“There is treasure here,” said Core emphatically, trying to cover the falsehood. “I just need to find it.”
“Ye best find it soon.” Bran turned and strode back into the main hall. It was an unnecessary reminder.
Cormac put both hands on his hair and pulled, as if he could somehow pull out an idea to save them all. Jyne, Breanna, Brother Luke, the Ranalds, the monks, the books—all were depending on him. How was he going to get out of this?
Help! It was all he could think of to pray. I ken ye have little regard for me, but, Lord, ye must love the monks, no? I just need a treasure. Or at least more time. Please, just a little more time?
Suddenly, an idea flashed across his mind.
A short time later, Cormac emerged into the great hall, wearing his bearskin robe and horned helm, the trappings of ruthless power. His men were up to their old antics, feasting on venison from a successful hunt that day and engaging in all sorts of wild play.
He threw down a Templar shield on the wooden table with a great clatter, gaining the attention of the men. Though it was old, the long, rectangular shield still bore the markings of the Templars, a white field emblazoned with a red cross. Core had taken his own tour through the caverns while poor Donnach slept and found a shield that was no longer of use to its owner.
“Behold, men, the Templar shield!” announced Cormac.
The men cheered and gathered around him.
“Did ye find the treasure?”
“Where is it?”
“How much is my share?”
“The treasure is no’ in hand yet,” said Cormac. “But the shield is a sign we are growing closer!”
The men were disappointed for a moment.
“Let us celebrate wi’ another round o’ whiskey!” shouted Core.
The men cheered again and went back to their sport. Core caught Bran’s eye. The man crossed his arms and gave him a nod. Core had bought some time.
What was he going to do with it?
Twenty
Jyne smiled at Breanna, who returned it, albeit a bit tentatively. Cormac’s sister was of tall, statuesque proportions. Her bright red hair fell in wild ringlets, cascading down to her waist. She wore a simple brown gown of homespun. Despite the plainness of the gown, she was a beautiful girl, with fine porcelain skin, a spattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks, and sharp green eyes.
Breanna chewed on her bottom lip in a manner that would have brought Jyne instant reproach from any number of her female relatives. Jyne guessed Breanna had not had the benefit or burden of the constant commentary on behavior that Jyne had always known.
“So ye are Cormac’s sister.” It seemed a safe topic to start. Jyne now had an opportunity to find out more about Core. She was not about to let it pass by her.
“Aye.” Breanna spoke slowly, as if cautious to admit to it. “He is my half brother.”
“Ye share the same father, I understand. He seems a hard man.”
“Aye, he is at that.” Breanna chewed harder on the maligned lower lip, and Jyne feared she might do herself harm.
“Och, where are my manners? Ye’ve had yerself a trying day. Please sit here at the window and rest yerself. I fear ye must have lost yer veil in flight,” said Jyne, changing tactics. She wished to put Breanna more at ease. “Let me get ye one.”
Jyne opened her trunk and pulled out a silver-handled brush and a clean white veil. “I hope ye will allow me the honor of attending to yer hair.”
“Ye, m’lady?” Breanna’s eyes opened wide. “Och, nay, it would’na be right. Anyone what owns a brush made o’ silver should’na be tending to my hair.”
“Dinna be silly. I have done my sisters’ hair many a time.” Jyne began to fight her way through the tangled mass of curls, removing twigs and bits of debris as she went. Breanna must have truly had a difficult day. “Have ye been traveling long?”
“Nay, no’ long.” Breanna sighed, giving in to Jyne’s gentle but determined attempt to tame her wild hair. “I was hoping to find Cormac.”
“Has yer brother helped ye in the past?” Jyne tried to keep her tone neutral, as if she was merely being polite and not hanging on every word Breanna said.
“In little ways, as he could. He’s not been present any more than he can help. Everyone kens he’d rather have his nose in a book.”
“Why seek him out?”
