He would get little opportunity to watch the activity in the castle while hauling rubble to that pasture but it would give him ample time to win the trust of Uilliam and Duncan and then it would be easier to slip the leash and search the castle for the prize.
“Duncan,” he asked, rubbing his hands together as if he was anxious to get to work, “where can I find a cart?”
ROWAN STOOD IN the window of Elspet’s bedchamber, looking down on the three men gathered atop the rubble, trying to distract herself from the burning in her side and the ache in her shin. She rubbed her arms, trying to chase away chills that raced up and down them. Pressure had started to build behind her eyes again, setting up a rhythmic throb, subtle but there, as if beating her up from the inside out.
But she didn’t know why. She was rarely ill and never could she remember more than the odd headache on a trying day. This one seemed to have set up house in her head. Perhaps she should ask Jeanette for some willow bark tea.
She watched Uilliam inspecting the wall, or at least the odd part of it that had not tumbled down the hillside. It was as if something had kept that section of it from moving over the lip of the embankment.
It didn’t make any sense, especially since that part of the wall was closer to the edge than the rest of it. A crawling sensation joined the throb in her head, sending out itchy tendrils along the inside of her skull. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she should know something about the wall, almost as if she had something to do with it. But that kind of thinking was daft. Or she was.
The memory that had burst upon her when she realized the wall was falling had receded just as rapidly, like a dream that quickly fades upon waking. It fluttered deep in her mind, teasing her into chasing it, all the while keeping just out of her grasp. But it was there, haunting her.
Haunting. Aye, that was the feeling. As if that memory haunted her, ghostlike in her mind, there, but not solid enough to bring into the light.
Perhaps Elspet would know what bothered Rowan, for she knew there were pieces of her life she could not remember, but the very thought of asking had her heart tripping over itself. Her palms grew damp, and her breath was held hostage in her chest.
“What ails you, my lassie?” Elspet’s raspy voice was filled with concern and Rowan felt the rare prick of tears in her eyes.
“I do not ken, Auntie. I feel…” She did not know how to put what she felt into words, so she shrugged and shook her head.
Elspet carefully levered herself up to sit, leaning against the massive wooden headboard. “Come here, Rowan,” she said, slowly patting the bed beside her.
Rowan’s body was doing everything it could to make her bolt from the room but she knew, deep in her bones, deep in her heart, that she had nothing to fear from Elspet, so she slowly forced her feet to carry her to perch on the side of the bed. Elspet took Rowan’s hand between her cool palms, stroking the back of it as if Rowan were a spooked calf that must be gentled.
“I have not seen you thus in a long time, lassie. It is the wall that frightens you, is it not?”
“Aye, but there is… more.”
Elspet nodded slightly, and kept stroking her hand. “Close your eyes. Calm yourself. I think perhaps it is time for you to remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Close your eyes and let it come.”
Rowan tried to do as her aunt instructed, once more endeavoring to pull the memory into the light. She knew the castle wall falling had triggered the memory, so she turned her thoughts there, to the moment she had looked up and seen the stones tumbling toward her. Something flashed through her mind, as if she looked at two walls falling simultaneously.
Panic clutched her, like a hard band squeezing her chest so tightly she could not breathe. Cold sweat burst out all over her. She leapt to her feet, shaking her throbbing head. The fire in the hearth popped, making her gasp as if it had been another wall falling, and she knew that whatever the memory was, it was not one she wanted to face.
“I must go,” she said, not daring to look at her aunt, afraid she’d see disappointment there, or blame for Rowan’s being too much of a coward to remember whatever it was she couldn’t—wouldn’t—remember. “I shall send Scotia to you,” Rowan said as she fled the chamber.
CHAPTER FOUR
TWO DAYS AFTER the wall fell Jeanette told Rowan they were to take their evening meal in the great hall. Elspet was chafing that no one had properly welcomed their visitor and she wanted a report on him that went beyond Kenneth’s terse “He can haul a lot of stone.”
Relief leaped through Rowan at the instruction, followed quickly by guilt. She loved her aunt but every moment Rowan had spent in Elspet’s chamber for the last two days, Elspet had watched her, tracking her movement about the room, until she felt like a mouse about to be pinned by a hawk. Rowan had caught her several times, and each time Elspet had given her a questioning look. Rowan felt like a coward, turning away each time to busy herself with the fire, or the soup, or anything she could think of. But she refused to return to their aborted conversation. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, the very thought of it sent flashes of terror through her.
Now, sitting at the high table, Rowan was about to enjoy a good meal and good company. And, if a certain braw stranger happened to attend the meal, who was she to complain about the distraction? She shifted in her seat, trying to ease the itching of the healing cut on her side. Jeanette said itching was a good sign and there was no festering, thank the angels. The bruise on her leg bothered her less. It was a lovely combination of greens and purples but was concealed easily by her gown. As long as she was careful not to bump it against something it was fine.
Rowan looked down the length of the great hall with its large hearth along the right-hand wall and six long trestle tables set up end-to-end in two rows. The low hum of happy conversation ran like quiet music through the small knots of people seated there, disrupted now and then by the discordant rise of a worried voice, or the happy squeal of a bairn.
