The Night Side

by Melanie Jackson

  Yet he would not have an easy time of things. At the moment, the lady’s slim shoulders were turned away from him while she engaged her cousin in animated conversation. As there was now an interested audience watching the castle’s mistress and her Master of the Gowff, Colin had to suppose that part of her neglect was due to a mixture of dignity and bashfulness she felt compelled to display before her people. Perhaps her ears had been perturbed by the gossip, which had spread throughout the castle when her supposed adventure and rescue in the dungeon was made known to the populace. Certainly, Tearlach could be counted on to repeat—and embellish—any such tales that were making the rounds.

  Her feelings at the moment he could only imagine, but he did not think they included any that were lighthearted or amused. In spite of what the poems and comedies said, being chased in earnest was singularly unamusing—whether it was pursuit by friend or foe. And when one’s situation was precarious, and there was an audience, perhaps wagering on the outcome, the attention pricked with a hundred tiny, inquisitive barbs that could penetrate even the thickest skin, never mind flesh as delicate as the lady’s. And in this case, she was being hounded by both a friend and at least one foe, and was perhaps—since she was not stupid—asking herself if they were one and the same.

  Taking a small sip of wine, he wondered whether it was better to let the lady have her way in rebuffing him or to capitalize on the gossip and demonstrate conclusively to any overly interested parties that his intentions toward the lady were neither innocent nor frivolous.

  Down the table, MacJannet met his eye and raised an enquiring eyebrow. Colin nodded. It was time for his friend to depart. Demonstrating his intent toward the castle’s mistress would serve to divert attention from MacJannet’s disappearance. He chose to believe that it was a sign and did not reprehend himself for being less than a gentleman.

  “Mademoiselle,” he interrupted her gently.

  There was no reply.

  “Frances,” he said clearly, deciding that he would try speaking to her again before doing anything more overt. He could always take her hand if words failed to move her.

  “Monsieur Mortlock?” she answered, at last turning her head his way. For a brief moment their eyes met and then she looked past his shoulder at an empty wall while color infused her cheeks.

  “I crave a moment of your time, mistress. Perhaps you might take a turn about the room with me while we settle that fine meal. I desire to have some of these paintings explained to me.” It was a blatant lie. There was nothing to explain about the paintings. They were poorly made portraits of her father and grandfather.

  Her eyes met his for a second time, this time really seeing him, and then perhaps recalling that there was more afoot than mere jousting between a man and maid, she nodded assent.

  Colin rose gracefully and assisted her from her chair. There was a momentary lull in conversation and a hard look from Anne Balfour, who was seated next to Tearlach, but a raised brow from Colin had Frances’s kinswoman looking away and swiftly resuming her conversation with the inebriated piper.

  Frances’s fingers trembled slightly as she laid them on his sleeve, but as the air near the fire was quite warm, Colin did not mistake it for a tremble born of exposure. Though whether it was fear, fury, or passion that shook her, he could not say, for her expression was schooled to blankness. Life in the convent and then in her father’s house had taught her well how to disguise her feelings.

  True to his word, he did take her on a tour of the room, moving at a measured pace as they stared up at the paintings. He spoke randomly of inconsequential things and Frances answered just as haphazardly. On their second turn through the hall, Colin led them out through a side door and into an empty room. At the moment when all eyes were upon them, he saw MacJannet rise from the table and slip away.

  Colin was careful to leave the door ajar so that everyone might see them together in the side room. For the moment, it suited him to have a public tableau of their courtship and for everyone to see that he was behaving honorably.

  It was rather colder in the new apartments, and not so brightly lit, but neither of these things could be seen as a detriment, as they would encourage Frances to remain close to his side. He was careful to avoid the one corner where the last fading impressions of a lady in green lingered. The ghost seemed unaware of them and he preferred that it remain that way.