“Where else would I go? He’s no’ like the rest. There’re none that I would trust to help me but him.”
Jyne smiled at this description of Cormac. It was very like the man she knew.
“He’s different than our father,” said Breanna, turning to Jyne with a solemn expression.
“Considering what ye’ve told me about yer father, I ken that to be a good thing.”
“Aye. And nay. The more Core is different, the more Father tries to make him more like his own devilish self.”
“Perhaps in time yer sire will learn to accept Cormac for who he is?” Jyne suggested.
Breanna snorted in return. “He winna stop until Core conforms himself to Father’s image or one o’ them is dead.”
Jyne assumed Breanna was speaking metaphorically. At least, she hoped so. “What sort o’ business does yer father wish to bring Cormac into?”
“Business?” Breanna snorted again and abruptly changed the subject. “Thank ye, m’lady, for the veil.” Breanna smoothed her hands down the sides of the linen veil where Jyne had just pinned it to her unruly hair, forcing it in place.
“There now, dinna move about. Let me finish plaiting it.” Jyne busied herself in finishing Breanna’s hair, disappointed she had not shared more about the mysterious father both Breanna and Cormac seemed to despise. Who could he be? Cormac had clearly been educated, so the man could not be a simple crofter or thief in the night. Perhaps a rich merchant gone bad? A disgraced lord? Whoever he was, it was clear neither Breanna nor Core wished her to know his name.
“Och, I’m certain my hair has ne’er looked so fine,” said Breanna with a smile when Jyne had finally tamed the last of her defiant curls.
“Yer locks did put up a fight.” Jyne’s arms were tired from the effort. “I do apologize. I’m sure I pulled ye something fierce.”
“Aye, but it was needed. Ye’re verra kind, m’lady.”
“Will ye no’ call me Jyne? I have missed having some company around my own age.”
“As ye wish, m’lady. But what are ye doing here wi’out yer kin? Core told me the others were o’ the Ranald clan.”
“I came to inspect my dower lands. The Ranalds were left here to fend for themselves after the great plague ravaged their clan. I found them and was here to help until the keep was taken by the Fire Lord.”
“But what can ye do to help?” Breanna tilted her head a bit to one side. “Ye’re only one lass, and a thin one at that.”
Jyne pressed her lips together. She had always been coddled and passed aside because of her size. But not anymore. “One person can make a great deal o’ difference. I can help by bringing organization, fresh ideas, and even hope. One person can change the world.”
Breanna stared at her, openmouthed. “I ne’er heard anyone speak that way.”
“I only wish,” admitted Jyne, coming back to earth from her lofty heights, “that my kin will arrive soon. I hope that perhaps they might arrive tomorrow, though it could be later, assuming my guard was able to return home safely. Then we could drive out this Fire Lord and get the planting done. These poor folks will need the crops if they are to survive the next winter.” Jyne walked to the window, opened the shutter, and stared out over the green valley. The boundaries of fields could be seen, but they had none strong enough to do the plowing.
“The ground has yet to be tilled,” observed Breanna, standing next to her.
“Aye. ’Tis getting late in the season, and wi’ those
men about, there’s no hope o’ trying. Not that I believe the elders could till all this land in any event.” Jyne sighed and leaned a shoulder on the stone window opening.
“I’m sorry,” mumbled Breanna.
“Forgive me. I should’na be burdening ye wi’ my troubles when ye have enough o’ yer own.” Jyne brushed her hands on her surcoat and noted that Breanna’s gown was well-worn and thin in places. The fields may be beyond her ability to fix, but ladies’ attire was certainly within her scope.
“Here now, we’re no’ done wi’ reviving ye from yer ordeal. Why dinna ye don this surcoat?” Jyne rummaged through her trunk and held up a silk sleeveless surcoat of a mossy green with golden embroidery around the trim.
“Oh, I could’na,” gasped Breanna, but she did not refuse when Jyne helped her put it on. Breanna twirled with delight in her new surcoat and respectable white veil.
