Isabella did not believe a word of that. Since the winter had been mild before this change, she had been immersed in her studies of the healing plants, under the tutelage of her brother’s wife, Eleanor. Ever since Isabella had tried to play a jest upon her brother Alexander during his courtship of Eleanor and that jest had gone awry, she had been determined to learn the healer’s craft so she could not so err again. Eleanor had been only too glad to have an apprentice and Isabella was an avid student these past three years. It suited her well to be able to make a difference in the lives of those around her.
This wind made labor for Isabella, as many in Kinfairlie fell ill with a persistent cough, one that began the first night of the wind’s arrival and would not abate. As well, Eleanor herself fell ill, leaving more to Isabella. Eleanor was at the beginning of her second pregnancy, though it was only with arrival of the wind that she became unable to eat. Isabella worked long, fearing that Eleanor might lose her child.
It was on the third morning of the wind’s wailing that Isabella strode into the chamber she shared with her two unwed sisters. As Isabella entered, her youngest sister Elizabeth looked up from her book. Isabella saw that it was the ledger from the kitchens. “Are you doing the inventory for Eleanor?”
“Spices on this day. She keeps a rigorous schedule in her inventories and I would ensure that she has no need to rise from bed.” Elizabeth’s expression turned hopeful. “Is she better?”
“She grows impatient with time spent abed and tells me this is a good portent for a patient’s recovery.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“That and complaints about the fare,” Isabella added and Elizabeth laughed. “I must go to the village to check on those with the cough, then concoct another posset for Eleanor.”
Elizabeth watched Isabella. “You enjoy this labor.”
“I do.” Isabella paused at an unfamiliar note in her sister’s tone. “Does that trouble you?”
Elizabeth frowned. “I am happy for you, of course. You have found a task that you love and your passion for it is clear. Even Annelise seems to be in her element, caring for Roland each day.” She made a face, but Isabella knew Elizabeth did not resent either their other sister or Eleanor and Roland’s son.
“So what is amiss?” she prompted.
Elizabeth sighed again. “I have no similar passion. Indeed, my yearnings are for things I doubt I shall ever have.”
“Like what?” Isabella sat down beside her sister.
“I yearn for adventure. Love. Bold deeds.” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “A knight to capture me and claim me as his own. He should be valiant and handsome, and undefeated in battle.”
“As well as wealthy and landed,” Isabella teased.
“Of course!”
“You want to live in a tale.”
“And what is so wrong with that? More than two years have passed since our brother saw Madeline and Vivienne wedded, then took a bride himself. Two sisters and a brother wedded in a year! Did you not think we would be married by now?” Elizabeth flung out her hands. “We shall die ancient and withered in this keep!”
Isabella laughed and rose to fasten her cloak. “I believe there is yet time.”
“Are you not impatient?”
“Alexander vowed we would wed at our own choice. I am content to bide my time in choosing, that I might choose well.”
“Since when is patience one of your virtues?” Elizabeth teased.
Isabella turned away, pretending to seek some trinket. She had seen much of the matters of women in assisting Eleanor. She had been present when the life of Ceara, the wife of the miller’s son, had hung in the balance in the delivery of their first child. And Isabella was resolved that if she were to take such a risk for a man, she would have to love him with her heart and soul.
As Eleanor loved Alexander, and as Ceara loved Matthew.
“And who shall you choose?” Elizabeth continued. “There is never a man of interest to come to this keep and Alexander will not take us to even the earl’s court.” Elizabeth lifted the ledger. “We had best be about our labors. At least you look forward to yours.”
Isabella had not managed a reply when the sound of hoof beats carried through the window.
“Destriers!” Elizabeth said. She raced past Isabella and flung open the shutter, admitting the chill of the morning. “Knights!” she breathed in awe. She grinned at Isabella and lowered her voice, her eyes sparkling with new merriment. “Husbands!”
“You think of only one thing!” Isabella teased.
