“I thought it possible.”
“Then I must thank you, my lady. And count myself blessed to have such an astute bride.”
Amicia’s blood quickened at the underlying softness beneath his simply spoken words. “I did not find anything,” she blurted, her pulse beginning to beat a fast rhythm. “I may have let your father’s chatter get the better of me.”
“Whether you were right or not scarce matters.” He walked a few steps away from her, stood looking toward the light gray outline of the open door. “’Tis that you cared to come looking that I am thanking you for.”
Thanking her.
Magnus MacKinnon was thanking her.
And she wanted so much more.
But a thank-you was a thank-you, and any emotion was better than indifference.
Much better.
So why did the backs of her eyes ache with a jabbing, scalding heat, and why had her throat gone so frightfully tight she could scarce pull air into her lungs?
Digging her fingers ever deeper into the smooth silk of the saddlecloth, she fixed her burning gaze on him, stared oh-so-hard at his bonny young face, willed him to look her way.
She wanted to give him her favor.
The fine length of jewel-studded silk her father had given her a fortnight ago, claiming the precious cloth held all the colors of the sun.
She thought the silk a perfect match for Magnus MacKinnon’s wild mane of lustrous bronze-colored hair.
And she wanted him to have it as a token of appreciation for helping her when she’d hurt her ankle at a similar gathering of the clans a year before.
A token, too, of her affection, for she’d given him her heart that very same afternoon. But telling him so could wait . . . or would have to.
She could not do or say anything to him if he ne’er bothered to look her way.
Biting her lip, she lifted her arm and waved the silk high above her head. Fine and light as it was, it snapped and rippled in the wind at once, and she was sure he’d notice.
Tears of frustration began filming her eyes, blurring her vision, but she kept her arm in the air, holding up her favor until her shoulder burned as hotly as her eyes and her arms and fingers began to tingle.
And still he did not look.
“Hell’s damnation,” Amicia hissed beneath her breath, venting her misery with one of her brothers’ curses.
It felt good to at least curse since she could not call out Magnus’s name. To do so, him being a MacKinnon, would have her father dragging her off the games field by her ear and mayhap even forbidding her to return the next year.
So she kept brandishing her shimmering gold prize, praying he would see and come for it—for if he did, especially as a much-loved games champion, even her da would not be able to keep her from presenting it to him.
To do so then, with all the clans looking on, would be a gross breach of Highland etiquette.
So she hoped and waved and stared his way, silently calling his name as loudly as her heart would let her.
But he stood, turned halfway from her, almost in full profile, and so hemmed in by clamoring, clutching maidens, her hopes of catching his eye grew slimmer by the moment and the archery trials were about to begin.
Crying inside, she drank in his golden beauty, branding him onto her memory so she could relive, at will, each precious moment of looking at him. Each dimpled smile he flashed at someone, every bonny twinkle in his laughing blue eyes. Even if his smiles and laughter weren’t meant for her.
In her dreams, she claimed them.
Saw again her young Caledonian god, standing in half-profile to her, so proud in the sunshine of a fine Hebridean day, with the wind tossing his gleaming bronze mane, his handsome face shining.
His refusal to accept her favor as sad as the way her beautiful silk banner turned old and scratchy in her hands, its cool smoothness forever gone, the teensy seed pearls and gemstones adorning its edges now only irritating bumps of itchiness on a tattered and smelly saddlecloth.
The saddlecloth!
Jerking, Amicia flung it from her, her heart still splitting with the anguish of her memories. She swiped the back of her hand across her cheeks, not surprised to find them wet, as she peered frantically about the darkening stable, once more looking for Magnus.
Once more having to note that he’d gone, left her behind, just as he’d done in her oh-so-vivid dream.
But then she saw him, still there, and her heart bounded. He stood in the deeper shadows near the door and was watching her with the strangest, most intense of expressions.