Scotia slid into the seat on the other side of Jeanette, who sat next to Rowan, just as Duncan entered the great hall. Scotia had chattered endlessly today about Nicholas of Achnamara, about how his muscles flexed as he loaded stones into a cart, and how his midnight hair ruffled in the spring breeze as he worked clearing the wall with Duncan and Uilliam and all the other lads called in to help, including Conall, in whom Scotia suddenly had no interest.
Rowan found her cousin’s fickleness difficult to understand, though she understood why a certain man would draw her attention. It was hard not to notice him, even when she tried not to on her trips through the bailey. Rowan found herself watching him work from her aunt’s window and now she watched the far door, hoping that Nicholas of Achnamara would follow Duncan in.
She could not get the man out of her mind despite spending a short time in his company. First he had kept her awake and then he had invaded her dreams.
Foolishness.
That the braw and mysterious Nicholas had dominated those dreams last night was her own doing, even though in truth she could not remember any of the details. But the restlessness left behind by those dreams? That she was more than willing to blame on the man.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Nicholas came through the far door into the hall at that moment, followed by Uilliam, who stood by the door, clearly keeping watch over their guest. Nicholas’s hair was wet and so black it had hints of blue in it. His chiseled face was tanned, freshly washed, with a day or two’s beard softening his square jaw. He moved into the hall smoothly, his plaid barely stirring with his strides, as if he took care not to leave any sign of his passing, or sound of it, unlike most men who seemed to take great delight in stomping about as much as possible. He caught her watching him and smiled.
“Did I not tell you he is beyond compare with any of the lads in the castle?” Scotia whispered.
“Aye, you did, several times.” Rowan silently cursed the heat rising in her cheeks but she could
not make herself look away from him.
Duncan called out, catching Nicholas’s attention. Rowan took advantage of that moment to escape the trap of his dark eyes and beguiling smile. She trained her gaze on the trencher of food in front of her and gave thanks for Duncan’s distraction. And yet, even though she wasn’t looking at Nicholas anymore, the restlessness grew like an itch she couldn’t pinpoint but that was slowly driving her mad. She squirmed in her seat and peeked at him through her lashes as he moved quickly and efficiently to a seat across from Duncan, where he piled roast boar and onions onto his trencher as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
Rowan forced herself to look away again and take a bite of her own food. Maybe her injury had been worse than she thought? Maybe she’d been hit in the head with a falling piece of the wall and didn’t remember? Maybe she was addled by the memory of him crouched beside her, holding her hand so carefully that she felt both fragile and protected. It was not a sensation with which she was familiar, and though she would have denied it even a few days ago, she had to admit, at least to herself, that it had been nice to be treated so, even if it was only for those few moments.
She was as bad as Scotia, it would seem, her head muddled by a braw man, but Rowan would not follow in her cousin’s ways. She did not have the luxury of setting aside all responsibility and duty to act upon attraction and impulse, especially with Aunt Elspet so sick.
“Why do you stare at our visitor?” Jeanette tried not to smile as she spoke, but the teasing gleam in her pale blue eyes gave her away.
“I do not,” Rowan pulled her attention back to her trencher again, not even aware of when it had drifted back to the man.
“Aye, you do.” Scotia leaned forward so she could peer around Jeanette, a smirk on her face. “He is a braw lad with that mysterious look in his eye and those broad shoulders. I think his hair is near as black as mine. We’d make beautiful bairns.”
“Scotia!” Rowan knew she glowered at her cousin who only grinned back at her. “I doubt a grown man would have aught to do with a wean like you.”
“I am not a wean anymore, just spirited.” Scotia lifted her chin. “There are men who like me well enough.”
Rowan rolled her eyes. “There are men who like you a wee bit too well.” She lifted a slice of boar from the platter in front of her and dropped it on her wooden trencher. Jeanette leaned back in her chair between them and silently watched the two. “You would be wise to keep… them… at arm’s length.”
“Is that why you were below the wall, Scotia?” Jeanette asked. “Pray, tell me you were not meeting with Conall again.”
Shock coursed through Rowan’s spine. “Again?” It was her turn to look from one cousin to the other. “This was not the first time you have gone against your father’s command?”
“I told you, I am not a wean anymore. I am a woman, with a woman’s desires.”
“And a wean’s discipline.” Rowan threw herself back in her chair and looked over the gathering, wondering if perhaps Kenneth really would kill the lad. More likely he’d force the two to wed. “You do ken the troubles you chance bringing down upon your heads if you keep seeing that lad?” She leaned across Jeanette toward Scotia, her voice barely above a whisper, even though neither Kenneth nor Elspet were in the hall. Gossip had a way of scurrying through the castle like rats before a flood and this was something she did not want spreading to Kenneth’s ears. “If you love him, how can you place him in the path of your father’s wrath, and then talk of no one but Nicholas?”
“You shall never understand, Rowan,” Scotia hissed at her, her eyes snapping with anger.
