Isabella moved into the room and stirred a cloud of dust from the floor. It swirled around her and tickled her nose, though she fought the urge to sneeze. She moved through the room as quickly as possible, her nose twitching as she looked. There was an assortment of goblets and platters, all of which needed to be polished, but most of which were pieces Isabella recalled from her childhood. She found a small box containing jewelry her mother had worn, touched the pearls with a fingertip and replaced the box in its place with care. There were some lengths of fine cloth, all wrapped with care and set against the wall farthest from the barricaded windows.
Beyond that, there was only a small collection of trunks that held potential. Not a one of them looked like the one Ross had possessed in December. Several of the missing relics had been in jeweled reliquaries, including the one Murdoch sought. Isabella was certain she could spot any of the items on her mental list. She crouched down before the trunks and began to examine their contents. Flipping the lids open launched more clouds of dust and she held her breath as she worked.
In the end, the only thing that gave Isabella pause in her hunt was a collection of teeth secured in a small velvet sack. For a moment, she’d believed she’d discovered a relic of import, until she unfurled the note also tucked into the sack.
It was a list of the names of her and her siblings, in their mother’s hand. There were dates beside each name. Isabella realized with surprise that she held the baby teeth of herself and her siblings. She grimaced and put them back in the sack, securing them in their hiding place once more. She surveyed the treasury one last time and knew there was nothing to be found.
If the thief was at Kinfairlie, he or she was more clever than this. Where else could items of value be secured?
The crypt in Kinfairlie’s chapel.
Isabella moved too quickly across the room in her haste and kicked up another cloud of dust. This time, she could not help but sneeze.
And sneeze three times in succession.
She held her breath, her heart pounding. It was then that she heard a stair outside the door squeak in complaint.
“For the love of God! Where is that girl?” Moira muttered and Isabella knew she would soon be discovered. The stairs creaked as the maid climbed to the third floor. “My lady waits for her embroidery and she waits for no good reason! What is Isabella doing?”
What would she say? What would she do? Isabella spun around and spied her mother’s sewing box, a lovely small box carved of ivory. She seized it, knowing it was full of fine needles and left the treasury locked behind her.
She was halfway down the stairs to the third floor when she feigned surprise at the sight of Moira.
“What are you doing?” the maid demanded, her eyes narrowed.
Isabella presented the needle case. “I could not find Eleanor’s needle, so I thought perhaps she should use my mother’s. It would be fitting for the Lady of Kinfairlie.”
Moira inhaled. “It would be fitting for the Laird of Kinfairlie to make such a gift.”
“Oh, I am certain Alexander would not mind. And it is so pretty! I thought it might cheer Eleanor.” Isabella pushed the case into Moira’s hand and the older woman admired it openly.
“’Tis a lovely piece,” she admitted, then her gaze fell on the key in Isabella’s hand. “How did you get the key?”
“It was in the solar, just as it always is.”
Moira pursed her lips. “I tell you, my lady Isabella, and I tell you with all respect, that in a hall of this size, it is folly for any soul to invite herself to the treasury, even the sister of the laird himself. I know you thought only of my lady and it was your intent to be generous, but had another discovered you here, the matter might not have concluded well.” She held out the needle case. “As ’tis, I cannot see that you can give this to my lady without revealing your deed. I say return it to its place, and suggest to your brother that he make the gift of it to his lady wife as if you have only just recalled its existence.”
Isabella smiled. “You are right, of course, Moira. I simply could not find the other needle.”
“Doubtless you were too hasty about it. It is likely on the floor and we shall find it together.” Moira waited while Isabella returned the needle case, standing at the foot of the stairs like a guardian. When Isabella returned, Moira brushed the dust from her kirtle, surveying the younger woman sternly as she ensured that there were no signs of her transgression.
The needle was indeed upon the floor in the solar and Isabella let Moira discover it. It seemed she had an unknown talent for subterfuge. She still had to get to the crypt in the chapel and had need of an excuse.
Isabella thought of it when she and Moira joined Eleanor in the hall.
“Eleanor, do you think it would be wise for me to check on the baker’s son today? The word is that he is recovered, but I wonder if perhaps his mother, Siobhan, does not wish to make requests for your aid when all know you to be unwell.”
Eleanor smiled so warmly that Isabella felt like a fraud. “What kindness you show, Isabella. That is a very good idea, and I am certain Siobhan will be glad of your presence, even if the boy is better.”
Isabella seized her cloak and headed for the portal. No one would know the difference if she stopped at Kinfairlie’s chapel to check the crypt for relics.
* * *
Murdoch was struck once again by the affluence of Kinfairlie, an affluence that had no apparent source. He sensed that there was more to the fortunes of this holding than was readily apparent. Could Isabella explain the truth to him?
Would she?
Or would she – like the Elphine Queen – simply betray him in the end? Isabella might reveal him to her brother and see him condemned for his boldness. Murdoch did not want to believe it. He wanted the fiery maiden to be his touchstone, to be the example of good in the mortal realm.
Indeed, he wanted far more of her than that.