His eyes almost blazed in the darkness, and were she one to believe in wonders, she’d swear a passion as heated as her own flared in those magnificent blue depths.
Turbulent emotions roiling just beneath the surface of his carefully checked control.
Emotions she intended to unleash.
And now, unlike all those years ago, she possessed the will and backbone to run with her heart. Even better, there was no one around to drag her off by her ear and deny her what she wanted so badly.
Their clans no longer feuded. And, blessing of blessings, even embraced their union.
Now everything had changed.
And she meant to seize the advantage.
Chapter Ten
LATER, AS NIGHT BEGAN TO FALL and its darkness curled round the castle walls, Amicia made her way down the winding turnpike stair, a colorful entourage of comely, well-rounded beauties trailing in her wake.
Not the chattering, eager-faced maidens who’d fought her for Magnus’s attentions in younger years, but ripe-bodied, raven-haired lovelies who kept annoying pace with her, tagging along no matter how she hurried.
They joined her, too, in the maze of dimly-lit passageways leading to Coldstone’s great hall.
The great hall, her wedding feast, and the magnificent full-grown man her bonny young champion had become. The husband she meant to claim and had no intention of sharing with a bevy of clinging, eyelash-batting light skirts.
Remembered, imagined, or otherwise.
Everything inside her warring at the thought, she passed through a particularly dank stretch of corridor where the stone-flagged floor proved more damp and slippery than elsewhere. And with each forward moving step, she struggled harder to squelch her resentment.
Saints, but she wanted Magnus with a desperation that verged on all-consuming—and if the deep emotion she’d glimpsed stirring beneath the surface of his intense blue gaze earlier could be trusted, mayhap her chances at winning his love were not as slim as she’d believed.
Her heart lifting, she shot a quick glance at the moon, visible through a window slit, and took strength in its silvery light. Her friend and companion through many nights of longing, the moon knew her secrets.
Tonight her old ally would smile on her triumph.
And triumph she would even if she had to use one of Magnus’s best virtues against him: his responsibility to duty.
Aye, to be sure, he would make her a woman this night and perchance even seek to love her pleasingly in the by-going.
If only because pride and duty demanded he do so.
And, her pesky companions boasted with glee, because he favored the charms of dark-tressed, over-fleshy women.
Amicia frowned.
She didn’t want any such preferences propelling him into her arms—even if she did possess both attributes in raging abundance.
A wealth of raven-black hair and enough fleshly delights to please any man fond of filling his hands with a woman’s warm and generous curves.
Aye, in that, at least, the future laird of Clan Fingon would not be disappointed.
Their physical joining could be a beginning.
Hopefully, a propitious one.
Feeling a bit better, she snuggled deeper into the soft embrace of her fur-lined cloak. Cumbersome or no, its warmth staved off the cold and saved her the shame of entering the great hall with chattering teeth and all a-shiver.
M
acLeans, too, had their pride.
And steel in their blood—something the cailleach’s gift seemed to remind her each time she swung its warmth around her shoulders. Almost as if the crone had cast an enchantment over each stitch her gnarled hands had put into the exquisite if awkward-to-wear mantle.
Sending Devorgilla a silent nod of thanks in case she had, Amicia hastened her step. The great hall loomed around the next curve and already she could hear muffled voices, the faint strains of lively music.
Here, so close to the feasting, more than the usual number of wall torches had been lit, each one spewing choking smoke into the chill night air. Despite her cloak, she shivered, for the flickering light, if welcome, cast weird shadows and picked out the dark blotches of dampness staining the stone walls.
Stone walls that moved!
She froze.
The unseen beauties fled, vanishing as swiftly as if they’d ne’er been there to plague her.
Her blood chilling, she almost wished them back. Light-skirted conquests, like as not long dismissed from her husband’s mind, were a much preferable terror than undulating walls.
And they were undulating . . . every blessed stone!
A scream locked in her throat, she looked on as the wall came to life. The damp stones vibrated as if they breathed, some even seeming to groan darkly on the exhale.
