“We aren’t leaving,” Colin answered evenly. “You and George are. I shall stay until the men arrive and we have some definite word of Gilbert Balfour.”
“You think to put me from you?” Frances demanded, dismay being replaced with wrath. “You propose that I should run away while you face danger in my stead? No! No and no and no! I shall not have it.”
“I appreciate your feeling, my dear, but you are allowing emotion to entwist your reason. This is not a battle you can fight, and having you and George here as potential hostages hampers my own efforts. The traitor must be found before Gilbert returns, if he actually lives long enough to come to Noltland.”
“You think I have no honor,” she accused. “You are like all men who think that women cannot have courage or intelligence in troubled times.”
“Hogwash!” Colin answered forcefully, as MacJannet wisely retreated from the room, closing the door softly behind him. More than ever he wished there had been time for Frances’s affections to animate fully before their marriage, so there was a reciprocal bond of love between them. “I’ll grant that there has been little inducement for either courage or intelligence to flourish in your sex—since both are usually suppressed from the cradle. But we both know you have honor and courage aplenty, so do stop speaking as an hysteric when I know you do not suffer from such an inveterately low intellect.”
Frances stared hard at Colin. “I do not know this word inveterately. But I do know that you look very cross when you say it, so perhaps you should not use it.”
“I look cross because I am cross,” he answered. But already the frown was lifting from his brow. It was impossible to remain angry when staring into her flushed face. The high color all too vividly recalled him to the previous night’s passions. He added feelingly: “This entire situation is bloody annoying. Here we are, married one day and already fighting.”
“It is bloody annoying,” she agreed, pleased with the expression. “But we must accommodate facts. In any event, I do not think MacJannet can leave immediately, whatever your wishes.”
“No?” Colin thought about this for a moment and then asked: “Why?”
“He tried to conceal it from me, but I believe he has been wounded. Perhaps merely bruised and strained, but he did not move so stiffly before he left, nor did he favor his left leg. You cannot send George and me into danger if he is not fit. And you do not trust the bishop’s men entirely, do you?”
“Well, bloody hell,” Colin muttered again. “Clearly I am not at my best today. And it is you who has distracted me with your disarrayed hair. Did you not comb it after leaving our bed?”
Frances smiled triumphantly, the last of her outrage leaving her as she decided that she had indeed made her point. Reaching up a small hand, she carelessly flipped a straying tress over her shoulder.
“I’d best go speak with him and discover whom he has been brawling with,” Colin muttered. “It isn’t like MacJannet to engage in physical warfare.”
“Oui. And I shall send Sine with a tisane and some food. Both shall aid him in recovery, so he may assist you in discovering the villain who has tried to kill George,” she answered.
Turning about, she headed for the door. A ghost who had been eavesdropping floated to one side. Colin stared at his wife’s retreating back, finally realizing that he had not just engaged in his first marital skirmish, but that he had also lost it. “Bloody hell.”
The pale shade hanging in the corner stared at him sympathetically.
“If you wished to be helpful,” Colin snapped to the specter, “you would show me who has been conspiring to kill the young laird.”
The ghost did not answer. He merely faded into the darkness between the castle’s stones. Either he didn’t know, or he didn’t care who would kill the young Balfour.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When the Devil would have us to sin,
he would have us to do the things which
the forlorn Witches used to do.
—Cotton Mather, On Witchcraft
Frances knew she should go about her daily routine just as if nothing had happened, but the morning—and the previous day—had brought her a series of shocks to the senses, and she had not had time for some much-needed quiet reflection.
Still, once she gained the privacy of her chamber, she found she was not thinking about Gilbert Balfour and what his presence at Noltland might mean, but rather about Colin. His advent into her life was a promontory memory, which stood tall even among the recent mountainous events that had befallen her.
And she was married!
She had been so focused on the present and what she needed to do to help her people survive that she had not been looking very far ahead. Nor had she been looking deeply, especially not inside, where everything had hurt for so long.
For ages, there had been a loneliness inside her, a feeling that was worse than any physical ache, a beast that suffered, coiled within her, starving and injured. But unlike wounds to the body, this pain of loneliness never went entirely numb, and it never healed, and it never died. Sometimes it had hurt so much that she had almost—almost—been ready to accept some of the men who were offered as husbands. Fortunately, or perhaps not, there had also been a great deal of fear and wariness of men, left by her faithless father, to serve as a balance to such unadvised action. That fear of what a misstep could do to her family had kept her aloof. And for a time, fear had kept the painful loneliness quiescent.
But then Colin had come, and he had stirred the beast to new life. He had forced her to think and feel. She couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Frances sighed. She had been alienated from herself and her needs for so long that she didn’t know what she truly felt anymore, only that with Colin beside her, the beast of loneliness seemed slightly less violent. And perhaps fear and wariness were less active in their suspicions of mankind than they had been before his arrival.
Also, though it was not at all romantic, she secretly liked that he spoke to her as he might to a man, that he did not think her too stupid to understand his world. Whether she would like this world of large intrigue remained to be seen, but at least he had offered it to her. It was her choice to accept or reject it.
