Parris Afton Bonds

by The Captive

  The memory of the night before was vivid. She could still smell the heather and fresh rain and wet leather that had scented his skin. And the after-scent of their lovemaking. "No, he dinna harm me, Duncan.”

  A few minutes later, from a narrow bed, her mother asked nearly the same question of her. “The reiver did not hurt you, did he, my darling? You are looking wan.”

  She sat on the edge of the straw-stuff mattress. She tugged the cover up over her mother’s shoulders. The room was cold with drafts, and her mother’s face was unnaturally pale. “As I told you and Brother Archibald last night, I am unharmed.”

  But not unhurt. Her thighs and delicate inner flesh ached. An ache well worth the pleasure she had experienced.

  “This was dangerous, Mother. Traveling to the—”

  “The wolf’s lair?” Her mother’s smile was weak.

  “Aye, the wolf’s lair, in weather like this."

  Her mother’s hand crept out to take hers. Gone was the fever of the night before. Elspeth’s remedies had worked cures before. Hopefully, this time, also. "We were hoping to arrange for . . . your ransom."

  She sighed. "Mother, he’ll not release me until the day Simon Murdock is dead. I don’t think all the coffers of the Lowlands would set me free.”

  Her mother’s grip tightened. "There must be a way to escape.”

  "Not now. Not until the thaw is over.” And by then she might be large with child! Gently, encouragingly, she squeezed her mother’s hand. "I think that before then we will have a better knowledge of both the castle and its inhabitants. Escape will be much easier."

  Her mother managed a feeble smile. "Arch—Brother Archibald is already seeing to that. You know him, how easily he makes friends. He has gone below to mingle.”

  Her mother’s sudden flush pleased her.

  “He will succeed, Enya. These stubborn Highlanders are staunchly behind a priest.”

  “Mother, I am needed in the kitchen, but I will return at the end of the day.”

  She did not go directly to the kitchen, but went in search of Brother Archibald. She felt an affinity for the irascible priest. When she saw his red hair some of the tension ebbed from her shoulders, which always hurt these days, what with carrying the cast-iron kettles of water and the heavy armloads of firewood.

  Brother Archibald stood before the enormous fireplace. Warming his hands, he was holding forth with several early risers in a lively discussion of the triumphant biblical King Ahasuerus. “So, the warrior king, after going on a wild party spree, went looking for a queen. His search brought him in close contact with the most beautiful virgins in the land.”

  "What makes that so unusual?" asked the bearded Robert, who had lost his eye in battle. His good eye fell on her. “The Highlands had the most beautiful virgins in all of Scotland 'til Murdock and his Lobsterbacks arrived.”

  She knew Ranald’s men were all wondering if she, a Lowlander, also was still a virgin.

  Seeing she was the focus of disgruntled attention, her mother’s old friend said smoothly, “What makes that so unusual is that a Persian king would even consider marriage to a woman of unknown lineage." He held out a welcoming hand to her. "Ah, Enya, I am glad to see you looking so winsome this morning." His words were spoken with the ease of a guest, rather than a captive, who was merely visiting the abode of a hospitable host.

  In keeping with his light tone, she said, “‘Tis the crisp mountain air, Brother Archibald.”

  “I looked in on your mother this morning. She seemed to be resting well.”

  She wanted to evade the prying eyes of the men. "Mother is asking for you now."

  Excusing himself, he joined her. She waited until they were well away from the others. "We may have an ally in the castle, Brother Archibald."

  He flashed her a rewarding grin. "You have always been resourceful, Enya.”

  She spoke in a whisper. "I found a scribbled message in Ranald’s desk giving the destination and date of a raid Ranald was going to make. The handwriting wasn’t Ranald’s. Only the council members could have known."

  “Or someone within earshot." Voice low, he climbed the stairs with her. “Mayhap one of them let slip the message to a wife or companion-in-arms.”

  "True enough."

  "Does Ranald know you know?”

  "Aye. I tried to use the message to buy the safety of Duncan and myself and the others, but Ranald would have none of it."

  "You realize whoever wants Ranald out of the way may care less about our fate?”

