by June Francis
A devilish glint showed in his eyes, lighting facets of gold and green in the iris. ‘Just Mackillin. I appreciate the offer, but I’m warm in my dirt, lass. As for changing my clothes, what’s the use of that when I’ll be travelling in them on the morrow?’ He removed his gauntlets and reached for the pewter cup.
She made certain his fingers did not touch hers. ‘As you wish,’ she said abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’
He inclined his head and she almost fled into the kitchen. He was a savage. She found the women servants plucking chickens and saw that dough was rising on a stone slab close to the fire. Realising that it would be some time before supper was ready, she left them to their tasks. Taking a lantern from a cupboard, she lit the candle inside and made for the door that opened on to a spiral staircase that led up to her turret room.
Built a hundred years ago during the times when the Scots had raided this far south of the border, the house had been fortified. Since then, improvements had been made to the property, but her dead stepmother had constantly said it should be pulled down and a cosier, more convenient one built in its place. Her father had laughingly suggested that his wife might prefer his father’s house and she had not complained again.
Cicely had been hurt at such criticism of the house she had always liked and had hoped that when she and Diccon wed, he would be willing to live here, so they could all be one big happy family. Now her dreams were all up in the air due to his prolonged absence, and with the changes her father’s death would necessarily bring. Her eyes filled with tears again and she brushed them away with her sleeve.
She came to her bedchamber and was grateful for the warmth and light from the charcoal brazier that had been placed there earlier in the day. Darkness had fallen and she could hear a rising wind so, hastily, she crossed the room and closed the shutters.
She yawned and sank on to the bed. Her shoulders drooped as her heart ached with sorrow. She longed to lie down and escape into sleep. Mackillin! Was he being truthful when he’d said he wished for no reward? And what had he meant when he said that she would not wish to pay his price if he were to seek it? She remembered the feel of his lips on hers and the hardness of his chest against her breasts. Could he possibly have hinted that bedding her was the reward he would have demanded? The blood rushed to her cheeks and she got up hastily and went over to the chest at the foot of her bed.
She lifted the heavy lid and pushed it back, holding the lantern so she could peer inside. When her stepmother had died, Cicely, aided by her maid, had made mourning clothes to attend her funeral and had worn them almost constantly for months afterwards. Even though there would be no such service for her father here in Yorkshire, Cicely wanted to do everything possible to honour his memory and that meant dressing in a way that was fitting.
She put down the lantern and pulled out a black surcoat and unadorned black gown, knowing that a requiem mass must also be arranged. There was water in the pitcher on the washstand and she poured some into a bowl and washed her hands and face, drying them on a heavy cotton cloth that her father had brought from one of the great fairs in Europe. She removed her muddy shoes and the lamb’s-wool bags, as well as her outer garments. Then, over a cream woollen kirtle, she put on the black gown made from the finest wool that her father’s tenants’ flocks produced. On top of these, she fastened a silk-lined, padded surcoat, trimmed with sable, the fur having been shipped from the Baltic and bought in Bruges.
Again, she rummaged to the bottom of the chest and this time took out a sweet-smelling cedarwood box from its depths. She removed a girdle that was made of links formed in a pattern of silver leaves and fastened it about her hips before lifting a fine silver chain and crucifix from the box and fastening the chain about her neck. She found black ribands in a cloth bag, wove them through strands of her hair and braided them into two plaits. Lastly she slipped on heelless leather slippers before sitting on her bed and wondering what to do next.
Her emotions were in confusion and she felt too close to weeping to face the men downstairs just yet; especially the Scottish lord, whose eyes expressed much that his lips did not say. Lord or not, she still believed him a barbarian at heart. The manner in which he had swept her into his arms and kissed her had been truly shocking. She lay down on the bed, thinking of those moments. Her eyelids drooped and she told herself it was unseemly and sinful to still dwell on his kiss. Instead she should be praying for her father’s soul and considering what they should do when Matt returned. Her thoughts began to drift and, within minutes, she was asleep.
