He’d stepped back in one long stride, his feet near silent in deerskin boots. The curiosity was gone, and the expression in his eyes warned her to keep away, as if she was somehow a threat to him.
“It isn’t safe in the woods. Go home.”
She’d stood like a ninny, staring at him, unable to say a word. Did he expect her to speak, to remind him that these were her father’s woods, and that she had nothing to fear? But she realized that she was afraid. She clasped her arms around her body. Still she didn’t flee.
His mouth was a slash of annoyance and confusion as he turned to leave her. She had the sense that he was the one fleeing, restraining some dangerous impulse she didn’t understand.
She took another deep breath to restore her composure and looked down at the overturned basket at her feet. Hazelnuts had spilled over the carpet of leaves, and she bent to pick them up. One had a drop of blood on it, and she tossed it away and rubbed her hand along her skirt.
What would Meggie or Aileen or any of her other sisters have done if they were here? They should have been. They gathered the last of the hazelnuts together on this day every year, spending the day gossiping and collecting as many pretty leaves as nuts. Jennet knew the best thickets, where the trees bent double under the weight of their crop. They’d shake them down onto a blanket and fill their baskets, taking care to leave plenty for the birds and squirrels.
If her bold sisters had been here, they would have told the sealgair to go seek his prey elsewhere and sent him on his way. They wouldn’t be trembling from the encounter, their hearts thumping like caged birds in their breasts, their cheeks tingling from a simple touch. He was just a servant, after all. Her hands shook, and she spilled as many nuts as she managed to pick up.
But her sisters couldn’t be roused this morning. They’d grumbled and thrown pillows at her when she’d tried to wake them, ready with the baskets and blankets. They hadn’t wanted to come and pick hazelnuts. It shouldn’t have surprised Laire.
How many nights since the wedding had her sisters stayed up late, dancing and enjoying cup after cup of Bibiana’s sweet red wine? Before their new stepmother’s arrival, her sisters rose with the sun. Now, they lay abed until noon.
Laire hadn’t touched the wine. Not a single drop. The dark red color reminded her of blood, and the accidental poison that had killed her twin brother—Papa’s prized, beloved son. Lachlan’s death had made her afraid of so many things. Poison, wine, bloody meats . . . And the dark, most of all. The things you loved were too easily stolen in the dark. She slept with a candle beside her bed to push the shadows back, keep unseen terrors at bay. By day, she followed a strict routine, keeping all in its place, watching over her family, trying to be useful. Not as useful as a son, of course . . .
Tears blurred her vision.
A cold gust of wind stirred the dry leaves, making them skitter and dance. It caught at her hair, tugged long tendrils loose from her braid. The branches of the trees creaked, keening a mournful cry for the passing of the soft days of summer.
Laire counted the nuts as she dropped them back into the basket. There weren’t enough to see them through the whole winter, and they were Papa’s favorite. She frowned and glanced at the gray clouds that were scudding across the sky, warning that it would snow soon—within weeks, or even days. She imagined the sealgair in his black garb against the white snow. No one would happen upon him accidentally then.
Go home, he’d said. The woods are not safe . . . He’d said it in Gaelic, with a perfect brogue. He belonged here, a Highlander, just as she was. One of her own kind, yet distant and different and dangerous.
He was wrong. How could the wood not be safe? This was her home. She’d grown up here, played among these trees as a child, knew every hill and rock. She was as safe here as she was in her own bed. But bad things happened, even in the safe haven of a warm bed, in the dark . . . She looked around, felt unseen eyes upon her and a creep in her spine that had never been there before.
The soft sound above her made her flinch, and she looked up. Another dove huddled on the branch, feathers fluffed. It stared down at her with soft black eyes.
Laire’s tender heart cracked. The dead bird’s mate—he had sacrificed himself for her, given his life to the hunter to protect her. She read sorrow in the creature’s dark eyes.
Gently Laire reached up and closed her hands around the dove’s gray body. She felt the quick heartbeat under her palms, the quiver of fear, but the bird went still, resigned to her fate. Laire placed it gently into the basket on top of the hazelnuts and covered it with a fold of her plaid.