Scarce able to breathe herself, her eyes stretched full wide, muscles she hadn’t even known she possessed tensed in sheer, laming horror.
“Oh, dear saints,” she gasped, finding her voice at last—and blessedly, her feet, too. But before she could take more than two backward steps, the wall’s moans became an ear-splitting screech.
Worse, the shifting stones sprouted an arm.
A very masculine arm, oddly familiar, if not quite well-muscled enough to be her husband’s.
The accompanying hand held a vicious-looking morning star flail—a knight’s weapon of choice for fierce, oft-times less than noble, close-range fighting.
Gulping, Amicia stared at the flail, at the iron mace-head flanged for optimal destruction and capable of rendering crushing blows sure to kill or, at the least, sorely maim the unfortunate recipient of its deadly strike.
“Sweet Mother in Heaven!” she cried, pressing a hand to her breast as the wall moved again, this time swinging back into a hellishly dark recess to allow the arm’s owner to step through the opening.
And when he did, relief flooded her at once—even if Dugan’s dark-frowning visage revealed him to be in anything but a good temper.
“Roast the Devil on the hottest hob o’ hell would be more fitting, my lady,” he said, looking furious enough to attempt such a feat. “And Magnus will roast my hide for bursting out of this hidey-hole in front of you.”
Straightening his plaid with a quick jerk of his free hand, he stared at her, his gaze so black and piercing, her insides quivered.
“W-what were you doing in there?” She tried to peer around him, to see into what she now recognized as a secret passage cut into the wall. Although Dugan was not as tall and powerfully built as Magnus, he proved quite strapping enough to block her view.
He reached to jiggle one of the stones in the wall. “What was I doing?” he echoed as, with the same eerie groans, the wall swiveled back into place.
“Naught that my brother will be pleased to hear,” he finished as soon as the wall settled, the stones ceased juddering.
“Is there aught he has been pleased about of late?” The words leapt from her tongue before she could stay them.
But to her surprise, Dugan crooked a lopsided smile.
“There is much he ought to greet with pleasure, I’d judge,” he said, his countenance lighting. “Aye, save for a few wee troubles, that knave can count himself a greatly favored man.”
Heat blooming on her cheeks, Amicia touched her fingers to the cold, damp stone. “And this secret passage plays a role in what plagues him?”
Dugan’s gaze grew guarded. “In part,” he said, clearly not keen on telling her what he’d been about in the damp-smelling recess.
“I am not unaccustomed to intrigue or danger,” she told him with a glance at his mace. “Aye, even within one’s own good walls.”
She fixed a level gaze on him, let her tone and the glance indicate she knew full well that good men did not roam their own keep’s passageways armed to the teeth unless they had serious reason.
“I did not come here to run from whate’er ills Magnus carries on his shoulders. I would much rather face them head-on and at his side.”
Dugan blinked but recovered quickly. His smile flashed. “I knew you would make a meet bride for him.”
“That is my greatest wish, but one I cannot fulfill if I am kept in the dark about Coldstone’s secrets.”
The guarded look returned to Dugan’s face. “Not secrets, lass. Nor mere haverings, either, I will admit. It is only that he would not see you troubled on this of all nights.”
Pulling on his dark-curling beard, he peered toward the hall. “Magnus didn’t expect you belowstairs so soon,” he said, apparently trying to change the subject. “He meant to send someone to fetch you when all had been made ready.”
“I finished my ablutions an hour ago and wearied of pacing the chamber.” She touched an encouraging hand to his arm. “It matters naught to me if the hall has been festooned nor even if we feast on simple bannocks and watered-down ale.”
Now Dugan did look distressed.
“That is not the kind of readiness I meant.” He regarded her with an expression that swung between sympathy and a barely-veiled urge to bolt.
“Then what did you mean?”
He blew out a breath, shuffled his feet.