“Ye look right bonnie,” said Jyne in all honesty.
“We must show Core!” said Breanna, skipping to the door.
“Nay, ye mustn’t go out,” reminded Jyne, hastily moving between Breanna and the door. “Ye canna be seen.”
“Och, aye.”
“I shall go and—wait, I’m sure I hear Cormac on the steps.” It had not been long that she had known him, but already, she believed she could identify his quick, light step.
Jyne opened the door, expecting to see Cormac, but instead, her blood chilled; her heart stopped.
Before her stood the Fire Lord.
She was afraid for a moment, but then it turned to something else. She needed men to till the land. He had strong men. She had managed to convince them to fix the postern gate. Maybe she could persuade him to plow the fields too.
It was worth a try.
* * *
Jyne stood on the landing of the stone staircase with her hands on her hips, her blue eyes sparkling like blue flames. She was so bonnie when she was angry, Cormac considered what more he could do in order to raise her ire.
“Where were ye today?” he thundered, or at least tried to with the helmet over his head. “Ye left yer chamber wi’out permission.”
“Ye ne’er said I needed to ask permission,” she countered, which was true.
“We made an agreement that ye would stay here and do as I please, and in return, no harm would come to the people here. Are ye going back on yer word?”
“Nay!” Jyne lifted her chin in a manner he found endearing. “I was taking the children somewhere safe. Somewhere far away, where ye’ll ne’er find them.”
“They’re in the crofters’ huts a few miles away.” Cormac could not help but show off his superior knowledge before her. He wanted to impress her.
Jyne inhaled sharply, her eyes wide. He had surprised her.
“Nay,” she lied. Her voice had a slightly different twinge to it, and he knew it to be fear.
He had taken it too far and had frightened the one person whose good opinion most mattered to him. He was about to say something conciliatory, but she spoke first.
“We have no need o’ the wee bairns. How can they be o’ service? No, what we need are strong lads, but I dinna ken where to find them.”
Cormac had the feeling he had just entered into a conversation already in progress, but he was reasonably sure he had been standing with her on the landing the whole time. “Strong men?” He did not follow.
“For the planting. ’Tis past time to put in the crops,” said Jyne with a purposeful tone. Strange, but fear in her eyes looked a lot like determination.
“I dinna care for yer crops, m’lady.”
“Ye’ll care when there’s no food left because there were none fit enough to plant it.”
“So have some o’ yer elders plant the fields.”
“We can plant, but we need someone to turn up the soil, for there are none here who have the brawn to do it. Tilling the fields takes a verra strong man indeed.”
Cormac stared at her. Was she truly trying to convince him to plant her fields? He suddenly realized what he interpreted as fear was actually the cold, calculating machinations of a lass trying to figure out how to get him to do her bidding. She was trying to manipulate him.
He had never found her more attractive.
“So ye think we have the brawn?” he asked slyly.
“I know ye do.” She spoke it in a matter-of-fact tone, but stepped forward and boldly put a hand on his shoulder, feeling down his arm. His jaw dropped, fortunately unseen in the helmet. Something in her eye glinted. She was good, this lass.
“Are ye trying to sweet-talk me, lass?”
Her arm dropped back to her side. “Just speaking the truth. The fields need to be planted. These people canna do it. So if it is to be done, it must be done by yer men.”
He put a hand on her shoulder and ran it down her arm, just as she had done to him. “And what will ye give me in return?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ye’ll get the joy o’ eating the harvest when it comes in and the gift o’ no’ starving in the winter.”
He shook his head, a painful act with such a heavy helm. “No’ good enough. We’ll be gone long before the winter.”
Jyne folded her arms before her. Her lips parted as if to say something, then she changed her mind and closed her mouth again. She tried a second time, only to pause once more. He was fascinated by the little flash of white teeth, the supple pink bottom lip, and the slight flash of her tongue. He had missed kissing her today, and his body ached for her. He was glad she could not read his expression, for if she could, she would know he was hers to command.