  They walked this second dim room as though on promenade. Finally Frances and Colin came to a narrow window that looked out onto the moonlit heath, and there Colin paused. Still apparently shy, Frances confined her gaze to the sill and the silvered landscape beyond the window’s distorted panes. Her head was cocked to one side as though listening to the wind, which whispered something secret at the glass, or perhaps the murmur of the sea, which spoke night and day with an enchanting tongue.

  “We are making a distraction for MacJannet?” she asked shrewdly, glancing back once at the opened door.

  “Partly,” he admitted, staring at the lady. She was all cream and ebony, except for the two roses that bloomed in her cheeks. “But it is also a divertissement for me.”

  “Vraiment?” The pulse in her throat grew more pronounced. “How odd. But perhaps this is the way of the English. I have heard you are a rough lot.”

  Colin smiled wryly, thinking of his earlier conversation with MacJannet. “Do you find it unimaginable that a man might suddenly conceive of a violent passion for a lady and wish to be private with her?” he asked conversationally.

  Frances gave a small gasp, and again her gaze fluttered up and then quickly away. “I have heard of this, of course,” she admitted, slightly breathless. “But we are discussing a thing much more practical, oui?”

  “Are we?” he asked. “I think if we were being practical we would be speaking of Paracelsus or Ovid—or perhaps of milking cows.”

  A dimple appeared in her cheek and her shoulders relaxed. “That is very English humor, monsieur. What would a lady know of these things?”

  “That would depend entirely upon the lady. Not all men like stupid women.”

  She considered this.

  “Do you believe then that such a thing is possible? To be smitten with a passion for a total stranger?”

  “I must,” he answered promptly. “For it has happened to me.”

  “Vraiment,” Frances repeated. She did not look at him again, but her small hands clenched the fabric of her skirts. She sounded doubtful when she said: “Usually such things happen to untried youths whose minds are filled with fanciful tales of the romantic. Or to the mad.”

  “That is so,” he agreed. “But apparently it may also happen to men grown, who are not generally so fanciful.” He possessed himself of her hand, fetching it from the crushed velvet. The digits were very small, but he reminded himself that they had the strength to grip and swing a heavy club.

  Frances turned toward him, eyes wide, cheeks gently flushed. He watched her reddened lips part and wondered if they would speak curses for his impudence, or some form of acknowledgment of the possibility of sharing something passionate, as she put it.

  “Where is MacJannet going?” she asked instead, her voice barely a whisper.

  Colin blinked at her words and then sighed, banishing romantic thoughts, at least for the moment. He knew how to be patient.

  “He has gone to deliver a letter to the Bishop of Orkney,” he admitted.

  He noted that Frances also had fine brows, which were, at the moment, drawn together in an expression of displeasure. She looked scorn and anger upon him, not all of it feigned.

  “We had not finished discussing the matter,” she scolded. “I am most unhappy about this, monsieur.”

  “There was nothing to discuss,” Colin said gently. “I needed to write to the bishop about my affairs and did so. I am of course sorry that you are unhappy.”

  Frances blinked at the masterful rebuff.

  “And when does MacJannet return to Noltland?” she asked, brows relaxing slig
htly.

  “That is difficult to say.”

  “The bishop will take some time to reply to your letter?”

  “I should think that he will reply at once. Doubtless we will receive a message from him before the new moon.”

  “And MacJannet?” she asked, demonstrating that she could be dogged when a subject interested her. “What shall he be doing while the bishop replies?”

  “MacJannet?” Colin replied carefully. “He goes to discover where the remainder of the Balfour men are billeted and to facilitate their immediate return. And then he will see about arranging some better provisions for the castle.”

  “He can do that? Bring home the men?” she asked, amazed. Those lovely brows again drew together. “But if they are free to return to us, why have they not done so on their own?”

  “I imagine they are waiting to be paid. The king died at a most inconvenient moment and the regent has not yet had time to see to such mundane matters.” Colin allowed himself to run a finger over her wrist, checking on the state of her pulse. It was not so calm as her expression and voice suggested. What a wonderful little dissimulator he had chosen. He almost smiled.