“Alexander must have summoned them. Or they come to beg his favor. I must be in the hall to greet them!” Elizabeth hastened out of the chamber, her footsteps pounding on the stairs as she descended to the great hall.
Isabella, always cursed by curiosity, went to the window to look.
Two horses galloped along the road to Kinfairlie’s gates, their manes and tails flying in the wind. They were magnificent steeds, so large and muscled that Isabella knew them to be destriers. Elizabeth had doubtless been right about knights, for the warhorses were richly caparisoned. Isabella saw the gleam of sunlight on armor.
The lead horse was so pale a silver as to be nearly white. Its mane and tale were as dark as pewter. Its trappings were deep blue, and the tabard of the knight riding it was of that same deep blue. He wore chain mail and a long full cape as dark as midnight flowed from his shoulders. As he drew nearer, Isabella saw that his tabard bore no insignia. His hair was black and long enough to curl over his ears.
The second horse was a chestnut with a white star on its brow and white socks. It was no less handsome than the first. The man riding it was older and garbed in the plaid favored by the highlanders. He wore a leather jerkin and a white shirt, and his hair was both short and grey. A seasoned warrior, Isabella sensed that he was aware of all that surrounded them, but kept his expression impassive.
Her gaze returned to the younger man.
They galloped directly to the gates, the horses stamping and snorting when they were compelled to halt before the gatekeeper. Their breath sent plumes of white into the air.
“I am Murdoch Seton,” cried the man with the dark hair. He was handsome enough to make Elizabeth’s heart flutter, Isabella was certain of it. His voice was so rich and deep, his confidence so beguiling that Isabella herself thought to shiver. His manner was audacious, which snared Isabella’s interest. “I am come to deliver a message to the Laird of Kinfairlie.”
The gatekeeper, a doughty man who seldom smiled, barred the entry with his spear. Isabella heard the rumble of his voice but could not discern his words.
The pale horse pranced in impatience. “My brother’s request will not be surrendered to the gatekeeper and forgotten,” Murdoch Seton said, a surprising hostility in his tone. “I will speak to the laird and tell him of it myself.” His gaze danced over the tower and Isabella withdrew slightly, fearing that he would spot her.
There was something about him that held her gaze, though, a vitality that was uncommon among men.
“I will send word to my laird and you will wait.”
“I will not be deterred from this mission,” the knight said with a determination that was surprising. “I have but a message to deliver, and no man of integrity would turn such a missive aside.”
“But...” It was clear to Isabella that the gatekeeper did not trust this Murdoch Seton.
Why? Did he know of him? Or did he simply dislike the man’s imperious manner? Isabella drew back the shutter a little more. It seemed almost that the knight expected to be refused or turned aside. Why?
“I see you do not send word and perhaps you do not mean to,” the knight said with impatience. “I will take word of my arrival to the laird myself.”
The gatekeeper obviously protested, but this Murdoch Seton dismounted, casting the reins of his steed to his partner. He made to push past the gatekeeper’s spear, and Isabella saw that he was both tall and muscular. There must have been purpose in his ga
ze, for the gatekeeper took a step back. He kept the spear lowered, though.
“You will not enter this hall armed!” he declared.
Murdoch cast a wry smile at his companion, then unbuckled his belt and scabbard. Instead of surrendering it to the gatekeeper, he handed it to his companion, then stepped close to the gatekeeper.
Isabella leaned out the window to hear his words.
“I leave both steed and sword in the custody of my companion. Should he be divested of them in my absence, or should he not be here when I return, I shall take word to the king of the treachery that has claimed Kinfairlie.” Then he pushed aside the spear with a gloved fingertip and marched toward the portal.
Isabella’s mouth dropped open. He threatened the gatekeeper? But he was the one who sought admission. Why was he so resolved?
The gatekeeper turned and looked after the knight, his astonishment clear. The older man, the companion of the knight, appeared to be amused.
Why did the knight assume his message would be refused?
Isabella had to know.
