by Ria Cantrell
“I have something to tell her. I was told to find her.”
“Who told you to find her?”
“Well, I--I don’t know. I am rather new around here and it just seemed important.”
“Important? Do you know that men who have important messages when there is a royal visitor usually end up on the wrong end of a noose? Now you’d best explain yourself.”
Tom did not know what to say that would be the right answer. He struggled to release the grip of Jenna’s brother and hoped that the diversion of him wriggling free would buy him enough time to come up with something; anything. He yanked his arm away and faced the man with as much confidence as he could muster and just as he opened his mouth to speak, the scraping of the door signaled that it was to open. Tom faced Bronwyn and Kiera and silently pleaded with either of them to intervene. Bronwyn turned to look briefly over her shoulder, seeing that the King was walking along side of Drew, only mere steps behind her. She pasted a smile on her lips and she said, “Ah, my beloved son. How wonderful to see you. Tavish, I see you have met Ian.”
“Mother, you know this man?”
“Of course, dear. Jenna, yer’ brother has returned.” Bronwyn said to hastily change the subject. Kiera kept her eyes lowered and whispered, “T’is good that ye’ are home, Ian.”
Without meeting his eyes, she hugged him and Ian stiffened. Bronwyn shot him an unspoken warning, signaling the King’s presence. Leaning close to kiss her son, she whispered, “Do not say anything. I will explain later.” Then louder for the sake of their guest, she said, “Och, t’is a mother’s heart that fills with the sight of her son. Have ye’ come to escort our Royal guest to the feast?”
“Indeed. Your Grace?”
“Nonsense, Sir Knight. Why, I have the company of your lovely sister to keep me safe. Come, m’lady, and indulge your king.”
Kiera swallowed down her revulsion of the man and allowed him to take her hand to lead her to the dais. His hand felt clammy as it wrapped around her fingers, like a fleshy paw. There was nothing about this man that was redeeming, but she congratulated herself for her suddenly pretty fair acting skills. She had pretended to be interested and that seemed to appease the ego of this uncouth little man. So far, so good, she thought. She had not made a fool of herself nor had her ruse gone awry; except for the presence of Ian.
Ian clearly knew she was not Jenna. And what the hell was Tom doing there with Ian? She did not have time to ponder it further as she was directed to sit beside the king. She felt more like she was being led to an execution than a meal and she suddenly did not feel very hungry. Everything depended upon her making a good impression this night. She felt moderately sick to her stomach at the thought that she could really screw things up in a New York minute. Not to mention her weird and disgusting dinner date! God, he was as gross as can be. Richard was not anything she imagined a king to look like.
Tom watched as Kiera was led to the high table and he actually felt sorry for her. The king’s appearance was almost comical. He had the most outrageous attire that bordered on being a joke. He was wearing tight fitting powder blue hose that were barely concealed by his low riding tunic. That garment was richly adorned with gems of every color and Tom thought he looked like a disco ball. His tunic was flashy in a silvery lame’ and it barely reached his thighs.
If Tom didn’t know better, he would guess the king had stuffed a sock in his hose to give all the guests a good gander at his “family jewels”. He donned a simple circlet that was engraved with an ornate design. It didn’t look like a crown, exactly, but Tom supposed that it was. The other thing that was noticeable, besides the padded bulge that he sported like a trophy, was that the man was positively puny. Kiera stood nearly three or four inches taller than the man and Tom could see she was trying to keep crouched a bit to not offend the king with her height. Somehow, Tom imagined that this tacky little man would not like being smaller than his dinner guest and Tom was actually glad when Kiera was able to sit down so she didn’t have to maintain her slouched and stooped walk. If things weren’t so screwed up, he might have laughed at the entire charade.
Tom thought it would probably be a good idea to keep an eye on Kiera, but he had to talk to someone, but who? Could he trust his information with Bronwyn? Or his “mother”? Just when he thought he was clear from the rather unpleasant meeting with Bronwyn’s son, and Tom believed he could slip into the crowd, he felt a warning grip on his arm again.