“You won’t have to spend the winter alone, wee one,” she said. “No one should spend the winter alone.”
Go home. The woods aren’t safe . . .
Laire put the basket over her arm, lifted her skirts clear of the leaves, and hurried back toward the familiar safety of her father’s castle.
CHAPTER FOUR
For thirty years, Ada MacLeod had ruled the kitchen at Glen Iolair. But she wasn’t in her usual place by the fire when Laire entered. It was Terza who looked up from where she was stirring something over the heat. The flames lit the deep lines and fissures of her face, and the suspicious glint in her dark eyes. “You startled me,” she said accusingly. “Which one are you?”
“Laire,” she said, feeling startled herself. She tore her eyes away from the old woman and looked around the kitchen. The familiar room was dark and bare, the noisy mix of lounging cats and busy people missing. Usually the room smelled of fresh bread and warm stew, and Ada held court, her sleeves rolled to the elbow. Laire couldn’t remember when she’d entered the kitchens without finding Ada. But today she wasn’t here. Laire’s eyes fell on a pile of dead birds waiting on the table for their turn in the pot. She swallowed pity for the bloody little corpses, the splayed wings, the glazed, staring eyes and open beaks. She hugged the basket tighter to her chest, kept her plaid over it, hiding the sight from the dove inside.
“Where’s Ada?”
Terza picked up a knife and cut one of the birds in half. She scooped it up and dropped it into the pot. “Gone.”
Laire felt a shiver of shock. “Gone? Where?” Ada would never go, not without a tearful parting. She was as much a part of Glen Iolair as the stones of the keep, the water in the loch, the ancient hills. Ada had nursed her and all of her sisters, taken them under her wing when their mothers died. Ada was Glen Iolair’s cook, the healer, and the lasses’ confidant. How could she be gone? Unless . . . An uneasy feeling made Laire’s belly roll.
“How should I know where she went?” Terza said. “Bibiana is particular about her meals and likes the way I cook them.” Her sharp dark eyes stopped on the basket in Laire’s arms. “What have you got there?”
“Hazelnuts,” Laire said.
The dove chose that moment to shy inside the basket and let out a soft coo. Terza’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “And a dove,” Laire added, forced to admit there was something alive in the basket. “I thought Ada might help . . .” She paused as Terza dropped the dead bird in her hand and came around the table, looking eager. No, not eager—avid. The old woman flicked her tongue over her lips.
“A dove? Is it alive? Afraid?”
Laire hugged the basket tighter and sidestepped before Terza could look. She made for the stillroom at the back of the kitchen.
“There’s a cage in the stillroom. My sister, Fia, kept wild things in it when they needed healing. Ada as well. I’ll put the dove in the cage and keep her until spring,” she babbled, her heart thumping.
“Spring!” Terza followed her. Her gnarled fingers touched the plaid covering the bird, and Laire saw a smear of blood on the fabric. Inside, the bird shifted and flapped. Laire resisted the urge to draw away. Bibiana’s servant smelled of bitter herbs, smoke, and sweat, and there was something dark and metallic, too, something that made Laire’s nose quiver, and her heart beat faster. She switched the basket to the other arm, further away from Terza
.
“Perhaps I’ll release her sooner, let her fly away south.” She stopped in the doorway of the stillroom and looked around in surprise.
It had changed since she was last here. Fia’s simple clay pots had been replaced by dark-glass jars and bottles, and caskets and boxes made of exotic wood and painted leather. The recognizable bundles of herbs were gone and dark roots had taken their place, hairy and ugly. A sharp, unfamiliar scent filled the room. The shutters, always open to admit the breeze, were shut tight.
Laire’s gaze fell on a large bowl on the table. It was made of brass, the lip and sides chased with silver, carved with runes and symbols. The contents of the vessel were deep red, like wine. Or blood. The surface glittered, and it smelled sweet and exotic. She leaned closer, her lips parting. Shapes moved under the surface, gathered, pulsed . . .
Terza threw a cloth over the bowl.
Laire drew a breath and swallowed hard. She crossed to where the collection of willow cages hung from the rafters, putting the width of the oak table between herself and Terza.
