Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  When Nanty nodded, she began. As the list grew, so did the looks of confusion on Diarmot and Nanty’s faces. Ilsa carefully set to the side the journal with the sentence she considered the coup de grace. She held it when she finished with the others and watched Diarmot read the list Nanty had made. When both men looked at her, she just smiled. There was the glint of understanding in their eyes, but also hesitation.

  “Precious Love sounds a verra odd sort of mon,” murmured Nanty.

  “Verra odd,” agreed Ilsa. “Now, write this down as I read it. ‘Precious Love kens how to touch a woman, kens a woman’s needs and desires as no mon e’er could.’” She watched both men read it again, then curse.

  “I did catch her one time with a woman,” said Diarmot. “I didnae see the woman though. It was dark, I was drunk, and the lass burrowed into a cloak and fled ere I could get a good look at her. Yet, sin though the church is wont to call it, it doesnae mean this woman is the one we seek.”

  “Mayhap not,” agreed Ilsa. “It wasnae actually the discovery that Precious Love was a woman that made me think this is what sent ye hurrying out to Dubheidland or thereabout. Yet, Precious Love was verra important, was a part of Anabelle’s life since they were both verra young girls. From all I read, Anabelle ruled that woman with an iron fist, controlled her, enslaved her, if ye will. It gives me the shivers, but Anabelle wrote of times when she demanded a penance and got it, even to making the woman crawl to her on her belly, naked. Think of what that woman must be like, how she must have felt about Anabelle to allow herself to be used that way. One has to wonder. From the time she was a young lass, Anabelle was her love.”

  “A sick sort of love,” muttered Nanty, “and nay because it was between women. No one speaks of it, but we all ken that such love can exist between men. Why not women? Nay, tis the rest of it. Penances? Crawling to her? That is what sets one’s stomach to twitching.” He frowned. “And Anabelle wasnae only her love, was she? She was her master. She was probably her whole life.”

  Ilsa nodded. “She couldnae marry her love, either, had to watch her marry elsewhere, had to watch her belong to someone else and give that hated mon a child.”

  “And she believes that mon killed her,” said Diarmot.

  “Ah, nay, though the woman may have made herself believe that,” said Ilsa, slumping back against the pillows as weariness began to overtake her. “Precious Love gave Anabelle the potion which killed her.”

  Diarmot cursed again, then began to pick up the journals. “So how does one find this woman?”

  “I think ye guessed. L.O. is all Anabelle called the woman she and Precious Love fostered with.”

  “Rest, Ilsa.” Diarmot kissed her. “Ye have given me a great deal to think on. Whether this Precious Love is the one who tried to kill me or nay, she will have at least some of the answers I need. I just need to find her.”

  The moment Diarmot and Nanty left, Ilsa made herself comfortable in the bed and closed her eyes. She had used up what little strength she had had, but decided it had been worth it. In her heart, she felt this woman was their enemy. If Precious Love had been a man, she was sure Diarmot and Nanty would have immediately agreed. It was often difficult for men to think a woman could be dangerous in any important way, but Ilsa suspected a few certain men were about to learn an important lesson. If a woman wanted to, she could be as ruthless and deadly as any man.

  “Precious Love?” Sigimor muttered between bites of rabbit stew. “What a ridiculous name. Almost puts one off one’s food.”

  “Tis a good thing ye have a strong stomach then,” said Diarmot. “Anabelle called her lover that.”

  “And her lover was a woman? Does this woman hate men, too?”

  “Aye. As Anabelle, I think that loathing was bred at a verra young age and probably through rape. I believed Anabelle’s tale of rape, the one she told me to explain her lack of a maidenhead. Now, after reading the early journals more closely, I see why. She was actually telling me a true story. From what Anabelle wrote, this other woman was also raped, and at a verra young age.”

  “And so she decided to love women?”

  “Nay, I doubt rape or loathing men did that. What few women I have kenned who suffered from a mon’s brutality didnae want any lover, mon or woman. If they recovered, as Gay seems to be recovering, they wanted a mon. This lass probably always preferred women. Anabelle rarely mentions Precious Love having another lover, a mon. My wife apparently liked anything.” Diarmot shrugged. “We ne’er question those men who prefer men, just accept it as so. It must be the same with women. It just is.”