She spun and ran for the door, thinking she would listen in the great hall as the knight made his argument. She flung open the door, but there was no sign of Elizabeth. Isabella had no sooner concluded that her sister must have descended to the great hall when she heard boots on the stairs, approaching quickly. It sounded as if a man took the stairs two or even three at a time. She might have retreated but the dark–haired knight crested the top of the stairs.
He slowed his pace to consider her. His eyes, Isabella could now see, were a clear and deep blue and he was ruggedly handsome. Even though she was tall, he was taller. He strode toward her with such care that she thought of a wolf hunting its prey. His gaze was unswerving and a crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth.
Isabella felt hot, right to her toes.
“The maiden from the window,” he murmured and the appreciation in his low voice made Isabella flush. “Yet more curious than I imagined.”
“While you, sir, are more bold than might be expected.”
He smiled outright then, the expression softening his features in a most attractive way. Isabella could not avert her gaze. Indeed, it seemed she could not breathe.
“Sir!” Anthony shouted from lower on the stairs. “Sir, I must insist upon speaking first to the laird of your presence.” The old castellan could be heard huffing as he climbed the stairs behind the new arrival.
Isabella would not be daunted by this knight. She straightened, aware that Anthony would hear whatsoever she said. “I understand that you are Murdoch Seton,” she said crisply. “I, for one, would not keep you from delivering your missive. It must be of great import for you to be so concerned of your reception.”
“And so it is,” he acknowledged, his eyes glinting.
Was he mocking her? Flirting with her? Isabella did not know, but his manner flustered her in a most unwelcome way.
“Then I shall not delay you further.” She made to step past this rogue, but he touched a fingertip to her elbow. The weight of his finger stopped her. She glanced up at him, and was snared by the intensity of his gaze.
Had she ever seen eyes of such a vivid blue?
“Perhaps the lady’s smile would be worth a delay.” he said, his voice as soft as silken velvet.
“Perhaps a guest should not be so rude as to make demands before he is welcomed,” she retorted.
“In normal circumstance, I would agree,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. His fingertip slid toward her wrist in a most deliberate and shocking way. Isabella stared at it, surprised by the shivers than raced over her flesh, emanating from that point. “Has the lady a name?”
“Of course,” Isabella said. “But I understand the guest has a quest.” She stepped away, just as Anthony reached the summit of the stairs.
The castellan glared at Murdoch. “My lady Isabella, did this man trouble you?”
Murdoch chuckled and Isabella flushed that he now knew the name she would have kept from him.
“No, Anthony,” Isabella said. “I merely reminded him that it is common courtesy for guests to be announced.”
“And so it is,” Anthony said with all the considerable hauteur he could summon. “I will precede you to my laird and if he wishes to speak with you, he shall.”
“Oh, he will speak with me,” Murdoch said quietly. The threat in his tone caught at Isabella’s ears. “It is not every man who wishes to hear of the grievances made against him, but the Laird of Kinfairlie will hear mine.”
“We shall see,” Anthony huffed and marched onward, beckoning the knight with a terse gesture.
Grievances? Isabella paused on the stairs to the hall and glanced back, only to find the knight’s gaze locked upon her. What complaint could Murdoch have of Alexander? Her brother was well known for the fairness of his courts and the justice of his administration. She had assumed Elizabeth was correct, but now she wondered at Murdoch’s intent.
Anthony climbed the stairs to the third floor and this time, Murdoch waited behind.
Because he was watching Isabella.
Almost as if he dared her to continue their conversation.
Isabella glanced down the stairs, noted the devilry in his gaze, then accepted his dare. She took a step back toward him, mindful of Anthony’s proximity. “What complaint could you have against my brother?” she whispered. “He is honest and just...”
“Then perhaps my brother is in error,” Murdoch said, his tone revealing that he believed otherwise. “Doubtless your brother will tell me the truth.” He said this last as if he did not believe it.
It was his confidence in Alexander’s poor character that nettled her, for it was unfair.
