“Does he have family?” Tara inquired in a gentle tone. “Perhaps he received word of some illness or desperate need and departed in haste?”
Her intentions were true. She really did want to calm the lady, who appeared very upset.
“He has never left without permission. Without explanation. What if something happened to him?” The lady reached for a nearby cloth, and pressed it to her eyes.
“I’m certain he will return very soon, and with a good explanation.”
Although she prayed, most fervently, that he would not. Even so, no doubt Gilroy was alive and well somewhere.
“I pray you are right.” Lady Alwyn stood from her embroidery. “Regarding another matter … you, my dear. The laird has sent me a missive just this morning, reminding me not to smother you with my attentions, so that you will not want to run away again.”
“You were not the foremost reason I fled,” said Tara, before sharply reminding herself to just stay quiet. She must appear dutiful and resigned to the marriage.
“Forgiveness!” warbled the lady, not meeting her gaze. “We must always forgive, just as Hugh has forgiven you.”
Tara flinched inwardly at the idea that she had done anything Hugh needed to forgive. The lady, of course, had not heard the terrible things her son had said to her last night. She could tell her … but she suspected she would only be encouraged, once more, to forgive.
Indeed, she would strive to forgive and forget all, once she was far from here. She’d forget everything but Magnus, that is. She knew of a certain, he’d be impossible to forget.
For now, best she remained focused on finding the key. She’d already counted half a dozen little wooden chests about the room, and no doubt there were more in the lady’s chambers. If the key were even to be found in a chest! It might be on the very ring she wore at her waist.
She narrowed her gaze on the keys in question, swinging on their ring, as the lady tucked her embroidery away. “This morning after prayers, you may walk about the castle grounds, with Anna, as Mary prefers to remain with me. Dear girl. I rely on her so.”
Tara’s mood lifted again. She would be allowed to go outside. To see the sky and the sea, and the rest of Burnbryde. To inform herself on her surroundings.
Lady Alwyn continued on. “I’ve been assured by the laird there are enough warriors posted about to ensure your safety. Our afternoons, from this day on, will be very busy. I assume you have no wedding garments.”
“I assumed I would wear something I already owned.”
And all she owned were her dead sister’s gowns. What did it matter? She would be gone by then.
Mary appeared, with a shawl, which she draped over the lady’s shoulders.
“Nonsense,” Lady Alwyn replied with a scowl. “I will summon my tailor for the gown and my seamstress for your undergarments, and an appropriate wedding costume will be made, befitting the ward of the Earl of Buchan in her marriage to my handsome and important son. We will simply advise them all to hurry, as the wedding will take place in a matter of days. And of course, we must see that the chambers you will share with Hugh are properly fitted with linens and furnishings suitable for the laird’s married son and heir.”
Tara’s throat seized closed, at simply imagining being left alone in a room with Hugh, let alone being married to him. She nodded, fearing she could not rely upon her voice to offer a steady reply.
But something else the lady had said caused Tara’s heartbeat to skitter nervously. A matter of days.
“We need not be in such a rush,” Tara reassured the lady, softly. “We have at least a fortnight to prepare. Perhaps just a few days less. So said the earl himself, when we parted ways.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” the older woman responded, brows gathered. “We must be prepared, in the event he arrives sooner than that.”
Sooner than a fortnight? She prayed not. Already the moments passed by, tolling like a bell in her head, bringing her closer to a marriage she could not, under any circumstances, abide.
Lady Alwyn touched her neck, and looked toward her chamber. “Mary. Oh, Mary. I wish to wear my cross.” Looking at Tara, she said, “Just a moment more and we’ll go down.” She swept toward her room, and disappeared within.
Tara moved quickly, going to the largest of the wooden chests, situated near what appeared to be the lady’s favorite chair. Flipping open the lid, she quickly sorted through the clutter of notions and thread, her ears alert for any sound of returning footsteps. At the bottom, there were coins … a small key, yes, but not the one she needed.