  “Aye, I suppose.” Sigimor took a large chunk of bread and dipped it into his stew. “If one thought of this lover as a mon and gave him all those same reasons for going, weel, mad with grief and wanting revenge, I suspicion we wouldnae be having this discussion. We would be out hunting the bastard. Tis just a wee bit galling to think some lass has been leading us about in circles and nearly succeeding in killing ye and Ilsa right under our noses.”

  “Weel, we cannae be certain this woman is the one who tried to kill us,” said Diarmot.

  “Tis her. She obviously has someone helping her, but tis this Precious Love behind all this trouble.” He rolled his eyes. “Best pray we find her ere she succeeds. Ye dinnae want ‘Murdered by Precious Love’ on your crypt stone.” Sigimor winked and shoved the stew-soaked chunk of bread into his mouth.

  Diarmot gave both Tait and Nanty a look of disgust when they laughed. Sigimor had a very odd sense of humor, he decided. He understood the need for a moment or two of foolishness. The last few days had been very long and weighted with anger and uncertainty. Until the one who had tried to kill him and Ilsa was gone, however, Diarmot could not share in it.

  “Ye cannae remember why ye were riding about our lands yet, can ye?” asked Sigimor.

  “Nay,” replied Diarmot. “I searched through all of Anabelle’s writings, as did Nanty, but we could not find anything that pointed me toward Dubheidland or Muirladen. I ken whatever did is still there, it just doesnae want to reveal itself. Nothing in Anabelle’s writings brings it forth. Fraser couldnae help us, either. Anabelle rarely spoke of her past. And, as Fraser says, Anabelle didnae see her as a confidante, merely a servant. Cannae think of who L.O. might be, either.”

  “If tis someone near Dubheidland, it could be one of several people. It all depends upon whether the L stands for a title or a Christian name.”

  “I believe it is the name of the woman Anabelle and her lover were fostered with, the one who was training them.”

  “How many years ago would that have been?”

  “About ten. Ilsa feels Anabelle would have been about four and ten when she began the journals. This Precious Love was a wee bit younger.” He shook his head. “That means that both women were ill-used whilst little more than children. It gave them yet another bond. I went to Dubheidland or Muirladen looking for answers. I may nay recall why, but it still seems the best place to start looking for L.O.”

  Sigimor nodded. “I have been eager to go there anyway, to find out why I havenae heard from any of my kinsmen. Nanty, Tait, and I will leave in two days’ time. I want to have a look at the journals written whilst your wife was being fostered first. I ken the land and people all round Dubheidland better than ye do and might see something that tells me where to start my search.”

  “Fair enough. I want to go with ye.”

  “Nay, that would leave no one to watch o’er Ilsa and the bairns.”

  Diarmot winced. “There would be young Tom, Peter, Father Goudie, and the women. And Geordie.”

  “Geordie is the one who brought Ilsa the poisoned wine.”

  “He explained that. One of the maids gave him the tray and told him it was by my order. His story is given the weight of truth by the fact that the maid is gone. She disappeared soon after Ilsa took ill. Fraser and Glenda say they will prepare all the food for Ilsa and the bairns. They all ken nay to go anywhere alone.” He grimaced and drag
ged a hand through his hair. “I just feel as if there is a strong chance I will restir those elusive memories if I return to Muirladen.”

  “That does make sense, Sigimor,” said Tait. “Tis certainly worth a try.”

  “Then I shall stay here,” said Nanty. “Ye go, Diarmot. Tis the wisest choice. I dinnae ken the land or the people there and I have no memory that needs prodding. I can keep watch here as weel as ye can.”

  “Thank ye, Nanty.”

  “And ye can reacquaint yourself with all of Ilsa’s kinsmen,” Nanty drawled, then laughed along with the Camerons.

  Diarmot smiled and helped himself to some rabbit stew. Now that plans had been made his appetite had been revived. He felt the thrill of the hunt course through his veins, but he also felt the first real stirring of hope since his ordeal had begun. There was finally a real chance of getting some answers, of ending the constant expectation of another attack. He could finally put a name and a face to his enemy. That would put an end to the need to watch every shadow, to wonder which of the many people at Clachthrom could be trusted.

