye, lad, I shall teach you that and more.”

  Then she opened the workshop door, holding it wide so the boy and his dog could step out into the morning sunlight. She followed close on their footsteps, the flagon of Sir Marmaduke’s elixir tucked away in her purse, totally forgotten.

  It wasn’t until after vespers and a light repast of pickled herring, bread, and wine, that Linnet remembered the special herbal remedy she’d concocted for the Sassunach.

  He’d never be soothing to look upon, but her remedies seemed to be working well, and with a lessening of the swelling and a diminishing of the redness, traces of the handsome man he’d once been were becoming visible.

  His gratitude had been immediate, and he’d been presenting her with flowers, or ewers of the finest wine nigh onto every day since she’d first offered to help him.

  But none of the gifts he’d showered upon her had pleased her more than when she’d come upon him two days past, bent over the outside well, carefully examining his reflection in the circle of water. Not wanting to embarrass him, she’d slipped quietly back inside the keep, but not before the pleased expression on his ravaged face had sent a warm glow spreading through her.

  From behind her, the unexpected sound of clanking metal made her spin around, and she gasped in surprise at the sight of Fergus. The bandy-legged old seneschal stood before her garbed in a rusty mail shirt much too large for his scrawny bones. The much-used gear appeared more ancient than he himself.

  He carried a sword in one hand, a mace in the other. Linnet doubted he had the strength to use either, but the fierce set of jaw warned that he felt he could.

  “Fergus,” she cried, “whate’er are you about so armed?”

  He puffed out his chest as best he could under the ill-fitting hauberk. “’Tis on my way to make my round of the walls, I be, lady. With our laird and the Sass—, I mean Sir Marmaduke, on patrol, ’tis my duty to see to your safety and that of all within.”

  Linnet couldn’t bite back a smile. “Aren’t the sentries keeping watch?”

  “Aye, and well they should be.” He fixed her with a hawklike stare. “They ken what will happen if I find them away from their posts.”

  “But… I’ve never seen you armed thusly.” Linnet tried to keep her voice earnest. “Do you truly expect trouble?�
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  The old man glanced furtively about, his sharp gaze probing the vastness of the great hall as if he thought the apparition of Edward Longshanks and his mounted knights would sally forth out of the shadows and fall upon them any moment.

  “Nay, milady, dinna fear. ’Tis only”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“if the bastard Kenneth discovered your husband and Sir Marmaduke be both gone, ’tis evil and daring enough he be to launch an attack.”

  “And you want to be prepared to stand upon the battlements and defend the castle.”

  “Aye.” He answered solemnly. “’Tis still a good sword arm I have.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Linnet conceded, her smile genuine, for she admired his devotion and valor. Were Dundonnell faced with a siege, her sire would have taken to his bed with a generous supply of ale.

  He nodded respectfully. “By your leave, lady, I shall be on my way,” he said, turning to mount the stairs to the battlements.

  “Wait, please, sir,” Linnet stayed him, remembering the flagon she still carried in her purse. “I’ve made an elixir for Sir Marmaduke and would like to leave it where he’ll find it when he returns. I’ve heard he has a chamber of his own. Can you tell me where it is?”

  “I can, and ’tis a new chamber he has.” A gleam appeared in the seneschal’s eye, making him look years younger. “He’s taken your liege husband’s old quarters… now that our good laird sleeps elsewhere.”

  Linnet thanked him, grateful the dimness of the hall shielded the blush warming her cheeks. She waited until Fergus disappeared around the first curve in the stairwell, then hastened to Duncan’s solar.

  ’Twas well she remembered the austere room where they’d had their unpleasant altercation the night of her arrival. Her husband’s former bedchamber had to be beyond the closed door she’d noted in a corner of the solar.

  Not that she must deposit the flagon there. She needn’t intrude into the sanctity of her husband’s former sleeping chamber. The adjoining solar would serve as well.

  A short while later, upon entering the small room, she immediately noted the changed atmosphere. That her husband no longer used the solar was glaringly apparent. The air of grim severity she’d sensed upon her first visit was gone.

  Now, the chamber seemed warm and welcoming. A finely carved chessboard sat atop the small table, and cushions adorned the window seats and single chair. Even the colors of the wall tapestries appeared brighter, despite the grayness of the damp night darkening the tall windows.

  And this time the oaken door in the far corner stood ajar.

  Staring at it, an irresistible urge to view Duncan’s former bedchamber seized her, curiosity propelling her forward. She withdrew the flagon from her purse as she went, telling herself she could place it upon the bed, grasping any excuse to sanction an intrusion into her husband’s privacy, and Sir Marmaduke’s.

  At the door, she paused to draw a deep breath. Although convinced of the innocence of her errand, and the urgency of her need to see where Duncan had spent a goodly number of hours, her knees shook and her heart knocked against her ribs.

  Then, before she could change her mind, she eased the door completely open and stepped into the dark chamber.

  The room’s chill brought gooseflesh to her skin, and she rubbed her arms vigorously to warm herself. But she attributed the cold to the stiff wind rattling the window shutters and the rain pelting the tower walls.

  ’Twas unnaturally dark because of the storm raging outside yet here, too, the Sassunach’s benevolent presence had already left its mark.

  Still, something bothered her.

  Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the murkiness and her gaze was drawn to the massive bed across from where she stood. ’Twas the most magnificent bed she’d ever seen. It boasted a great embroidered canopy and heavy curtains of a sumptuous material she supposed was fustian.