“Terza.” Laire heard Rafael’s voice in the doorway. Terza waved a hand to silence him. His dark eyes met Laire’s, and his brows lifted with interest. A smile quirked his lips sideways.
“Ah, you have company. And in the stillroom. Nothing amiss, I hope?” he said to Terza.
“She’s got a bird, a dove, in her basket,” Terza said.
Rafael’s brows rose, and the smile deepened to delight. “A dove? Oh, the lady will like that. They’re her favorite—”
“It isn’t a gift. She means to let it go free,” Terza interrupted sharply. Rafael looked at the old woman, said something soft in a foreign language Laire didn’t understand. It made the old woman cackle. Laire felt a lump form in her throat. Rafael turned to her again and held out an elegant hand. “May I look?” he asked mildly.
The cage hung above her, but she’d have to set the basket down and use both hands to unhook it. She bit her lip, but Rafael was already there beside her. He reached for the cage, coming so close his face was just inches from hers. She stepped back and hit a shelf behind her. The Frenchman set the cage on the floor and stood directly in front of her. Holding her gaze, he reached out and flicked the plaid back, exposing the bird.
He chuckled. “Wonderful!” he said. His French accent made the word a soft purr. He reached into the basket, but the bird skittered backward and pecked at his hand. Laire pulled away, and he looked up at her, his smile fading. His gaze slid over her like oil.
“A fine bird indeed,” he whispered. “If I were you, I’d keep it somewhere safe, out of reach of predators. Have you such a place?”
“I—I’ll keep it in my chamber,” Laire said, unwilling to leave the bird here, now, in the care of these servants. She thought of the bird the sealgair shot, the featherless bodies on the kitchen table.
“In your chamber?” Rafael smiled at her, his teeth gleaming. “Bon.”
She didn’t smile back, couldn’t.
He came a step closer to her, though he was close enough already. She clung to the basket, sent him a fierce look of warning, which he ignored. He put his hand under her chin and scanned her face. His thumb brushed over her cheek, an intimate, overbold, unwanted caress. Rafael’s hands were cold and as smooth and soft as her own. The sealgair’s hands were warm, his skin work-roughened. Yet his touch hadn’t frightened her, made her flesh creep the way it did now.
She pulled out of the Frenchman’s grip, felt anger flare. “How dare you?” she said, warning him back with a fierce glare. He was a servant, and she was the daughter of his master.
He stepped back, but laughed softly. “I thought you looked ill. But perhaps you are merely chilled, mistress—?”
“Laire,” Terza supplied her name.
“Laire,” Rafael purred, drawing the word out. “Such a pretty name.” He turned to Terza. “Perhaps a posset to warm her?”
Terza grinned. “Aye.”
Rafael looked at her with a mischievous smile, and for a moment, Laire thought he meant to kiss her. She bent quickly, opened the door of the cage with shaking fingers. She lifted the dove gently out of the basket and set her into the cage. She rose with the cage in her arms, a barrier between herself and Rafael. The bird fluttered, moved to the side of the cage that lay against Laire’s breast, away from the servant.
She moved to leave the room, but Terza returned, holding a steaming cup in her hand. She set it on the table and crossed to pluck a blue glass bottle off the shelf. She uncorked it with her teeth and carefully added a few drops of the contents to the cup. The hot liquid hissed. She picked it up again and approached Laire, stood beside Rafael, blocking Laire’s exit.
“It’s naught but something to warm you and soothe you,” she said in a soft voice. She held it out. The sweet fragrance was beguiling, and Laire’s mouth watered. She could smell cinnamon, and ripe fruit, and something green and tantalizing.
Laire stared at the cup without moving. Rafael made a soft sound of disapproval and took the goblet from Terza. He came closer and held it under Laire’s nose. “A sip,” he coaxed. “Did your nurse never make you possets as a child? Terza makes them for Bibiana all the time. Terza has tended princesses in her day, you know, and all kinds of ladies of nervous disposition. It is delicious, full of honey and fruit, lightly spiced . . .”
Laire looked into the depths of the cup, saw colors swirl. The liquid reflected nothing terrifying—it was just her own face, her wide eyes.