Murdoch recalled all he had seen of Isabella as he entered Kinfairlie village, remembering every flash of her eyes and that one unwitting smile. Doing so warmed him as nothing else could have done, and when he thought of the sweet passion of her kiss, the chill in his chest seemed to fade.
He endeavored to slip through the town without being noticed. He kept his hood pulled over his face and spoke as little as possible, working his way steadily toward the smith’s forge to await Gavin.
With every step he had taken from the forest, he had felt the grip of the Elphine Queen loosen a little more. He could breathe more readily and the brisk walk put the heat back in his body. He felt more himself, more alive and more daring, and the change was more than welcome.
Indeed, it increased his yearning to see the lady Isabella again and ascertain the fullness of her effect upon him. Had it been merely a first impression that swayed him, one that would dissipate with more association? Murdoch wanted very much to know.
It was busy in the village, a small line of plow horses awaiting the smith’s attention. That man spared Murdoch a surprisingly intent look, his gaze so dark and aware that Murdoch wondered what he saw.
He settled into the shadows opposite the smith’s forge to watch, well aware that no one had noticed him except the smith. He filled his thoughts with the allure of Isabella, and was so snared in his recollections that when she marched down the road before him, he halfway thought he had conjured her.
Isabella walked with her hood thrown back. The brilliant copper of her hair had been braided but already the unruly curls escaped their bonds. She smiled as she made her way down the street, purpose in her step, and Murdoch noted the affection with which the villagers greeted her.
With that one glimpse, he was sure. Isabella was all he had believed her to be. A telling heat unfurled within him, desire mingled with something more. His reaction to the sight of her was just as he had anticipated, a fire within his body and an admiration in his thoughts.
She was clearly intent upon some destination, and Murdoch wanted to know what g
oal held her attention so fast. What had she learned? Did she seek him out? He might have followed her through the village to ensure such a meeting, but he had to wait for Gavin.
He watched her stop to speak to the smith and savored the sound of her laughter, knowing then that he could not leave Kinfairlie village without another taste of Isabella. When Gavin was safely away, Murdoch would pursue the lady.
Wherever she might be found.
* * *
There was a fair line at the smith’s forge on this day, the crowd blocking Isabella’s progress toward the chapel. A good half dozen horses awaited with their masters, plow horses and palfreys standing together. This smith had come to Kinfairlie two years before and he was so highly skilled that his forge was always busy. There were even those who said he had been taught by the Fae, though he never confirmed the tales. Isabella worked her way through the amiable cluster of villagers, greeting those she knew. The smith glanced at her, then across the way before bending over his task again.
Was he warning her? Of what?
Isabella followed the direction of the smith’s look and found a peasant swathed in a dark cloak standing in the shadows there. It looked to be the same man she had seen earlier, walking toward Kinfairlie. Why would he journey to the village only to stand by a wagon of hay and watch the smith? She could feel the weight of his bold gaze upon her, though his face was hidden within the shadows of his hood.
What had the smith noticed about him?
Perhaps it was simply that he was a stranger – although he might not be one when his face was revealed. There was no way to know without approaching him, and the smith’s glance ensured that Isabella did not do as much.
A boy from Alexander’s own stable held the reins of one of Kinfairlie’s black destriers, the beast’s nostrils flaring as the smith attempted to give it a new shoe. The smith spoke constantly to the horse, his murmur of reassurance working less well than usual. His murmuring might have been a lullaby he whispered to the steeds, but it had a lesser effect upon this one.
Isabella knew why. “It is Hermes, is it not?” she asked, pausing to stroke the nose of the notoriously temperamental stallion. He survived because of his beauty and power, and his enthusiasm to stud. Alexander would never sell Hermes to another, because his mood was unpredictable. The stallion’s eyes rolled at her touch, but then he settled, exhaling noisily.
“Aye, Lady Isabella.” The apprentice held fast to Hermes’ bridle while the stallion fought the bit. The smith frowned when he lost grip of the beast’s ankle. Hermes stamped that foot on the ground, undoing what progress the smith had already made by shaking the new shoe loose. The smith picked it up and held it again in the fire, his expression one of resignation.
Isabella had to be of assistance. She stroked the horse and he stilled, shuddering from head to toe first, then arching his neck with pride as he stood his ground.
“He has a weakness for you, my lady,” the smith noted. “Is it possible you might linger a moment? I would not detain you, but Hermes is in a mood on this day.” The smith cast her look of silent appeal.
“Perhaps it is that infernal wind,” suggested one man in the line and others agreed.
Isabella smiled. “Perhaps it is just Hermes.” She stroked Hermes’ nose even as the smith nodded agreement.
“Doubtless it is because he is the most handsome of all the stallions in Kinfairlie’s stable and he would be admired first,” Isabella murmured to Hermes and the others in the line chuckled. The horse bent to nibble at her hair. Isabella laughed and scratched his ears. “The most handsome of all,” she crooned and he blew out his lips.
The smith laid claim to that hoof again and set to work while the horse was distracted. Hermes was too intrigued with Isabella and the ribbon in her hair to fight the smith. He chewed the ribbon with enthusiasm.