“We have not finished. You will explain yourself.”
Mustering up his courage; for he was a MacCollum after all; and a freakin’ medieval Scotsman at that, Tom lowered his voice to a deeper, serious timbre and he said, “Perhaps you should hear what your mother has to say first.”
“My mother? Do not think to bring my mother into your deceit.”
Tom almost wanted to laugh. Deceit? Really? They were in the bloody past to help with Bronwyn’s deceit. “Look. I am here to help. You can believe me or not.”
“Hmm. Well, right now I do not have time to keep you in my sights. Still, I cannot have you wandering about. There are too many threats to keep at bay. Until I can determine what you are about, you will be under guard.”
And upon that statement, with a silent incline of Ian’s neck, Tom found himself flanked by two large goons. Ian said, “See that he is kept under lock and guard. I shall need to interrogate him after the king has dined.”
And as quick as he could blink, Ian and the two thugs arrested him. They dragged him to a small room that was used for storage of any number of things and they tossed him in ungraciously. Tom landed with a thud against some of the wooden crates, jamming his shoulder in the process.
“Wait. You can’t just leave me in here…I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Your presence is suspicious at best. Until I can speak to my mother to discern that you and that woman are not a danger to the king, you shall not be freed.”
There was no more discussion. The door was slammed and Tom heard a latch sliding into place. He heard the muffled voice of Bronwyn’s son order the two mountains of meat to guard the door and to let no one enter unless he commanded it. Then he heard nothing else. The room was dark and dank. The stale air was fetid and after Tom pulled himself up from the floor and promptly rammed his shin against one of the shelving racks. It jostled and dust fell into his eyes. He let go an expletive as pain seared though his shoulder and his now bruised leg.
Tom felt his frustration mount and he kicked out at whatever his boot could connect with. Storage items clattered in his wake and he shouted out words of angered defeat. When his eyes had adjusted to the gloom of the dreary little closet, he banged on the door with his fists and screamed, “Let me out of here. You can’t keep me in here.”
He pounded the door with his knuckles until he felt blood running down his hand. Damn it to hell! Tom put his fist to his mouth and sucked the bleeding joints of his fingers without thinking. He hated the taste of blood but somehow he thought that in this time he had better get used to it. This was probably going to be the least of his injuries.
~~~~~
Bronwyn could not explain things just yet. There was too much at stake. When Kiera had taken her daughter’s place, she had watched as the young woman walked with the king to the high table of honor; a pasted smile on her wan face. The poor thing! But worse, she had lost sight of Ian and Morag’s son. She scanned the great feast hall and finally saw Ian approaching, looking quite self-satisfied. She knew he was a warrior. She was used to that, having lived with soldiers her entire life, but there was something smug and cold in her son’s eyes. What had he done? Panic rose in her breast and she pushed through the crowd to question him.
Drew saw his wife trying to rush through the milling throng and he had a very bad feeling coming upon him. He stole behind her and he touched her elbow gently.
“What is it, my love? Has something gone wrong with our little theatre?”
“I dunna’ know. It’s Ian. He s
aw the girl and he knows we are duping the king. I tried to tell him I would explain later, but he met the young man. Now I dunna’ see him and I am afraid Ian has done something dreadful to him.”
“I will talk to our son. You are needed to be the Lady of the Keep now. Just leave it to me.”
“But Drew…”
“Yes, love?”
Bronwyn looked distressed and she swallowed deeply. “I’m startin’ to think this all was a very bad idea.”
“Aye, perhaps you are right, but it is too late now. We have to let it play out as planned and suffer the consequences.”
Bronwyn turned and raised worried eyes to the man she loved more than life. “I’m afraid those consequences will be more than we have bargained for.”
Drew did not like the ominous warning that flared within him at his wife’s words. He was pretty certain she was correct in her feelings. No, Drew did not like it one bit.