She remembered another cup, sweet fruit juice stirred with a handful of leaves, berries, and flowers, a bright summer day, a child’s game that turned deadly . . .
Laire felt her gorge rise and her heartbeat quicken. Her hands tightened on the cage. “I’m—I’m not thirsty.”
She raised her chin. She told herself she had nothing to fear. These were only servants after all. She put on her bravest face—Meggie’s knowing squint, Aileen’s haughty manner. “Move aside,” she commanded.
Rafael pouted his lower lip. “A sip,” he insisted, coming closer still. He cupped her chin again, held the cup to her lips, tipped it. She felt the warm liquid slosh against her mouth and chin, and the intoxicating fragrance enveloped her. She turned her head away, pushed him, and fled. He gasped as the posset splashed on his arm, stained his fine linen shirt. She accidentally kicked the basket at her feet, and the hazelnuts skittered across the stone floor. She didn’t stop. With the cage in her arms, she hurried through the kitchen, past the bubbling pot and the bloody birds, and ran up the steps.
She didn’t stop until she reached the safety of her chamber and shut the door behind her.
She ran her tongue over her lips, tasted the heady, perfumed sweetness of the drink on her skin, and swallowed. She poured water into the washbasin and rubbed at her mouth, but the taste of the posset lingered on her tongue, crept down her throat to her belly. She felt as if a mist had invaded her limbs, made them soften and grow warm. The room dimmed, yet colors grew more vibrant—the embroidered purple flowers on the brocade bed curtains seemed to bloom before her very eyes. The vines behind them swelled and popped with new buds and leaves, which faded and fell away to leave the vines brown and dry. Laire gasped, blinked, but the world spun. She was dizzy. She set the caged bird on the bed, fell beside it and closed her eyes.
She was in the woods, running headlong through the trees. The day had darkened, and a storm rolled in over the horizon. The trees tossed their branches mournfully. Twigs caught at her, scratched her face, and tore at her clothes. Birds fled, fighting the wind, and foxes, deer, and rabbits raced with her, seeking sanctuary.
Laire called out for help, for Papa, for her sisters, for Ada, but the wind snatched her voice away. She looked around desperately. Where were her sisters? Where were the clansmen whose duty it was to find her, protect her, carry her to safety? She was entirely alone.
No, not alone. Rafael was here, whispering in her ear. “Come little one. There is no need to be afraid,” he sai
d in French. She couldn’t flee. Her legs didn’t work. The wind blew her hair across her eyes, and she couldn’t see. Her plaid swirled around her, tightened against her throat, choking her, and she fought for air, tried to tear the clinging cloth away, but the wind held it in place. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died in her throat as an arrow buried itself deep in the tree beside her face. The sealgair was here.
She couldn’t see him amid the trees. Terror gripped her. She lifted her skirts and ran on, deep into the woods, through darkness was falling, and the storm was coming closer . . . Terrible things happened in the dark. She needed shelter, safety. Somewhere a dove cried in panic, and she heard the beat of wings, smelled the creature’s panic.
The gale tore up the trees by their roots, they fell all around her, and still she ran. Her father’s castle was ahead, but she couldn’t reach it. The wind tore away the MacLeod banner, ripped stones from the tower, tossed them into the loch . . . Ravens drove her back, circled overhead, swooped down at her, coming in upon the storm. They plucked at her hair with their sharp beaks, tore at her clothes, her face. She screamed and ran the other way, but they followed, and soon she was lost, far from home with no way to get back. Then Bibiana rose from the leaves, resplendent in gold. She reached out a hand, but Laire recoiled, and her stepmother’s fingers shrank and withered until they were nothing more than the dry branches of a tree, naked and sharp.
“Look.” The bony branches pointed, and Laire struggled to her feet, following the point. In the distance, Glen Iolair stood before her, dry and dead, the castle a ruin, the loch black as night. It was gone, all gone . . .
Laire woke screaming, but no one came to her aid. She could still taste the sweetness of the posset on her tongue, craved more. She turned her head on the pillow. The cage still lay beside her, but the door was open and the dove was gone.
The Lady and the Highlander Page 3