Chapter Two
‘Where’s my sister?’ Jack, who had been dozing in front of the fire, blinked up at Martha who was setting the table.
‘I don’t know, Master Jack, but it’s a good four hours since Mistress Cicely came to the kitchen. Supper is ready to be served and we’ve had no word from her.’
‘Perhaps she’s in her bedchamber,’ suggested Mackillin.
Martha stared curiously at the Scottish lord and her plump face told him exactly what she made of him. ‘I’ll send Tabitha to look,’ she said.
So the maid went upstairs to her mistress’s bedchamber and found her slumbering. Uncertain what to do, and knowing Cicely had passed many a sleepless night, worrying about her father and brother, Tabitha was reluctant to disturb her mistress and went downstairs to tell of her discovery.
‘Dressed for mourning she is, and lying on top of her bed fast asleep. No doubt she’s exhausted, Master Jack. She’s been fretting for weeks, worrying herself about you and the master, as well as your stepbrother.’
The youth glanced at Mackillin. ‘Should I wake her?’
Mackillin wondered if she was truly asleep or whether she was pretending in order to escape his presence. Either way, it might be best if he were not to see her again before leaving in the morning. ‘Let your mistress rest, lass. Sleep is good for her at such a sad time. Make sure she is warm—I think we’re in for a cold night.’
‘And after you have done that, Tabby, fetch in the supper,’ ordered Jack.
‘And a bowl of water and a drying cloth,’ added Mackillin with a smile. ‘I’d like to wash my hands before I eat.’
Cicely started awake and for several moments lay in the darkness, wondering what had disturbed her sleep. She had been dreaming that she was being chased along a castle’s battlements, pursued by a large hound and a black-cloaked dark figure. Her heart pounded. Then she heard a shutter banging and the howling of the wind and, although reluctant to get out of bed because she was so snug, knew she had to silence that shutter.
As she sat up, the crucifix slid along its chain and she clasped it. It had been her mother’s and she only wore it on special occasions, never in bed. Memories of yesterday came flooding in and a sob broke from her. She would never again see her father’s smiling face or hear his deep voice speaking her name. For a moment her grief was such that she could not move, but the shutter banged again and a freezing draught blew across the room. She felt a dampness on her cheek. Pushing down the covers, she climbed out of bed.
No glow came from the charcoal brazier and the candle in her lantern had burnt down. How long had she been asleep? Was it late evening or the middle of the night? Her stomach rumbled. She had missed supper. Why hadn’t someone roused her? She remembered Mackillin and groaned. He would surely be thinking the worst of her. Then she asked herself why she should care about what he thought of her. In the morning he would be gone.
The shutter crashed against the stone wall outside once more and icy air gushed into the room. She shivered, remembering her father’s promise to bring her a sheet of the finest Flemish glass for her window opening. Her eyes were now accustomed to the darkness, but she wished she had a light and fumbled for a fresh candle and her tinder box in the small cupboard next to the bed.
Another gust of wind fluttered the long sleeves and hem of her gown and she pulled a face, realising it was unlikely she’d get a decent spark in such a strong draught. She placed
both items on the chest and crossed to the window. She reached through the aperture and was almost blinded by a flurry of snowflakes. She gasped and frantically groped for the shutter. A sigh of relief escaped her as her fingers touched wood, but she had a struggle pulling the shutter towards her. At last she managed to do so and fastened the hook securely before stepping back. The clothing chest caught her behind her knees and she fell on to it.
Wiping her damp face with her sleeve, she looked around and could just about make out the outline of the door to the stairway. Her stomach rumbled again. Why hadn’t she been roused? Perhaps Mackillin had got Jack drunk on her father’s wine and cut his throat and was even now plundering the household. Fear clutched her heart. Yet surely she was allowing her imagination to run away with her. Jack trusted him. Even so, she would not rest until she saw for herself that all was well.