  "I thought if you were aware of this note, you could keep a watchful eye."

  “Do you have any idea who may have written the note, lass?"

  She considered. "Ranald has usurped Jamie's rightful claim as the chief’s heir. But Jamie doesn’t want the position."

  “Or so the young man says.”

  “And the old chief, his father, canna ride.” She reflected on the game of backgammon she had played with Ian. “The man is sharp, though. He plays aggressively. Nearly beat me.” He was also taciturn and said little that was of a revealing nature, however much she tried to engage him in conversation.

  “From what I’ve learned, Ian was a brave and fearless leader of his clan. Harsh in victory and unyielding even in defeat."

  "Ranald is the natural choice."

  Brother Archibald gave her an inquisitive glance. "The way you say his name—this Ranald—is it feelings you have for this man?”

  "Aye," she said with a grimace. "Mixed feelings. Fury for being treated like a—a piece of barter. And hurt. But I give him credit, Brother Archibald. He is a natural-born leader—unyielding, ruthless, heartless.”

  "And a brilliant tactician,” the priest mused. "At least, that is the talk among the English troops and their leaders. Tell me, can you get a sample of handwriting from the council members?”

  "I could try. Of the eight, only four could write. Nob may have been able to, but he was killed the—’’

  "Aye, I know. Ranald suspects me.”

  "He suspects everyone. One of the council members, Robert—the one-eared man below— has a handwriting that is barely legible. Ranald is, naturally, ruled out. That leaves Jamie and his father. I haven’t had an opportunity to search their belongings. You have to remember that this castle is a layover, a base for the winter only. They keep very little to haul around with them.”

  “Talk to this Jamie. See what you can learn. Don’t discount anything.”

  As the priest let himself into her mother’s room, she eyed him thoughtfully. There were times when she thought he had missed his calling. His bearing, his thought processes, his commanding presence all bespoke a man well capable of leading other men, not leading Latin masses.

  Flora and Annie were full of questions about the latest arrivals to the castle. "Ye mean they braved the trowies to come here?" Annie asked, eyes wide.

  "The trowies?”

  “The trolls,” Flora explained. She fixed a beady eye on Annie. "Ye talk too much."

  "Trolls?" Enya asked. Were they talking about Nob?

  "Aye,” Flora said, her thin lips quivering with imaginary fears. “After dark the trolls guard the glens of Buachaille Etive against outsiders. Many a traveler has been found at the bottom of a glen, the body all twisted and broken.”

  The kitchen was hot. Enya wiped the sweat from her receding forehead and picked up another leek to dice. “Annie—Flora, don’t you think that, in the dark, a traveler unaccustomed to the mountain might miss a turn in the road?"

  “Our Shetland ponies don’t miss turns,” fat Annie scoffed.

  God, she could use a smoke right now. After breakfast Ranald would be presiding over the Justice Room. A puff from one of his pipes would ease the stress of the last few days. Surely she could find an excuse to take her out of the kitchen for an hour or so. Then, too, there was Jamie’s room to search.

  Escaping Flora’s carping presence was not that difficult, after all. An argument arose in the Justice Hall over a trai
ned bear that had bitten off the hand of a spectator. The bear’s bellowing roar summoned the castle servants and other curious eyes into the Justice Hall. Ranald sat in the Justice Chair with a half-amused smile playing at his lips.

  "Cruickshank had been tormenting the bear!” a droopy-nosed man said. He pointed a finger shaking with anger at a balding man whose right arm was heavily bandaged with dark, dried blood discoloring the white, gauze- wrapped stump.

  Cruickshank, the owner of Lochaber’s jute mill, brandished his stump. “The bear should be killed—before it kills some wee innocent!"

  The bear prowled in agitation back and forth between his owner and the Justice Chair. Murmurs for both sides ran through the hall. Enya did not wait for Ranald to make a decision. She would know the outcome soon enough. She backed away from the fringe of the crowd. Lifting her skirts, she ran up the staircase, heading for Ranald’s room—and one of his pipes.