~
Chapter Thirty ~
Jenna had spent the last two days of the Samhain celebration looking for some sign of the curious stranger who had kissed her. No one seemed to know him and he had disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared. She had, at first, convinced herself she just wanted to see him again to give him a piece of her mind, but as she lay on the fur-lined pallet in her aunt’s and uncle’s pavilion with nothing to warm her against the biting of the autumn night air, the memory of the kiss that had shaken her world kept the chill at bay.
She had never thought she would want a man to kiss her, nor did she ever think she would even enjoy being kissed in such a way. Now, she could not stop reminding herself about it and it was ironic that the first time she had succumbed to the foolery that all the other girls had, the man had simply disappeared. Perhaps, she had dreamed him up after all because surely someone would have remembered him. Well, one other person had seen him; her uncle Rory had seen him and he was the last person she wanted to ask about it. If Rory had anything to say about the man, he would say it at the end of his blade.
Jenna replayed the entire scene over and over. Thoughts of it caused her to toss and turn amid the furs on the pallet. Her aunt and uncle were sleeping and her cousin Brigid slept close by on a pallet of her own. Jenna pulled her cloak tighter about herself, trying to find comfort so she could sleep, but as the hours ticked away, she knew she would be greeting the morning without one wink of slumber to be gained. Tossing again onto her side, Jenna tucked her hands beneath the furs to warm them and she placed them under her cheek. She really should be furious. The man lied to her outright. He said his name was Tavish MacCollum.
Jenna prided herself on knowing all the members of the clan and she was quite certain there was no Tavish MacCollum in their ranks. Why would he make such an outlandish claim when he knew she would recognize that he was lying? Unless he was not lying; perhaps there was some shred of truth to what he had told her, but how could that be? She was certain there was nay a MacCollum she did not know. What would he have to gain by lying to her? Did he think by claiming to be MacCollum, she would be more agreeable to kiss him? If Jenna were to be truthful to herself, he could have been a bloody MacKenzie and she would have kissed him. There was something odd about the man. He spoke Gaelic, but it was not like the language she had grown up hearing her mother and father speak. Still, she understood his every word, however brief their conversation had been.
Jenna sighed. Sometimes she could strangle her uncles. They were so overbearing. If only Rory had not intervened, she would have been able to find out more about the handsome stranger, whose kiss still lingered on her lips in vivid memory. Ach, and he was handsome, too. He was even more handsome than Devon MacDougal, who all the girls loved; especially Brigid Caitlyn. Damn the saints! What had come over her. It was one stinking kiss from a lying rogue. Surely that should not be the cause of her losing sleep. Flipping over again, Jenna punched her pillow in frustration and she burrowed deeper inside the furs. Men! They were always the cause of trouble for women. Aside from her own da’, who doted on both her and her mother, she could not think of too many who had not given grief to a girl at one point or another.
Well, maybe that was harsh. Her grand da’ Caleb was the love of her life and she was the apple of his eye as well. Those men were hard examples to live up to, to be certain. With thoughts of the two men she loved most, Jenna finally closed her eyes. Yes, her grandfather and her da’ were the men that any future marriage prospect would have to aspire to. It was a tall order to fill and Jenna was quite sure that a lying rake who stole kisses from an unwitting lass was not the man to do it.
~It was him. She could see him, but he was in trouble. His hand was bleeding and he was shut in a darkened room hugging his knees. She knew the place. It was a place she had hidden as a child to stay out of the way or to elude her parents in a game. Why was he breathing that way? It was as if there was not enough air in the room and he looked as if he was going to die. Yes, the closet was small, but there was never a lack of air, musty as it may have been. Yet, as she watched him, she could feel his distress. It felt like the motes of dust were filling her own mouth and clogging her throat. A tight squeezing in her chest prevented her from breathing. There was a sense of terror and the walls seemed to be pressing in on them both, only he could not see her. Why couldn’t he see her? He was swallowing ragged gulps of air and she could almost feel the silent scream rising from her own lips. The heat of the room was oppressive and sweat trickled like tears down his temples. Even in the dark, Jenna could see it all and she could feel everything he was experiencing. Why was he locked in the storage closet?