Rowan pushed her trencher away. Scotia was right, she’d never understand what drove her. It was hard to take her seriously when the lass flirted with every man she met and fell in love with more than a few of them. Conall was only the latest in a long line of lads Scotia thought she loved. Perhaps it was good Scotia was so distracted by Nicholas that she had all but forgotten poor Conall. The way they had been going, Scotia would find herself married to the lad by summer’s end if she wasn’t careful and Rowan feared that would go ill for everyone. She shook her head at her cousin’s inconstant nature.
“Is it really so much to ask that you put the future of your family and your clan before your own daft notions of love and desire?” Rowan asked.
“Daft?!” Scotia turned beseeching eyes to her sister. “You understand, do you not Jeanette? You have been in love before.”
“I have, and I do not.” A sad smile dimmed the light that was usually Jeanette. “Da has enough cares right now without you adding to them. ’Tis time you recognized that and took responsibility for your part in keeping this clan safe. Do not stir up trouble. Think before you act, especially with the lads.”
Tears trembled on Scotia’s inky lashes, but Rowan knew from long experience that they were not tears of grief, nor contrition, they were tears brought out by temper. Scotia was used to getting her way and on those rare occasions when she didn’t she retaliated first with tears, and then with silence. Rowan preferred the silence.
To her credit, Scotia didn’t let the tears fall.
Jeanette sighed and returned to her meal.
Rowan hated arguing with either of her cousins. She owed much to them both. They had accepted her into their family without question or jealousy. And while she had fully intended to speak with Scotia about her folly, she had not wished to do it here, not now, and not in such a contentious way. Someday the lass would settle down and not be so distracted by every eye-catching man that crossed her path. With luck that day would come soon.
She cast a quick glance at the man who had begun this irksome topic, only to find him watching her. Their eyes met and he smiled again before turning back to his nearly empty trencher. An odd fluttering in her stomach accompanied a quickening of her heart’s pace as she pondered the muscles and dark hair that Scotia had been praising for days. At least her cousin had a good eye for the handsome lads.
Handsome, indeed, but what sort of man was Nicholas of Achnamara really, and why did he have this mesmerizing effect on her? She pushed away from the table and her half-eaten meal and stood before she even realized she had decided to do so.
“Rowan?” Jeanette regarded her. “You have not finished your meal.”
“I am not as hungry as I thought. Since Auntie cannot act as hostess I think I shall make sure our visitor is finding his stay with us satisfactory.”
“But that is my responsibility, cousin,” Jeanette said, that gleam once more alight in her eyes.
“True, it is, but I shall take that responsibility this night.” She made an exaggerated sigh and let her hand flutter to her chest. “It is the least I can do when you have so much work running the castle.”
Rowan and Jeanette laughed while Scotia sat back in her chair, her arms crossed in front of her, shaking her head. Rowan found herself grateful to Jeanette for easing the tension that had hummed through her bones with her gentle teasing. She kissed her cousin’s cheek and went to learn what she could about Nicholas.
NICHOLAS WATCHED ROWAN at the head table, noting well that she kept glancing at him. He’d been unable to take the seat he would have preferred, with his back to the wall and a good view of the entire space but at least he’d sat so the dais with its long table was easily in his line of sight even if the entire hall lay between him and it. The three women sitting up there were all pretty in their own way, but Rowan was the one who drew his eye. The distraction she posed was a welcome rest from his increasing frustration.
All day Nicholas had been trying to find out something, anything, about the Highland Targe but no one was talking about anything but the fallen wall and their ailing Lady.
Nicholas had looked about for any clues to the Targe’s existence as best he could today but he always had Duncan or Uilliam on his heels so he hadn’t gotten further than what could be seen from the bailey or the pile of rubble.
At least Uilliam had stopped following him at t
he door, though the man had positioned himself at the far table behind Nicholas. He wasn’t subtle, but then he probably didn’t intend to be. But Nicholas could be subtle, more subtle even than he had been. Perhaps he should be so subtle in what he actually wanted that they would think he was after something completely different. Scotia did not seem as likely a mark as he had thought. Perhaps the bonny Rowan would prove more receptive.
If he could learn nothing of the Highland Targe from Duncan at least he could tease some information about Rowan from the man.
“I see Mistress Rowan is better,” Nicholas said as casually as he could.
Duncan glanced at the dais and bobbed his head.
“How is it that such a striking lass is not married?”
“She does not seem much interested in the lads.”
“Scotia seems to be interested enough for herself and Mistress Rowan.”
“Aye, that one is too interested as you have discovered.” Duncan chuckled. “You handled her quite well this afternoon.”
Handling Scotia’s flirtatious advances had been nothing compared to his experiences with the courtesans in Edward’s court. He had managed to flirt with her without promising anything more as she’d walked beside him and his cart to the meadow and back several times. His subtle questions and not-so-subtle charm that normally had women telling him whatever he asked should have opened the door to the Targe but they were deftly turned back on him until he had, at last, given up, realizing that despite the girl’s behavior she was smarter than he’d thought. Surprisingly so. Duncan, bless the man, had finally suggested she was needed by her mother and freed Nicholas from the girl’s grip.
Highlander Betrayed (Guardians of the Targe) Page 6