  Would he miss one of maybe half a dozen pipes? Not likely. She took tobacco from the leather pouch and tapped into the bowl of a porcelain pipe. She lit a reed from the hearth’s fire and held it to her pipe.

  With the first intake of the heavenly smoke, she closed her eyes. This was as near ecstasy as a body could come . . . unless she discounted that too quickly fleeting moment locked with Ranald in passion’s embrace.

  Only in reviewing those moments did she recall his reference to Artemis, goddess of the hunt and the moon. He had had an education of sorts, though too often the heathen in him permitted his knowledge to be colored by his superstition.

  Lips pursed, she blew away the haze of smoke to better see the open Bible. This morning Ranald had marked another verse. Reading it, she felt her scalp tighten and the hair rise on her arms.

  Where has your beloved gone,

  O most beautiful among women?

  Where has your beloved turned,

  That we may seek him with you?

  The metallic clink of spurs echoing in the hall alerted her. Quickly, she shoved the pipe back into the drawer. The door opened. Ranald stood glowering in the doorway. He closed the door behind him. "Any reason why ye are in my quarters?”

  She collected her wits. “Do you not remember granting me protection under your roof?”

  He sauntered toward her. “Under my roof. Not in my private chamber.”

  Her smile was derisive. “You wanted me here last night.”

  He stopped only a handbreadth away. "Oh? You have returned to beg for a repeat of last night?”

  "Beg I’ll never do.”

  He took her chin, gently brushing its cleft with his thumb. Then he angled her head and brushed his lips across hers. More than once. "Soft.” His mouth lingered against hers, unmoving. "Yet firm.”

  A queer feeling swirled deep in her belly, just below her navel. A sweet weakness swept over her. She almost swayed against him, collecting herself at the last instant.

  He must have sensed her sudden restraint. “I’ll beg, Enya. Kiss me. Now ye are no longer a cold virgin. Kiss me with the fires of your uncovered passion.”

  She moved back as far as the desk allowed and tugged off her mob cap. Her thick red braid tumbled free to swing over her shoulder. She stood on tiptoe, feathered her lips across his, and whispered, “My uncovered passion is symbolized in my uncovered hair, Ranald. Fiery red. Are you afraid?"

  He grasped her shoulders and drew her against him. "Aye, I am afraid, mo cinead. Of feys and witches and trowies.”

  Nervous, she laughed lightly and tugged from his embrace. "Ah, so 'tis a trowie I am now?"

  He caught her wrist and towed her over to the bed, where he pulled her down alongside him. Head propped on one hand, he stared down at her. "Trowies are whimsical creatures.” His free hand toyed with her braid. "To be under the spell of the Highlands’ little people, its elves, is to lose one’s soul."

  His fingers were working free her plaits. “These little people . . . do they behave like ordinary people?”

  “Ach, no. They live cheerfully below ground, in chambers carpeted and richly hung with arras and abundant tables set with the best china and silver. Yet their doorways are but modest entrances, looking for all the world like gopher holes."

  This playful side, almost innocent in its heathenish backwardness, could be endearing. “Being a trowie has its good points.”

  "Aye. They say that trowies are lovers of good music, and many Shetland fiddle tunes have been learned by listening at a trowie doorway.”

  He spread loose her hair, fanning it across the bed. "The wee folk have always been here, ye know. They are disdainful toward humans.”

  "Why?” She barely got the word out of breathless lungs.

  He began unlacing her stomacher. "Because we mortals only just got here—at least in the slow-ticking watch of the trolls. A man stolen by a troll for what seems like just a few hours may be surprised to learn he has been away for days or weeks or even years."

  Free of her stays, her breasts spilled into his palms. She strove to contain her gasp of pleasure as he dipped his head and licked one nipple. “Are . . . are there both male and female trowies?”

  His hand slipped beneath the layers of her skirts. “Aye, but sometimes they go masqueraded as human men and women.”

  Her thighs spread for his invading fingers. Her voice was little more than the rusking of dead leaves against the windowpane. "I fear 'tis I who have been witched by a trowie."

  "Enya?"

  "Hmmm.” She barely found the energy to answer as his fingers worked their magic on her.