“What is it ye want?” she hedged.
“Make me an offer.” He was enjoying himself too much to ever again consider himself a decent person.
“I could…I could…” Her eyes flicked between him and someplace on the ceiling.
He leaned forward, not wanting to miss her next words. “Aye, lass?”
“I could make ye a meal.”
“Nay, I’ve seen what yer special brew can do. Ye’d have me wooing a milk cow and falling to sleep in a dung heap.”
She pressed her lips together in a vain attempt to suppress a smile. Her eyes danced as she tried to stop mirth from bubbling up. He had thought she was fetching when angry, but this was beyond anything he had yet seen. She was radiant when impishly trying not to give in to laughter. Core wished to take off the helmet, but knew if he did, all would be lost.
“I could play wi’ ye a game,” she suggested.
“A game?” He liked games. Especially games with her.
“Chess?”
His father did not play chess. He did.
“Ye think in return for plowing the fields to offer me a game o’ chess?” He’d do it for less.
“I know it’s no’ much to offer. But what else have I to give?”
Now he was getting somewhere. “Dinna underestimate yer appeal.” He spoke low in a voice he hoped was seductive. Though how seductive could a man be while wearing a ridiculous helmet with two large, protruding horns, as if desperately trying to compensate for something lacking under his kilt?
“I…I dinna ken.” She looked away, took a deep breath, then turned back to face him. She flushed pink, and he loved to see it. He had put those roses in her cheeks. “What is it ye want from me?” Her piercing blue eyes struck him between the slats of his helmet. In that moment of courage, she was not afraid of him. But he was of her.
“A bath.” The words were out of his mouth before he could consider what he was saying. He was under her spell. She was in control here, and he hoped she would never find out.
“A bath?” Her eyes opened wide.
“Aye. Ye are chatelaine o’ this keep, are ye no’? I’ve traveled far and am weary from the road. I wish for a bath.” With her.
She glanced away, thinking hard. Her mouth opened a
nd closed as it did when she was censoring her words. She ran her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip. Sweet heaven, he might have seen stars. “If ye wish to bathe, I shall arrange it.”
“Nay, ye shall attend me and none other.” They would be in the bathing room together. It was perfect. It was…impossible. How was he going to bathe with a helmet on his head?
“Ye shall see to it the fields are plowed?”
“I swear to ye, it will be done.”
She scowled at him, and he knew his word was worth nothing to her. She was no fool.
“Then as soon as it is completed, ye shall have yer bath.”
“Nay—”
“Ye’d no’ wish to do such hard, dirty work after bathing. Nay, after shall be better.” She was quite confident. And she was right to demand proof before payment.
It was his turn to scowl. Of course, that would give him more time to figure out how to bathe without being seen by her. He would not sit in a tub of water wearing this ridiculous helm. “Ye’re as shrewd as a fishwife, my lass.”
“I’m no’ now nor will I ever be yers!” Jyne’s eyes flashed, and she returned to her chamber, slamming the door behind her.
Cormac sighed. Truer words had never been spoken.
He slumped back down the stairs. Now how was he going to convince his men to become farmers?
Twenty-one
Breanna waited until Jyne’s breathing was even and she was certain the lady was asleep. She had managed to avoid talking as much as she could, but Jyne was curious, and Breanna didn’t blame her. Trouble was, Breanna wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say and what she was not. Fortunately, when Jyne returned from her encounter with Cormac as the Fire Lord, she spent a half hour pacing and expressing her deep dislike for the man, and Breanna found all she was required to do was agree.
After Jyne had several wide yawns, Breanna suggested she get some sleep, for the poor lass appeared exhausted. Jyne confessed she had slept very little in the past several days, and upon crawling into bed, was almost immediately asleep.
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