“Oh, mistress,” said a voice. Anna’s. “Step away, before she sees you.”
She had been caught. Her heart pounded in panic. Numb with fear, Tara closed the lid, and turning quickly, moved away, returning to the place where she’d stood before.
She looked at Anna, who looked back at her.
“Please don’t tell her,” she begged.
The girl blinked, and lifted a hand to her mouth, before answering. “What are you looking for?”
Tara held silent.
“Tell me, mistress,” Anna urged, her face pale with tension. “I shall try to help you.”
“There is a concealed passage in my room that leads to a window, down below. I want the key. It is marked with a crescent moon.”
Anna stared back at her, her lips set into a fine line.
Lady Alwyn returned then, a gleaming cross at her throat, and Mary followed, looking as stern as usual.
Tara waited … uncertain whether Anna truly wanted to help her, or whether she would feel obligated to inform the lady of the castle what she’d observed Tara doing, and what Tara had confessed to be looking for. But Anna remained silent.
Tara descended the stairs behind the lady, followed by Mary and Anna. Once Lady Alwyn unlocked the door, they emerged into the company of several warriors, who provided them with an escort. Lanterns, fixed to the wall, lit their way until they arrived at a narrow chapel at the back of the castle. Dim morning light illuminated narrow windows. The laird’s warriors filled the room, their breath clouding the cold morning air.
Her heart stopped, seeing Hugh at the center of the nave. He looked at her, glassy-eyed and unsmiling, and extended his hand to her. Dark shadows underscored his eyes, and he wore his dark hair wet, and slicked back from his face.
She glanced at Lady Alwyn, who smiled encouragingly. “Yes, go. Stand beside your betrothed, here, in the presence of God, where soon, you shall be joined together forever.”
It was an edict with which she had no choice but to comply. She forced herself forward, filled with dread.
“You look … lovely this morning,” he said in a thick, hollow voice. His eyes flared with a predatory light that made her want to recoil. “Almost too beautiful to touch.”
But he did touch her, as she knew he would. Rather than taking her by the hand, he caught her by the wrist. His palm moist and cool against her skin, he led her to the front of the church. Her heart pounded harder … and harder … she overtaken by a sudden terror that she had been tricked, and that they would be married, here and now.
It was then she saw Magnus, standing with a row of warriors, his face turned toward her. His blue eyes seared her through and dropped to fix upon Hugh’s hand, where it claimed her.
Thankfully, Hugh did not take her to the chancel. Instead … he led her directly to where Magnus stood, standing directly in front of him. It was then that she saw the laird there as well.
He greeted her with raised eyebrows and a scowl. “At long last. The ladies have emerged from the tower.”
His gaze shifted to his wife, who had followed. He met her, and taking her hand, placed it on his arm.
Tara wanted nothing more than to look at Magnus again—to take comfort from his presence, but she could only look straight forward. Even so, her body reacted, tortured by his nearness—and at the same time, repulsed by Hugh’s.
Heat burned her cheeks, and she prayed the chapel was di
m enough that no one would notice. She let out a low, quavering breath.
Tara heard Hugh speak beside her, in a low hiss. “Are you staring at my betrothed for some reason?” He had turned, and looked behind her.
Tara stiffened, alarmed, but did not look back.
“She is standing right in front of me,” Magnus answered in a cool voice. “It’s not as if I can help it.”
“Watch yourself, cur,” Hugh muttered.
Three priests appeared, dressed in holy vestments, one swinging a smoking thurible.
“Hugh,” the Alwyn growled, in a low voice. “This is not the time, or the place.”
“Bastard,” muttered Hugh, his lips drawing back into a sneer.
Tara stiffened and attempted to pull her wrist free—infuriated that he should behave so, in this sacred place. But he held her fast, gripping her so hard she gasped from the sudden pain.
“I merely wish to pray,” she gritted, though it was a blasphemous lie. The truth was that she could not bear his touch one moment more.