Even though she did not know what had fed his conclusions.
“Of course, he will,” Isabella said, keeping her voice low. “My brother is true...”
“Sir!” Anthony shouted from the third floor.
Murdoch bowed before Isabella. “To my regret, duty calls, my lady Isabella.”
Isabella opened her mouth to tell this man what to do with his presumption, then she saw the wicked twinkle in his eyes. His fingertip brushed the tip of her nose playfully, his gaze dropping to her lips. Isabella stepped backward in outrage at his boldness, but before she could think of what to say, he leapt up the stairs to the third floor.
He spun on the stairs, just before disappearing from view, and blew her a cocky kiss.
The man had no lack of confidence in his charm, that much was certain. Or in any maiden’s fascination with him!
Isabella pivoted, her annoyance simmering, and took two steps toward the kitchens where she would gather ingredients for Eleanor’s posset.
Then she halted. If she went to the kitchens, she would never know what accusation the knight would make against Alexander. Her brother shared no confidences now that he was laird.
And Isabella wanted to know this knight’s complaint.
Isabella hurried back into the chamber shared by the sisters, closed the door and waited until Anthony limped back down to the hall. Then she raced to the third floor on silent feet, flattened herself against the wall beside the door to Alexander’s chamber, and listened.
* * *
All that has gone awry is your fault.
Duncan’s furious words had echoed in Murdoch’s thoughts for the entire ride south to Kinfairlie. Their father was dead, Seton Manor’s treasury was empty, the relic Murdoch had once advised his father to purchase was stolen, and his brother, Duncan, placed the blame for all misfortune squarely on Murdoch’s shoulders. The fact that Murdoch had not brought wealth home with him had only fed his brother’s fury.
Make matters right or never return.
In truth, Murdoch was not certain he wished to return to the place that Seton Manor had become. But he owed loyalty to the people he had known and loved, he would do honor to his father’s memory, and he would see justice served.
Even if his sense that a trap closed aroun
d him grew stronger with every passing day. Did he live a nightmare, or were his memories of the Elphine Queen the dream from which he yearned to awaken?
Murdoch had not given great credence to Duncan’s conviction that the Lammergeier family must have stolen back the relic that been acquired at the auction held by their sister estate of Ravensmuir—at least not until he had seen the obvious affluence of Kinfairlie.
An affluence that had no obvious source.
Could his brother be right? Murdoch would find the truth. He was bent upon seeing the laird, upon surprising him and seeing his reaction when he had no time to prepare.
He had not counted upon a maiden with flashing eyes.
Isabella.
She reminded him of the old tale his mother had told of a maiden with lips as red as blood and cheeks as white as snow. But instead of hair as black as a raven’s wing, Isabella had long curling tresses that could have been wrought of flame. Her eyes were as green as emeralds, snapping with intelligence, and he liked how directly she spoke.
She was bold, this one. Murdoch admired that she did not hesitate to speak in favor of justice. They shared that trait. She was curious, for she had been at the window. Murdoch had much respect for people who kept their eyes open and did not shy from truth.
She had been dressed in a kirtle of pale green, the color accenting her eyes. The gown was almost austere in its lack of embroidery or lavish detail, and the fit of it showed her slender strength to advantage. A curious and practical woman who spoke directly and dressed plainly was one destined to capture his gaze.
As Isabella had done.
Murdoch found himself yearning for a taste of Isabella, if only to discover whether such a pragmatic mortal might truly be as enchanting as an otherworldly one.
But he had a quest to fulfill.
He pushed the image of her from his thoughts and concentrated on the task before him. He had to note every nuance of the laird’s response to assess his honesty.
Alexander of Kinfairlie was younger than Murdoch had expected. The laird could not have seen thirty summers, although his dark hair had a few threads of silver. He did not look like a man who had ridden frequently to war, though his gaze was steady. Murdoch was tempted to trust him, in defiance of what he suspected to be true.
The Renegade's Heart Page 2