Amicia bit back a smile. She’d won.
“Christ on the Cross, Magnus will have my hide,” he burst out, confirming the victory. “Even now, he is in the hall ordering every able-armed man to help him cart the high table to the lower end of the hall. The high table and everything else set upon the dais.”
This time, Amicia blinked, wholly confused.
But the answer came with all speed. “He wishes to clear the dais for musicians? Or dancing?”
Dugan shook his head. “He wishes to avoid having anyone plunge to certain death should the ancient trapdoor beneath the high table give way during the feasting. That is the way of it, naught else.”
But there was something else.
She was sure of it and wasn’t moving until she had the answer to that as well. “And the wall passage? The flail? What do they have to do with all this?”
Dugan glanced down at the deadly mace, tucked its long shaft beneath his belt. “Magnus sent me below to smash the workings of the triggering mechanism,” he said, patting the mace. “He ordered the high table moved lest someone had rigged the trapdoor in a way that would let it fall open even if the usual trigger had been made ineffective.”
Shivering anew, Amicia posed her last question. “What happened to make him think something so dire might occur? Did someone fall into one of the privy chutes again?”
“Nay, but what happened could have been as tragic. Come,” he said, taking her arm. “I will tell you along the way.”
“I would rather know now.”
“Very well.” Dugan released a resigned-sounding sigh.
Amicia waited.
Clearly purchasing time, he stared up at the damp-streaked ceiling. “This morning, our brother Hugh nearly fell prey to whate’er darkness stalks these walls,” he said, looking back at her.
“He could have suffered an adder bite—even died of its poison. Had he not seen the snake first, he would have surely plunged his hand straight into its lethal coils.”
“Dear saints!” Amicia stared at him. “But how did it happen? Adders frequent the moorlands and are scarce seen save on rare sunny days when they bask on rocks or sun-warmed peat banks. Besides, wasn’t Hugh in the great hall this morning? How—”
Her breath catching, she paused, a s
ickening dread spreading through her. “Dinna tell me the adder was in the hall?”
To her horror, Dugan nodded. “Aye, bold as day. And the whole of it is even more unsettling.”
“What can be worse?”
“The place in the hall where the adder was found.” Dugan glanced away, fixed his gaze on a shaft of moonlight streaming through an arrow slit. “Hugh serves as seannachie for Clan Fingon, see you? Our coffers have ne’er been full enough to employ a true bard as most clans do. Not that we mind. Hugh’s voice is purest gold, his words treasured by us all.”
“But what does Hugh’s silvered tongue have to do with the adder being in the hall?”
“Everything, my lady. Hugh discovered the adder when he went to fetch his lute. He wanted to tune its strings before playing this evening.”
“The snake was near his lute?”
“Coiled right next to it,” Dugan confirmed, his voice grim. “That is the damning part—the snake being with Hugh’s lute proves without doubt that a blackguard of the most cunning sort walks amongst us.”
“I see,” Amicia said, not seeing at all.
“Nay, my pardon, lass, but you cannot. Not until you hear the significance of it.”
“Then what is the significance?”
“Hugh’s lute is of rare value—a fine instrument of too great a worth to be left lying about when he isn’t strumming it,” Dugan explained, flicking another glance down the passageway. “Because he e’er frets something could happen to it, he keeps it locked inside an aumbrey near the high table.”
Amicia swallowed.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
Now she understood.
She’d seen the cupboard Dugan meant. A safe storage place for valuables and always kept under key, its door firmly closed. Indeed, at first glance, only a keen eye would even note its existence, so seamlessly was it fitted into the dais wall.
“A snake could ne’er have gotten inside the aumbrey,” she said, her blood running cold. “Not unless someone put it there.”
“There you have it,” Dugan agreed, his fingers curling around the haft of his flail. “Whoe’er is responsible knew Hugh would be retrieving his lute. With the wedding feast set for this night, nothing is more sure.”
Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 03] Page 17