  “And you can arrange for them to be paid and then sent home?”

  “Aye.” He did not explain that the money would come from his own purse.

  “And they do not need to take leave from the regent before returning home?”

  “No. That is where the Bishop of Orkney will prove useful. He has many friends and shall doubtless help MacJannet see to the men’s immediate and unceremonious discharge.”

  Frances’s sudden smile was dazzling even in the dim room. “And this is why you wrote to the Bishop? Merci, Colin,” she said, forgiving his earlier impudent transgression and even forgetting their audience as she snatched up his hand and brought it to her face, where she pressed it against her cheek. “That is most kindly done of you. The women here have been most disheartened and fearful of the coming winter.”

  Colin felt a momentary pang at his duplicity, but did not stop himself from caressing the smooth flesh beneath his hands. “It is very likely that the bishop shall come to call upon us,” he warned softly, preparing Frances for the cleric’s arrival. “There will be many related matters to discuss.”

  “And I shall be most happy to receive him,” she assured, her eyes shining. “We all shall. I have been in such fear of what would happen this winter, did we not have some of our men return to us.”

  “I know. This seemed a sound if temporary solution to our difficulties. However, we cannot speak of it in a general way just yet. We do not wish for any gossip to spread beyond the castle until we know who our prankster is and what other mischief he might be planning. He might do something precipitous if he knows his time for action is running short. And we would not want the castle to be besieged, or to fall into unworthy hands because we were careless.”

  His hair was dark. Deep brown locks rested on a shoulder clad in deep brown velvet; in the gloom it was hard to discern where one ended and the other began. His brows were also dark and straight, and his smile swift and oddly boyish. His eyes, too, were dark, but lit by the fire they gleamed with a purpose and keen wit that could nearly pierce the heart. They skimmed rapidly over her form and seemed to touch as a lover’s hands would, should they be allowed.

  She should condemn as improper the urge she’d had to make herself attractive for Colin, but she was suddenly glad she had donned this primrose gown and left her hair long, for his eyes told her plainly of his approval.

  Suddenly breathless, she brought his hand to her cheek, and then she did not turn away when his long fingers reached out to tilt up her chin and then caress her jaw and throat.

  He said something about not revealing MacJannet’s purpose in leaving the castle and then in an altered voice: “Forgive me, ma belle,” he whispered, his words settling over her like a warm cloak as he lowered his lips to hers.

  She hadn’t realized that so many things could be in a kiss. It was where breaths and hearts met and mingled. Some kisses were shy, even fugitive. These she knew. But now she was aware that in some kisses there was passion that fired emotions and set them ablaze. There could be hope and joy—and desire so strong it took the strength from one’s knees and made heat run through the flesh as wild water raced upon the beach at high tide.

  She thought she had inured herself to such bodily pleasures, that she had even resigned herself to a life of prayerful sterility that lacked all passion. But Colin awakened all her old, frivolous desires and urged them to voice their longing.

  “Ah, Holy Father! May the black vomit seize me!” Tearlach exclaimed, just loud enough to be heard in the room beyond. “You think he means tae take her tae holy deadlock?”

  “That is wedlock,” George corrected sternly and with less volume. “And I certainly hope that he may, for I like him a great deal and Frances must marry someone.”

  Mortification rushed over Frances, causing her to pull away. How could she have so forgotten herself as to allow this man to kiss her? And before an audience?

  “Sorry, ma belle,” Colin said again softly, also taking a step back and dropping his hand from her face. When he spoke next it was as a gentleman should. “I should offer some sign of remorse for this embarrassment. But I cannot in sincerity do this. I even dare pray you will not shut yourself away from me hereafter. How would I bear the woe if you forbade me from your presence? Say you’ll not make it your pious office to stifle my pretensions, for it would be most cruel of you.”