Jenna moved closer to him and she knelt before him. She was moved to pity for him and she took his bleeding hand into her own, wrapping it in the hem of her skirt. At last he raised his eyes to hers. She saw the stricken look on his face. She had heard about people who were deathly afraid of being in small spaces and he must have been one of those unlucky ones. She dabbed his knuckles and whispered, “There, now. It’s alright.”
Jenna did not know why she was so moved by his fear. Even warriors could be afflicted with this and she knew it was because of some trauma suffered in the past that caused it. What had happened to this man to make him crumple to the floor in a panic? This was not the smug rake that had kissed her. Somehow, that knowledge broke through the wall of her heart and she knew she needed to help him.
He murmured, “It’s you. How did you get in here?”
“I know not how, but I am here now.”
Jenna brushed a stray piece of hair dampened with sweat, from his brow. She checked on his hand and saw the blood had ebbed and was drying now. “Why are ye’ locked in here, Tavish…that is yer’ name, aye?”
“Aye,” he answered hesitantly. “Most people call me Tommy or Tom.”
“Tom…alright, Tom. Now why are ye’ here?”
“Why are you here? I don’t understand how you got through the locked door.”
“It does nay lock from the outside.”
Tom shook his head. “They have barred me in.”
“Who has?”
Tom’s eyes met hers and in that instant he thought he was looking at an angel. Maybe he was because there was no logic to how she was standing before him.
“Your brother. He is here to guard the king…he suspects me.”
“Aye, well, I can understand that. No one knows where ye’ have come from. Ye’ say ye’ are a MacCollum, but that canna’ be.”
“Please; I have told ye’ the truth. Please help me.”
Jenna rose and tried the door. It was true. He was barred in. She could not even budge it.
“I canna’ open it. But ye’ are goin’ to be alright, Tavish…er… I mean Tom.”
“I like it when you call me Tavish. Please…don’t go.”
Jenna took his injured hand up to her lips and she placed a soft kiss on his battered flesh and as quickly as she appeared, she was gone. ~
Jenna bolted up from under the suddenly too warm furs. What h
ad just happened? Her clothes stuck to her perspiration and she felt as if she had just been in an airless oven. She gulped clean cool breaths into her heaving lungs. She certainly was not cold now. She had dreamed she was locked in the storage closet back at home and he was there. Only this time he was nay the arrogant rake that had dared to approach her at the MacDougal fete. Nay, he was frightened and hurt. As the cool air permeated the warmth of her over-heated body, Jenna tried to shake the dream from her psyche. It was just a dream. She had been thinking about him before she fell asleep and so naturally she had dreamed of him. For all she knew, he had probably charmed some other silly woman with his honeyed words and daring kiss and was comfortably tucked in her bed. Jenna crawled out from under the heavy furs. She could see the dim light of dawn peeking through the tent flap. It was morning and with the new day, she could think more clearly. It was time for her to go home and face the consequences of her actions. She began gathering her things and rolling them into a pack for the journey home. She rustled about and tried to not disturb anyone who was still sleeping in the large pavilion. Her uncle Ruiri had already been up, it seemed and her auntie Brielle was also packing for their trip home. She smiled over at Jenna and said, “Good morning, Jenna. Did ye’ sleep well?”
“Nay, Auntie. Nay, I did not.”
“Ah, t’is a shame. Was something troublin’ ye’?”
“No,” she lied.
With that, Brigid Caitlyn raised her sleep-tousled head and rubbed her eyes. “Aye, there was,” she answered groggily. “Ye’ fairly tossed and turned all night. Ye’ called out, too.”
“Hush, ye’ silly lass,” Jenna hissed at her cousin. She had the biggest gob at times.
Brigid stretched and finger-combed her dark locks. “Ye’ll not hush me, Jenna Brandham. Yer’ sour mood has frayed us all. Didna’ spoil my good time, nay. T’is yer’ fault for yer’ ill humor.”
“Alright, girls. That’s quite enough. Other people may still be sleeping and tent walls are too thin to muffle yer’ squabbles.”