  He would have some semblance of peace again. Time in which he could take a long, hard look at what did or did not exist between him and Ilsa. Time in which he could repair his marriage and make a proper family of them all. He could only hope that, by clinging so fiercely to his doubts and fears for so long, he had not lost the chance to do so.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  It felt good to be clean from head to toe, Ilsa decided as she brushed her hair dry before the fire. The gentle washings given her when she had been ill and while her bleeding had lingered had not been enough to really make her feel clean. The moment Diarmot had left the room this morning, she had called for a bath and had luxuriated in it, shamelessly. Now the outside of her felt as good as the inside.

  Glenda was too modest, she thought. The woman insisted Ilsa’s own body had done most of the work. Ilsa knew she was a quick healer, but also knew Glenda’s herbal remedies had helped her keep up her strength and cleanse the poison from her body. The medicines had also helped to dry up her milk with little discomfort, soothe her battered insides, and ease the loss of her child. Ilsa just wished the woman had a potion to ease the sorrow that still lingered over that loss.

  She gasped softly when Diarmot suddenly strode into the room. He was supposed to be busy preparing to leave for Dubheidland. That was one reason she had insisted upon a bath. She had wanted to look her best when she bid him a good journey. Her eyes widened when he grinned and latched the door.

  “Ye have had your bath,” he said as he approached her.

  “Aye.” Ilsa suddenly felt very naked despite the heavy robe she wore.

  “So your bleeding has ended then.”

  Ilsa blushed. “Aye.”

  “Ah, good.”

  Ilsa felt her eyes widen again as he began to shed his clothes. “I thought ye were leaving soon.”

  “I am. After,” he said.

  “After? Oh! I see how it is. Ye think to have a wee frolic ere ye ride off into the mists.”

  “Tis a fine, sun-filled day. Nary a mist in sight.” He ignored her irritation and continued to undress.

  “When are ye leaving?” she asked, suddenly suspicious and trying hard to ignore the fact that he wore only his braies now.

  “In an hour.” He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. “That should be time enough for a proper, hearty fareweel.”

  “Weel, that was certainly hearty,” Ilsa murmured when she was finally able to catch her breath and felt Diarmot chuckle against her skin.

  Proper it was not, however, she mused, as she looked over the man sprawled in her arms. Fast, furious, and a little rough, but not proper. She supposed she ought to be outraged that he would ravish her then tug on his boots and ride away but, with her body still warm and alive from his love-making, it was impossible. She had not been able to satisfy his needs until now and this was a journey that could no longer be delayed.

  It was probably foolish, but she actually felt a little flattered. Diarmot had obviously understood the implications of her having a bath and, despite how important this journey was to him, had rushed to her side. Since it had only been six days since they had last made love, Ilsa knew it was not the urgency of long deprivation that had brought him there. The fact that he would be leaving Clachthrom with the memory of the passion they could share still fresh in his mind was certainly a good thing. No, she thought, Diarmot might be dashing from her bed to saddle his horse and leave, but she could see no cause for complaint about what had just happened.

  “I would like naught more than to stay here,” Diarmot said, kissed her, and got out of bed, “but I cannae.”

  Ilsa sat up, clutching the sheet to her breasts, and watched Diarmot dress. “Did Sigimor find any clues in Anabelle’s journals?”

  “He hasnae said. I asked, but he just shrugged. Said he wants to talk to Liam first. Liam is the clever cousin, aye?”

  “Och, aye. I like to think all we Camerons are clever,” she exchanged a brief grin with Diarmot, “but Liam is our shining light.”

  “Every family has one. The twins are too young to ken their strengths, but, right now, Odo is ours, I think.”

  It was not easy, but Ilsa hid the emotion which swelled up within her over the way he had called Odo “ours.” “Nay question about that.”

  “I must be on my way.” He gave her a quick, fierce kiss before starting toward the door.

  “Dinnae ye dare to ride away until I get down to the bailey.”

  “Be quick about it then. I am nay the only one eager to get to Dubheidland.”