His world. His whole world? Frances shook her head. Though it might be assumed that any interest that could seduce a man into years of service would be paramount in his life, perhaps he saw politics precisely as he had explained it: an ever-changing enemy to be watched and perhaps propitiated on occasion, while it made him both powerful and wealthy. Such devotion to an occupation did not have to mean that intrigue was his real mistress and his greatest love, or that it always would be, whatever his past.
Ah love! How stupid of her to think of that. It would only remind the loneliness inside that it still starved for this, the most coveted of all emotional meats. And the most difficult to find.
“You are a greedy imbecile,” she told herself. “And you have a loom that needs tending.”
Frances rose and went to the narrow window. It looked out on a landscape that was even bleaker than her thoughts. The few trees near them were nearly naked now as they huddled away from the wind, and the remaining grasses and lichens had taken on the orange hues of fiery holocaust. Autumn was upon the land, and winter was coming.
Frances turned her back on the window. She was a most uncertain guide to her own feeling, but she understood that the important question facing her now was whether she had badly misjudged Colin when accusing him of having outside motives for their marriage—and whether she could trust him to keep her family safe. Lucien de Talle’s overheard words had not been forgotten. Nor were they explained. It seemed as though Colin had had the intention to send her and George away even before MacJannet had brought his news. That suggested that he had some secret stratagems he had not shared with her.
“But that does not mean he does not care for us. This is how men show their protectiveness,” she muttered, laying a hand to her chest and trying to soothe the
phantom pain that lingered there. “It is only that he has not perfectly learned how to confide in me yet. He, too, has only just married. I must be patient.”
And watchful, a small inner voice murmured.
In the meantime she had guests, and hospitality demanded that she be gracious and dignified while she saw to their wants, however tempted she was to selfishly disregard their presence and hide away with her thoughts. She would strive to be truly gracious, for it seemed to her that morning that her mother’s delicate, chiding ghost was hovering nearby and watching as her daughter began her married life. The feeling was so strong that she had almost asked Colin if he felt something, too.
A part of her wanted to defend Colin, but all she could do was silently assure her mother that she had not lost her honor when she had lost her virginity to her husband, that it was stupid to think that a woman’s character was tied up in her maidenhead and that by losing it to the wrong person she would forever be besmirched.
Yet there was also a part of her that seemed unable to stop listening to her father’s voice, which had no high opinion of women once they lost their maiden virtue. He had lured them to his bed in great numbers, and ended up despising them all. He had believed that a woman’s only honor after loss of virginity was what she could attain through her husband. He would not be happy with his daughter.
Fortunately, that angry voice was not as strident as it had once been, and Frances suspected she had Colin to thank for that. Whatever else he was, and whatever he intended by her, he had been adamant that she was capable of thinking for herself and she needn’t accept someone else’s judgments, or give them undue weight because they came with familial sentiments attached.
Frances smiled suddenly. It was likely his opinion would change if it were his judgment she began flouting.
“Shut the door carefully. That latch is stubborn. I must see to it tomorrow.”
MacJannet grunted and took a seat near the fire. Sine’s tisane was making him sleepy and his eyelids dropped lower with every blink.
“A man dies and worms eat him—that is the way of things,” Lucien said as MacJannet moved his chair nearer the hearth. The Frenchman’s clothes were somewhat muddied and he had returned with a hare, suggesting that he had indeed been hunting. Colin was not convinced that this had been his only occupation.
“Aye, so it is. And they tell us it is a worm that never dies.”
“That may be. I do not know.” Lucien shrugged. “It is the parasites who prey on the living in other ways that I find objectionable this afternoon.”
“Our mastermind must be someone who is either very greedy or very vengeful,” MacJannet agreed tiredly. His wrenched leg was stretched out toward the flickering hearth. He’d stopped trying to mask his injury once the women were not about.
“It would have to be revenge without bounds to seek the life of a boy who is not even a son of the old laird…and yet, this whole affair has been most ineptly handled. The attacks have been indirect—sending a hound that is less than fearsome, locking Frances in the dungeons. It is as though the instigator’s malice is being tempered or translated into something less harmful by someone with a weaker stomach, who is not ready to do coldhearted murder.”
“Anne Balfour?” Lucien asked.
“I believe so. The lady has made some telling missteps and let her malice show a time or two.”
“Well, mon ami, I am loath to depart here at such a moment. Yet if you feel that you should have your lady wife and the boy away from the creature, I can make arrangements to take them to the bishop and return forthwith.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.” A day ago, Colin had thought this best. Now he wasn’t so eager to be parted.
“And it would be easier to question Anne if there were fewer people about to object, oui?”
“Perhaps. The Balfour men should begin arriving on the morrow,” Colin answered. “That makes for a very short interlude for doing anything. Naturally, one doesn’t like to use rough methods with a woman.” Especially not in front of her family.