  Frances stared at him, her mind all abroad and her body still much shaken. Finally she murmured: “I have not forbidden you from my presence, though I probably should. That was not well done. By either of us.”

  “I cannot help but disagree, as I am sure that it was done just right. I am however greatly relieved that I am not banished.” And then he smiled. It was a wonderful thing, magical and distracting.

  “But, Colin, I do not wish to be…” She hunted for a word.

  “Courted? Wooed?”

  “Oui! I do not wish to be courted before Tearlach and the others. This must not happen again. If I am to have a—friendship—it shall not be with the whole of my people looking on. You will recall my dignity—and your own,” she ordered. “It is our duty to behave with decorum. To set an example.”

  “Duty: she is a merciless deity, mistress. Let us render our respects to her but not worship there.”

  “Monsieur, it is only proper that…” she began. Then a sudden thought occurred to her, causing her eyebrows to again draw together. Her voice lowered. “Are you quite certain that you did not do this simply to help MacJannet escape unnoticed?”

  Colin’s smile widened. “Oh, aye, mistress. I am quite certain that I did not kiss you for MacJannet.”

  The intelligence probably shouldn’t have pleased her, but it did. Of course, she wished to first be considered worthy of participating in intrigue and of being an able guardian for any of his plans or confidences, but one did not want to be kissed for any such dishonest reason. Not when one enjoyed it so very much!

  CHAPTER TEN

  The old hound whimpers crouched in sleep,

  The embers smoulder low;

  Across the walls the shadows

  Come, and go.

  —Walter de la Mare, “The Song of Shadows”

  “Where is Tearlach?” Colin asked sternly of the giggling Frances and George. He reckoned rightly that only something of an evil nature would have the two of them pressing heads together and looking mischievous. “You do know that virilia is a felony in my country, don’t you?”

  “Virilia?” George asked.

  “He is ill,” Frances answered promptly and then, with a clear demonstration that she knew at least some things that a lady should not, “No one has emasculated him. The fool flagellated his—his—himself with nettles and then made a…what is the word, George? A glister? And now he is probably dying.”

  “A what?” Colin asked, h
is turn to be puzzled by a word.

  “Actually, it was a feague,” George answered. “And it isn’t that he’s truly dying—just wanting to, you see.”

  “No, I do not see. I am still, in fact, quite unenlightened,” Colin pointed out patiently. “What is a feague? And why did he flagellate himself with nettles? And did either of you have anything to do with it?”

  George colored. “Of course we did not! We could not. I mean, a feague is…um…it is when someone puts ginger up a horse’s fundament.”

  “And if I were to flagellate him, it would not be with nettles,” Frances added.

  “And may the good Lord preserve us from this linguistic morass,” Colin muttered. “Did you truly just say that a feague was something done to horses?”

  Seeing Colin’s horrified expression, George hurried on: “It encourages inferior beasts to keep their tails up and be lively in their step when they are being shown to buyers. It isn’t strictly honest, of course, and a gentleman wouldn’t do it. But in any event, Tearlach gave himself one and it has made a terrible feff. It’s worse than if he had taken surfeitwater.”

  “A feff?” Colin found himself missing MacJannet. He didn’t comment upon the late lord’s obvious lack of morals in resorting to such trickery when selling livestock, but rather concentrated on the peculiar and possibly dangerous activities of those Balfours closer at hand.

  “Puer. He had a fleshquake,” Frances translated kindly. “Use real words, George. Colin does not understand the silly local language.”

  “A fleshquake?” Colin asked, turning toward his amused lady and enjoying the way her eyes shone above her belatedly prim mouth.

  “Oui. And he is now the color of a feuille mort. And his flatuosity has cleared the privies and most of the hall. Even the kitchen has complained. We shall be lucky to have any meals prepared today.”

  “Well, if he has turned the color of a dead leaf, then we must assume that ginger has failed to aid him in—what precisely was this supposed to aid him in? You mentioned surfeitwater. Was he suffering from overfullness?”