  He laughed softly when she started muttering as he left. It surprised him that she had not objected more to his rushing her into bed, vigorously tumbling her, and then hurrying away again. The moment he had realized what her calling for a bath meant, however, he had been unable to resist going to her. It certainly made for a nicer farewell than a mere wave, he thought, and grinned as he stepped out into the bailey.

  “I am nay sure, Tait,” drawled Sigimor, “but, as Ilsa’s brothers, I think it might be our duty to slap that look off that rogue’s face.”

  Diarmot just smiled sweetly at Ilsa’s brothers and moved to check the saddle on his horse.

  “I think we ought to slap that look off his face simply because he is wearing it and we arenae,” said Tait.

  “Aye, that would be justice,” said Nanty.

  Before that nonsense could continue, Fraser and Gay brought the children out to say farewell. Diarmot looked over the eight children he claimed as his. He could be certain of only the twins, and that was a judgment he had made only recently. It no longer mattered, however. Until Ilsa’s arrival, the children had been a rarely seen responsibility, but she had brought them out of the nursery, made him come to know them, and he was glad of it. They were yet another reason for him to make this journey, to reclaim lost memories, good and bad, and to find the truth.

  A slightly disheveled Ilsa hurried out of the keep and Diarmot suddenly knew exactly what he wanted, what he needed. Here was the family he had thought to build when he had married Anabelle. His children and his wife were all gathered to wish him God’s speed and they would be waiting to welcome him upon his return. He had been laird of Clachthrom for nearly six years and had never had that. Now it was within his reach. All he had to do was clear away the lingering confusion and doubt so that he could grasp that promise without hesitation.

  Once away from Clachthrom, after exchanging several waves with his children, Diarmot looked at Sigimor. “Will ye tell me what ye think ye discovered in Anabelle’s journals now?” he asked

  “I am nay sure I discovered anything save that your wife was, weel, how can one say it?” he replied.

  “A whore?” Diarmot discovered that the only feeling he had concerning Anabelle now was a twinge of embarrassment over the fact that he had been fooled enough to marry the woman.

  “Aye.” Sigimor grimaced. “I read nea
r all of them, deciding to see if there were any hints about her past further along which might prove helpful. Aye, she was a whore, but, since it wasnae for money or because she had a hunger that couldnae be satisfied, I found myself wondering why.”

  “Did ye find an answer?”

  “Mayhap. I think she wanted the power.”

  “How would that give her power?” asked Tait. “How could she think she was powerful just because she had some fool thrusting into her? Seems to me a woman is fair vulnerable in that position.”

  “I would think the mon is fair vulnerable as weel,” said Diarmot.

  “In many ways, aye,” agreed Sigimor. “She was shown her own weakness with the first rape.” He glanced at Diarmot. “I think there were other abuses, mayhaps other rapes.”

  Diarmot nodded. “I got that feeling, too.”

  “So, Lady Anabelle came to the decision to turn that weapon, as she saw it, against men. Her trysts were written of as if they were battles waged and won. She had a strong fascination with a mon’s private parts.”

  “I noticed those things finally. Anabelle turned that mon’s weapon into a mon’s weakness.”

  “She certainly tried her best. Some men think getting a lass into their bed means they are handsome, or monly, or great lovers. Some women think getting a mon into their beds means they are beautiful, desirable, may e’en think it means they are loved. Lady Anabelle thought it proved her strong and the mon weak, fools whose will and wit rest in their rods. As I read her writings, I got the distinct impression that Anabelle saw every mon who succumbed to her allure as a weakling. She especially enjoyed turning so many of your people into traitors, Diarmot. Pushing them to betray their laird in her arms. She considered it a galling defeat when she couldnae get any of your brothers to succumb. She loathed Lady Gillyanne.”

  “I suspicion that is because Gillyanne saw what Anabelle was all too clearly.”

  “Aye, I believe so. At times your late wife sounded as if she was on some vengeful crusade. Since we now ken many of the men simply wanted to bed a woman, tis clear Lady Anabelle was deluded in thinking she had accomplished any more than giving a mon what he wanted. A verra troubled woman.”