“Oui, unless all else has failed.” Lucien gestured languidly, then tactfully turned the subject. “The bishop shall be most interested in hearing how the men have fared while in the South.”
“I’m certain he shall be enlightened.” Colin hesitated, and then returned to the previous topic. “I know it is wisest to send Frances and George away—but I am loath to do it. This is no reflection upon your skills as a guardsman, nor is it a matter of trust. It is simply that…”
“One does not wish to begin a marriage with discord, naturally,” Lucien guessed. “And it is natural that she would wish to be here when her relatives return. George as well shall doubtless wish to see the men to whom he may be laird.”
Colin shot Lucien a glance and then met MacJannet’s slitted gaze. “So, you have heard the rumors of Gilbert’s survival, as well? And all while out hunting? How skillful of you.”
“Oui, hunting takes some skill in these parts. But you wrong me, mon ami. This is old news—and it is in part why the bishop was so anxious for me to come to Noltland. He has also wondered, given the other tale of alliance with the English, if this might not be why you are here. King Henry’s interest in these matters has him nervous. There are quite enough persons involved already.”
It was not quite a question. Colin, slightly piqued at having possibly missed something strategically important and at Lucien’s previous reticence, refused to answer.
“All things shall be revealed in the fullness of time. Or at the king’s pleasure.”
“Or at the MacLeod’s?” Lucien suggested.
“Please! Acquit me of having more than one master. We may be of close kin as most people reckon it, but we are certainly not of close kind.”
“As you say. And so—you do not wish me to remove your wife and young George to a safer clime on the morrow, or even tonight?”
“Not tonight, and probably not tomorrow. It would cause too much talk, especially with the men returning.”
“But I shall hold myself in readiness to remove any number of people if the need should arise,” Lucien answered. “Do not thank me. To be useful is what I live for.”
There was a slight rustling outside the chamber door. A clumsy MacJannet and spryer Lucien jumped to their feet, but Colin beat them to the slightly open door.
Frances’s stiff spine was retreating down the hall, her skirts swishing like an angry broom. Colin was relieved that it had not been Anne Balfour spying on them, but that rigid back suggested he was in for another long night of explanations.
“Bloody hell.” He turned back to Lucien and MacJannet. “I truly must see to this latch.”
Lucien laughed softly. “That may not be the only thing requiring repair.”
“I know that well.” Colin frowned at Lucien. “You are not her favorite person anymore. This is the second time she has heard you offering to part us.”
“Alas! Yet I shall endure.”
“As shall I.”
“Just less cheerfully,” Lucien suggested.
“You are heartless, even for a Frenchman.”
MacJannet chuckled.
Annoyed at both companions, Colin left the room to seek out the smithy and the tools stored there. He would fix the bloody latch himself. And then he would sit down to write Frances a poem. It would not be a very good one, but mayhap it would apologize better than he could, since he wasn’t able to ask for forgiveness for arranging the things he needed to do to keep her safe. He regretted her anger—but not what he might well be required to do to protect her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth
The room was very nearly dark when Colin came to bed, and Frances was feigning sleep. She had managed not to have any private discussion with him the whole of the day, even at the evening meal. And Colin was not alone in his expulsion from grace. February
blizzards were now more welcome than Lucien de Talle. Only MacJannet was spared, and that was probably because Frances didn’t know he had been in the room when the discussion took place.
Colin eyed the angry bundle huddled on her side of the bed and decided to let sleeping Frances lie. A night’s rest might well improve her temper, he thought hopefully.
However, Colin was unable to test his theory, for when he awoke the next morning, Frances was already gone from their chamber.
He was not a habitually heavy sleeper and therefore concluded that she must have been practicing great stealth when she stole away from him. He had not heard the bolt being drawn back or the creaking of the door. It occurred to him that she had probably dressed herself in some other chamber, since it was unlikely she had donned clothing in the common passage.
That thought truly annoyed him, and for the first time he considered bridling his strong-willed wife and bringing her to heel. It was time she reordered her loyalties. Her first allegiance was to her husband, and her first duty was helping to present the world with a united front.
But before he set about redirecting his erring wife, it seemed wisest to check up on George. Whither Frances went, George was likely to follow—and the boy hadn’t her strength or wiliness when it came to dealing with unexpected problems. Frances was likely to cave in the skull of anyone who threatened her bodily. Colin was not certain that George was made of such ruthless material.
Colin presently discovered George in the courtyard, engaged in the laudable goal of attempting to teach Harry some of the fundamentals of obedience, a thankless task to which Colin was content to leave the boy while he finally sought out his wife.
Frances was likewise soon discovered in a storeroom, directing MacJannet in the mounting of shelves. The inconvenience of her reduced height had finally driven her to undoing her father’s work in the pantry and stillroom, and ordering the rude wooden shelves reworked so the women could more easily reach the things stored upon them. It was perhaps an unnecessary task, with the men returning to the castle. But it was a harmless one, and Colin felt safe leaving her in MacJannet’s care while he went out into the drizzle to explore the eastern beaches.
The Night Side Page 20