She groped for the candle and tinder box, but it was just as hopeless trying to get a spark in the dark. Hopefully, she would find her way downstairs without a light. If she failed, then she would return to her bedchamber. She would not think about Jack lying there with his throat cut—or demons and apparitions, which some said were the souls of the dead come back to haunt the living. She thought of her father and prayed that God would accept him into Heaven. Clutching her crucifix, she felt her way along the wall to the door.
Once outside, there was a lessening of the darkness and she noticed a faint light penetrating the lancet aperture on the stairway. She put her eye to it and saw that snow blanketed the landscape and was still falling in large, fat flakes. Her heart sank, realising she was not going to get rid of the barbaric lord after all. Using extreme caution, she continued down the steps, brushing the wall with her hand.
Once through the door at the bottom, she paused to get her bearings as there were no windows in the passageway. She could still hear the roaring of the gale, albeit the sound was fainter here. Her heart beat heavily as she moved forward through a darkness that seemed to press in on her like a living force. She strained her eyes and ears, alert to any danger. Her hand touched wood. A closed door. She passed it and came to another closed door. She walked on with more confidence, convinced that the kitchen door was straight ahead. She heard the squeak of a latch and started back as the door opened and the light from a lantern temporarily blinded her.
An expletive was swiftly smothered as someone reached out and seized her by the wrist. ‘God’s blood, lass! What are you doing creeping around in the dark? I could have hurt you,’ said Mackillin, lowering the lantern.
She caught a glimpse of his wild hair, unshaven rugged profile and words failed her. Light-headed with hunger and emotional strain, she swayed against him. He smothered another expletive and, placing an arm around her, half-carried her into the kitchen. She stirred in his arms and tried to push him away, but it was like trying to make a dint in a shield with a feather. ‘Let me go,’ she cried.
‘I’ll free you once I’m certain you aren’t going to swoon again.’
‘I did not swoon,’ she said indignantly.
‘You did.’ He placed the lantern on a table and sat down in a chair in front of the fire and drew her onto his knee.
‘What are you doing?’ Panic strengthened her will and she hit out at him.
‘Desist, woman! I intend you no harm, you little fool.’
‘I don’t believe you. Where’s Jack?’ She looked wildly about her.
‘Where any sensible person is at this time of night—in his bed. Now, don’t wriggle. I will release you if you promise to sit still and listen to me.’
She considered what he’d just said and calmed down. ‘You mean you’ll tell me what you were doing creeping out of the kitchen?’
‘I heard banging and wondered at first if it was some misguided traveller, who had lost his way and come seeking shelter,’ he said smoothly, not wanting to frighten her. ‘I had fallen asleep and had no idea what watch of the night it was when I woke. Not wanting to disturb those sleeping in the hall by opening the main door, and uncertain whether the traveller would be a friend or foe, I decided to make for the kitchen door. When I looked outside I realised that any traveller would have to be a madman to be out on such a night.’ His expression was grim. ‘It appears I will not be going anywhere in the morning.’
‘The snow might not be as deep as we fear,’ she said quickly.
‘Perhaps. I pray so. My enemies will take my land if I am delayed here too long.’ She wondered who his enemies were, but did not ask because he was speaking again. ‘What set you to wandering about the house?’ he asked.
‘The wind had blown my shutter loose and woke me up. I managed to fix it. I realised how hungry I was and came in search of food.’
‘Of course, you missed your supper. There is still food aplenty.’ She caught the gleam of his strong teeth in the firelight and the arms constraining her slackened.
She shot off his knee as if stung. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your bed, Lord Mackillin.’
She put some distance between them by going over to the table and leaning against it. She waited for him to leave the kitchen, but he made no move to do so. Tension stiffened her shoulders and she forced herself to relax and walk over to the fire, where an enormous log slumbered, its underbelly glowing red. She estimated it would last out the night, ensuring a fire would not have to be relit in the morning, a difficult task at times. A few feet away, her favourite mouser twitched in its sleep.