  He rolled from her, rose, and grinned down at her. "Next time, damp the pipe before ye put it away."

  She bolted upright. "Where are you going?”

  He tugged her skirts down over her exposed thighs. His lips curled merrily. "I’m off to free a bear. G’day to ye, mistress.”

  "The wisdom of Solomon," she murmured with a wry twist of her lips.

  Once she was dressed she did not return to the kitchens, but instead went to Jamie’s chambers, farther along the hall. She knocked, and when there was no response, she slipped inside. Her heart was beating rapidly. She scanned the room. Much like the others, it contained a rough-hewn bed, an armoire, and a rustic pine table that apparently served as a desk.

  It was that to which she crossed. A few books, befitting a man of learning and letters, were stacked at one end: Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, Pope’s Essay on Man, Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels,and Voltaire’s History of Charles XII.

  A brass pot for sealing wax, a sander for drying an inked signature, an inkwell of sandalwood, and a broken quill were scattered across the desk, but there was no evidence of any penmanship itself. Neither were there paper or parchment or even scribbled notes inside the pages of the books through which she flipped.

  A queer chill in her neck made her glance over her shoulder. The door was still shut. Feeling nervous now, she went through the armoire: shirts, tunics, knee pants and trousers, jerkins, and a frock coat, buckled shoes and boots of fine Spanish leather.

  She abandoned her search and fled the room. With no one in the cavernous hallway, she felt lucky to escape undetected. Or, at least, she thought so.

  After she finished her kitchen duties she had no more returned to her chamber than she heard an imperative knock at her door. Her hands halted at unlacing her bodice. “Aye?"

  Without waiting for permission, Ranald entered, with Thane close on his heels. Saying nothing, he crossed to the fireplace, sank down on his haunches, and began rearranging the smoldering embers with the poker. “The flue is so primitive that more smoke swirls in the room than goes up the chimney.”

  "True enough," she said carefully. Smoke had discolored the walls' wainscoting and painted paneling. She watched his profile for any revelation as to the purpose behind this visit.

  "What were you doing in Jamie’s chambers today?”

  “How did you know?" she blurted.

  His smile was enigmatic. “I’m the seventh son of a seventh son.”


  "What?”

  He settled down before the fireplace and crossed his ankles. Thane dropped down alongside him.

  She remained standing, arms folded, and studied him as he talked. "Every Highland glen and braeside has its resident wise man or woman. Traditionally, ’tis the seventh child of a seventh child who, through the power of fairies, inherits the gift of taibh-searachd.”

  His rich accent didn’t make any clearer the Gaelic word. "The gift of what?"

  “Taibh-searachd. Prophecy. Or seers.”

  "Oh, spare me the nonsense.”

  " Tis true. For instance, a century ago a Highlander, Kenneth Odhar, was given a magic white stone with a hole in it by the fairies and was able to see the future in it. It seems that Kenneth paid dearly for his gift. He was cam—blinded in one eye.”

  She squinted at him. "You don’t really believe this, do you?"

  He shrugged those massive shoulders. “Kenneth predicted the Battle of Culloden over a century before it happened.”

  “Coincidence.” Yet despite his everyday tone, he sounded profoundly arcane. “I wager not everything he predicted happened,” she challenged.

  "Weel, he did speak of a string of black carriages, horseless and bridleless and led by a fiery chariot, that would pass through the Highlands. I admit that sounds farfetched.” That grin again. "But then, how do I know ye were in Jamie’s room?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "You spied on me.”

  "And were you spying, mayhap?”

  So, he had neatly boxed her into a comer. “I had gone to get a book for Annie to practice her reading.”

  "And where is that book?"

  “There wasn’t one easy enough for her to read.”

  He brushed off his hands and rose to his feet. Thane rose, also, and looked to his master for a signal to leave. "Me thinks, Enya, ye are practicing your own kind of predicting.”

  "What?" she asked again, taken aback.

  He crossed to the door and paused with his hand on the latch. “Aye. Your confinement to the donjon, after all, should ye continue to make it difficult for me to treat ye as a guest rather than a prisoner.”