Hugh looked back at her, his eyes as black and empty as an adder’s.
“You are devout, then?” he murmured, his lip drawn back to reveal his teeth. “A pity.”
A hand clapped onto his shoulder, and she saw Magnus out of the corner of her eye.
“You’re hurting her,” he uttered in a guttural tone. “Let her go.”
Hugh wrenched his shoulder free, and stared with outright hatred into Magnus’s eyes.
“Hugh,” his mother warned sharply, glaring out at him from beneath her veil.
Hugh let out a huff of air from between his lips, and turned to face forward, his hand still on her arm, but less of a vise now.
Tara stood numb … trembling, hardly hearing the prayers spoken. For all her thoughts of escape, she feared she would not be successful and that she’d be forced to marry this beast and live her life with him.
When they were finished, the priests ceremoniously left the room. The Alwyn led his wife after them, up the side aisle. Hugh, still leading Tara by the wrist, followed, with a withering look toward Magnus.
The Alwyn waited in the corridor. His glance fell darkly on Hugh, but moved just as quickly to his wife. “Will you join us for the morning meal?”
The lady shook her head, glancing warily around, throwing a distancing look to the nearest man as if he had ventured too close. “All this has tired me. As has my son’s behavior. We shall return to our chambers.”
The chief’s lips thinned, and he nodded, giving Tara the impression it was an answer he often received.
He glanced to her. “Mistress Iverach?”
“I am not hungry,” she said, prying her arm free of Hugh’s grip, agitated and flustered—trying her best to remain calm. “Lady Alwyn, you said I could go for a walk with Anna. I would like to do that, please, and see the castle from the outside. The ocean. I’d like to breathe some air.”
It was all she could think of. Being outside these thick, stone walls. Seeing what lay beyond.
“I will accompany you,” said Hugh.
Her heart froze in her chest.
“Why don’t you come with us instead?” said a voice behind him. Magnus drew alongside them, staring coldly at Hugh.
In the shadows of the corridor, he took her breath away. Standing a head taller than Hugh, he stared down his nose, his gleaming eyes and clenched jaw issuing a clear challenge to the man who had called him a cur just a short time ago.
Behind him stood some seven men, looking at Hugh with much the same expression—men clearly loyal to Magnus.
Looking at the two of them, standing face-to-face as they were, only confirmed their differences. There was no comparison. Magnus was a finer warrior, a finer man. He glowed, radiant and golden, from inside and without, while Hugh, in comparison, was a dull, spiteful lump of coal.
“Go with you. What for?” said Hugh, dismissively. He squinted suspiciously.
Magnus answered. “For our customary morning weapons practice.”
“That you usually sleep through,” the laird chuckled, and yet no smile lit his eyes. “A fine idea. With the earl arriving soon, you will want to be in your best form. I will come along as well.”
He clasped a hand to his son’s shoulder, and led him away, followed by the others. Only Magnus held back. No words were spoken. Barely even a glance passed between them, but she felt his claiming of her just as certainly as if he’d kissed her there on the stones, in full sight of everyone. Then, he was gone with the others.
She, Anna, and Mary walked with Lady Alwyn to the tower stairs. At the bottom, the older woman peered up, her cheeks pale, and her stance, suddenly unsteady.
“Oh…” she murmured thickly.
Despite everything, concern welled up inside Tara. She reached out to take her arm. “My lady, are you unwell?”
The older shook her head. “Just … unsteady, as I have been of late.”
Mary stepped closer. “She sometimes has these spells. I will help her up the stairs.” She turned and called to a nearby male servant, who rushed to assist.
“Should a healer be called?” Tara inquired.
Mary answered. “If she does not improve. Go on. It is likely nothing, and she will improve once rested.”
The three of them made their way up the steps. Tara watched until they safely reached the top, before turning to Anna. “How long has she suffered the spells?”
“Since last winter. Excitement seems to bring them on. Emotion. And anyone can see she was very displeased by Hugh’s behavior. She has a very strong respect for the church.” She gave a small smile. “She is always threatening to leave Burnbryde, and put herself away in a nunnery.”