‘You remind me of night, all black and silver,’ said Mackillin abruptly.
His words startled her into staring at him. ‘What did you say?’
‘If you did not hear, I will not repeat it.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Sit down by the fire, mistress. I will fetch some bread and fowl. I have slept enough and who is to say that you might not hesitate to knife me if I were to slumber.’ His expressive eyes mocked her.
Several times he had shocked her by his words, but that he should believe she would stab him as he slept and the idea that he should wait on her were two things not to be tolerated. ‘I would not harm you. Indeed, if you are to extend your stay, you cannot continue to sleep in the hall. You need privacy. As for you fetching and carrying for me…nay, my lord, it is not right.’
‘I do not care whether it is right or wrong.’ His tone was adamant. ‘I am not so high and mighty that I cannot serve another. Did Christ not wait on his disciples during the last supper? No doubt the following days and weeks will prove difficult enough for you in the light of your father’s death, so take your ease and do not argue with me. And if you are worried about my hands being dirty, I’ve washed them.’
He left her to think on that while he fetched food and drink, trying not to dwell on how erotic he found her appearance in her mourning garb. He had to remind himself that she was the daughter of the house and that he could find a far more suitable bride in Scotland. He had almost made up his mind to marry Mary Armstrong. She was the daughter of one of his neighbours, an arrogant man who ruled his household with an iron rod. His wife had died in suspicious circumstances and Mackillin would like to rescue Mary from her father’s house.
Besides, his mother, the Lady Joan, had been a great friend of Mary’s mother, and she had spoken in favour of such an alliance years ago, although his father had been against it. There had been no love lost between the two men. The disagreement had resulted in one of their quarrels which always ended up with his mother preserving an icy silence towards her husband for days on end. As a young girl she had been carried across Mackillin’s father’s saddlebow on a border raid like a common wench and she had never forgiven him for treating her in such a fashion.
His mother had found no welcome in her future in-laws’ house, one reason being that she could never forget that she belonged to the highborn English family, the Percys. It was to them Mackillin had been sent after his half-brother, Fergus, had tried to kill him seventeen years ago, when he was eight years old. His Scottish half-brothers had resented him, almost as much as t
hey hated his mother. His upbringing would have been less violent if they had been girls instead of boys, but then he might have stayed home instead of leaving to be educated in Northumberland and indulging his love of boats and travel.
Cicely decided that perhaps it was best to do what Mackillin said and sat in the chair he vacated. She stretched her cold feet towards the fire, not knowing what to make of the man. What kind of lord was it that waited on a woman? An unusual one who excused his lowly behaviour by speaking of Christ’s humility. She wondered in what other way he would surprise her during his sojourn in her home. What if he ended up staying a sennight or more? She was thankful there was still food in the storeroom: flour, raisins, a side of bacon, salted fish, smoked eel, a little butter, cheese, fresh and bottled fruit, honey, oats and barley. Also, enough logs remained piled high in one of the outhouses. The animals were not forgotten either and there was some straw and hay, as well as corn in the barn.
She heard a noise and, glancing over her shoulder, saw Mackillin carrying a platter. She rose hastily to her feet. ‘You should not be doing this, Lor—Mackillin,’ she said, taking the platter from him and placing it on the table.
He ignored her comment and put a napkin and knife beside the platter before leaving the kitchen. She sat down, wondering if he would return. No matter. She was famished and the chicken leg and slices of breast meat looked appetising. She picked up the meat and sank her teeth into it. It tasted so good that she closed her eyes in ecstasy.
‘This will wash it down,’ said a voice.
She opened her eyes and saw that Mackillin was holding a silver-and-glass pitcher of what appeared to be her father’s malmsey, a wine he had called the best in the world. ‘You’ve drunk some of that?’ she asked.