  Vaguely, she became aware of other furniture, equally fine and noble, but the bed called to her, not releasing her until she crossed the room and tested the thick softness of its several feather mattresses with her hand.

  ’Twas like touching a cloud.

  At the thought, an image of her husband, naked and laboring atop a dark-haired woman whose face she could not see superimposed itself upon the richly embroidered coverlet. Crying out, Linnet snatched her hand from the bed. Her fingers burned and tingled, smarting as if she’d thrust her hand into a bucket of hot coals.

  Anxious to leave the bedchamber, and the unholy memories it housed, she wheeled around, only to cry out once more.

  Directly before her, mounted above the hearth, was the painted likeness of a beautiful woman.

  The one from her brief vision.

  With sickening dread, and even though she hadn’t seen the woman’s face, Linnet knew the painting was of her.

  Cassandra.

  Her husband’s first wife.

  Linnet’s breath stocked, and her chest grew painfully tight, aching as if a heavy weight pressed against her, squeezing the life from her.

  With a dull thud, the little flagon slipped from her fingers and a keening wail filled the chamber, making her fear Lady Cassandra’s shade had manifested behind her… until she realized ’twas her own cry she’d heard.

  Never had she seen a more exquisite creature. Not even the shadowy chamber could detract from the woman’s radiance. She was sheer perfection, her tresses expertly coifed and gleaming like black silk, her face, hauntingly beautiful.

  Whilst a moment before Linnet’s heart had fair stood still, it now lurched out of control, thumping wildly against her chest. And the breaths she’d had difficulty taking now came in deep, shaky gulps.

  The lady Cassandra had been everything she was not and never could be.

  If a mere painted image could exude such grace and elegance, she could only imagine the splendor of the living woman. As Linnet stared at her predecessor, a sick feeling roiled and churned in her stomach until she was sure she’d lose her supper.

  Unable to resist making comparisons, she glanced from the woman’s elegant gown to the plain brown kirtle and apron she herself wore. She’d worked too long in the herbarium to change before hurrying to the hall to dine.

  Feeling more a peasant’s wife than a laird’s, she smoothed her work-stained apron, then wished she hadn’t, for she couldn’t help but notice how stubby her fingers appeared compared to Lady Cassandra’s slim and delicate-looking ones.

  How could she have thought to seduce her husband by smoothing such clumsy hands over his magnificent body?

  How could she have thought the tenderness he’d shown her in the garden this morn had meant aught?

  How could she have believed he might be beginning to care?

  Her heart wrenched at her naïveté. Ne’er could she replace the beautiful woman who had claimed his heart first.

  With excruciating clarity, Linnet suddenly understood why he’d shunned her as a true consort. The consummation of their marriage, an event she still couldn’t recall, must’ve cost him dearly.

  A convulsive sob escaped her, and she fell to her knees before the hearth, gripping her middle as she fought to swallow her anguish rather than cry before her foe. Wood and paint or nay.

  Finally, as naught but quiet whimpers escaped her lips, Linnet looked again at the woman’s likeness. Tears blurred her vision, but not so much she didn’t notice the change.

  Whether caused by her imagination, the poor lighting, or her gift playing a cruel trick on her, the painted image was no longer smiling so sedately.

  Lady Cassandra, her husband’s stunningly beautiful first wife, appeared to be gloating at her.

  10

  Her cloak wrapped tightly about her, Linnet stood atop the battlements and tried hard to remain impervious to the chill bite in the damp and briny air. Far below, a group of poor burghers crossed the castle bridge on their way back to the village.

  For three days she’d kept herself busy observing their comings and goings, used the distractio
n to chase the sneering visage of Duncan’s first wife from her mind.

  At first only a few came, barely a trickle, as if still wary of the dread laird of Eilean Creag. But, gradually, their numbers increased until at times a steady stream of them paraded back and forth across the narrow stone bridge.

  All come to collect alms at the castle gates… as was custom.

  And her liege husband was still absent and could not see this small victory she’d won for him.

  A strong gust of sea wind tore back her veil suddenly and she shook out her tresses, not caring how wet or wind-tossed she appeared.

  The saints knew, her looks mattered scarce little. She could plait her hair with spun gold ribbons and dress in a gown fashioned of moonbeams, and Duncan would still find her unappealing.

  And how could she blame him?

  What man would desire her when he’d possessed a woman so beautiful a queen would be covetous of her?

  Nay, her appearance was of no consequence. But she wished Duncan had seen the return of the needy to his castle door. Mayhap their show of trust would erase some of the darkness from his soul?

  Truth to tell, though, she wasn’t sure it would make a difference. Perchance the wounds beneath the grim mask he oft wore were already too deep.

  Too raw.

  Too solid, the wall he’d built to protect himself.

  Yet he’d allowed her fleeting glimpses of the man within.

  “Will you not come inside, milady? ’Tis a fierce storm approaching,” Lachlan entreated, coming up beside her. “My master will flay me alive if you fare ill, and he learns I could not dissuade you from bringing harm upon yourself.”

  “’Tis good of you to be concerned, but my cloak keeps me fair dry and my hair matters naught.” Linnet gave her husband’s first squire a wan smile. “As yet, ’tis only a light rain and does not bother me.”

  Lachlan glanced at the roiling black clouds racing ever closer across the loch. “I beseech you, lady, for my lord would indeed be mightily displeased, and I would not seek to foul his temper so soon upon his return.”