They walked out of the doors, between guards that were posted there, into the courtyard. It was early morning still, and very cold, and she was thankful she’d worn her cloak, in addition to layers of wool.
“Why is she so unhappy here?”
Anna answered in a hushed voice. “I can only surmise it is because the men in her life have disappointed her greatly, though she would never confess it to anyone but her priest. Certainly not you or I. But I know her heart is broken a little more each time she discovers the laird has another mistress. And every time her son … behaves as he does.” Anna’s eyes widened and she shrugged. “But I talk too much. I’d be sent away if she knew. And most especially if she found out I knew, and did not tell her, that you were looking for the key to that window.”
“Let’s talk about something else then,” said Tara, her heart beating faster.
She liked Anna very much, and did not want to overly test her loyalties.
“Yes, let us do that.” Anna nodded, smiling—her cheeks bright from the frigid wind. “You said you wished to see the ocean?”
“Yes. As you yourself know, there are no windows in the tower, and it was too dark the night of my arrival to see.”
Even now she could hear it crashing against the rocks.
They walked, still inside the castle walls, meandering through a myriad of smaller, wattle-and-daub cottages and work structures. She could not help but notice Alwyn warriors, stationed everywhere. They stood on the walls above. At the gates, and it seemed, everywhere in between. But her importance within the castle was already established, apparently. None met her gaze, and if they did, a polite nod was offered, before the man in question quickly looked away.
Other, common people moved about—women with wash baskets, and men with rakes and hoes—nodding in greeting as they passed. Children chased one another, screaming happily.
Tara realized, in that moment, that Burnbryde was not so terrible or frightening a place. Under other circumstances, she thought she might be happy here. She allowed herself a moment’s fantasy, that there was no Laird or Lady Alwyn, and certainly no Hugh. There was only Magnus, who would be a natural leader, she thought, as well as a fine husband … and lover.
The cold air cooled her heated cheeks, and tugged at her cloak, causing it to sna
p in the wind.
Anna lifted a hand. “We’ll just continue on this way. There is a gate at the back wall.” She paused, and smiled. “Oh, but look, it’s the whitesmith.”
Tara looked in the same direction and observed a tiny little man standing beside a wagon, covered with all manner of shiny things. Spoons and cups and crosses, and many other household items. Together they walked to the wagon.
Anna smiled brightly. “He had the most beautiful hair combs when he visited last.” Walking forward, she waved a greeting and called out to him. “Have y’ come to repair all the broken things in the kitchen?”
He bent his head. “’at I ’ave! It’s guid fur me ’at the cook likes throwin’ and breakin’ things. Lass, I’ve got yer hair combs ’ere that ye liked th’ last time.”
“And me with no coin to buy them with,” she declared. She held up her empty hands.
“Nor I,” added Tara, thinking that she would treat them both to a pair of the hair combs, and Mary as well—and even Lady Alwyn, just to be nice. “How long will you be here?”
“Oh, lass, I’ll be here and there, and all around for at least a sennecht,” he answered. “Until th’ festival in Rackamoor is dain.”
She and Anna promised to return for the combs, and said good-bye. They continued on toward the back of the castle.
“A festival,” said Tara. “That sounds wonderful. I’ve not been to one since I was a child, before my parents died. Where is Rackamoor?”
“Not far. It’s a village just north of here, less than an hour’s ride away. You might have traveled past it on your journey to Burnbryde. If you blinked you would have missed it, but once a year, they have festival, where you can purchase all sorts of wares. It’s just country folk who come out, and some from the castle here. It is nothing grand, like the great festival of the Cearcal, but there is dancing and a bonfire!”
“Is Rackamoor on Kincaid land, or Alwyn?” Tara mused, working to get her bearings. “The Kincaid lands also lie north of here, do they not?”
The Rebel of Clan Kincaid Page 16