“Hermes is so vain that he cannot hear the truth of it often enough,” Isabella continued. The stallion preened at her attentions, seemingly oblivious to the smith’s actions. Isabella felt some soul watching her avidly and realized it was the man with the hood. She did not look his way.
“Such a beautiful boy,” she told the horse, keeping note of the smith’s progress. “The most handsome steed in Christendom.” Hermes nickered as if in agreement with such wisdom, and the smith hammered home the last nail with satisfaction.
“There! I thank you for your aid, my lady.” The smith stepped back.
Once released, Hermes stamped his foot once more, but this time, the shoe did not come free. He then nudged Isabella with force, sniffing her hands with persistence. He fairly pushed her down the road, despite her laughing protests.
“Hermes remembers that you oft bring him apples,” the stable hand said.
“And he is fool enough to think I have hidden them away. You have a nose, Hermes, and you must know that I have not an apple for you on this day.” The horse snorted as she scolded him, and nudged her more determinedly. Isabella would have changed her path to go to the chapel, but Hermes would have none of it. “Away with you, Hermes, I have an errand.” Hermes urged her toward Kinfairlie’s stables – where there was a store of apples.
“He wants his reward, my lady, and it seems pretty words will not suffice.” The smith chuckled at her fate, along with the others.
Save the man in the hood, who simply watched. His stillness was striking. Was that the flash of a smile Isabella glimpsed within the shadows of his hood?
She might have marched across the road to demand his name, but one of the men in line abruptly gave a low whistle. “Now, there is a fine beast,” he said with a nod of approval.
Isabella turned to see a chestnut mare approaching the blacksmith and his forge. The horse was limping slightly, and a boy with dark hair was riding it. Indeed, it seemed more that the horse carried the boy than that he commanded its course, for he was too small for a mare of such size. Hermes straightened and sniffed the air, moving toward the mare with a determination that would not be stopped.
“So, we shall go the long way, then,” the stable hand muttered to the horse, not having any real choice in the matter. “And you shall have to wait longer for an apple, by your own choice.” His warning made no difference to Hermes. The horse began to prance, arching his neck high and lifting his tail, showing off for the mare.
The mare ignored him.
Isabella didn’t recognize the boy on the mare, but she knew the horse. She was sure of it, although she could not name the beast. The smith frowned in his turn as he watched the horse. Isabella returned to the smith’s side.
“I know this horse,” she said quietly. “But not the rider.”
“Aye, Lady Isabella, as do I,” the blacksmith replied softly. “But I cannot think of who should be riding this mare.” He flicked a glance at the cloaked man, then cast her a smile. “Too many horses and too many market days. Who is to say she has not been sold?”
Isabella smiled in her turn, unpersuaded. “You speak rightly in that, Master Smith.”
The boy halted the horse before the blacksmith. “She has need of a shoe,” he said, his voice breathless. His gaze darted over the people in the vicinity and visibly panicked when he realized there was a line.
Why was he afraid?
The smith appeared to be suspicious now, as well. He took his time, as was often his choice when he awaited the fullness of a tale. “I see as much.” He put down his hammer and fed the fire in the forge, working with rare leisure. Then he brushed his hands on his apron and came into the street. He walked around the horse, openly assessing the animal. “She cannot be yours.” He said this lightly, as if there was no question, and the boy shook his head before he thought.
The boy swallowed, his manner uncertain. “My master’s steed, sir.”
The smith placed his hands upon his hips. “And what might be the name of your master?”
“Sir Emory of Tuckford.”
Isabella did not recognize the name or the estate.
She did notic
e that the cloaked man stepped away from the far wall. He eased closer to a wagon loaded with hay that had been left at the side of the road. Doubtless it was hay intended for the smith, for some horses were always stabled with him. The stable hand walked a reluctant Hermes past the mare, the stallion fighting the bit once again.
The boy on the mare took a shaking breath. “My master is not known in these parts, but his horse is fine.”
“And no one should ride her in this state, even one so small as you.” The blacksmith gestured imperiously and the boy dismounted, still holding the reins of the horse.
“But she does not like to be lead.”
“Nor do any of us,” the smith murmured and the men waiting in line chuckled.
“My master thought it would be best if I rode her, for I am smallest.” The boy, who was younger than Isabella, continued, the words spilling forth in such haste that they had no ring of truth. “My master visits this region, you see.”
“And where is he, that his steed is sent ahead of him?” the smith asked, examining the hoof with care. “That he does not care for her welfare? She is a fair investment, I would wager.”
“He, he, awaits me at an inn...”
“There is no inn for ten miles,” Isabella interjected. “Strange that you would bring the steed to Kinfairlie when other smiths would be closer.” She smiled. “Since your master is evidently so concerned for the beast’s welfare.”
The smith flicked a warning glance at her.
The boy’s eyes widened. “My master heard that the smith of Kinfairlie was the best...”
“I have no dispute with that,” Isabella said, “only with the treatment of the steed. No man of merit sees a steed injured by choice. She should have been tended at the closest forge, lest she suffer a greater injury. She could have been lamed, being ridden ten miles in this state!”
The Renegade's Heart Page 9