“Don’t be tellin’ our business to strangers,” Hoolet admonished the child.
“But she’s not a stranger. She’s Laire.”
“She’s naught but a—”
Laire held up a hand. “Nay,” she said firmly, her chin high. “My name is Laire MacLeod. My father is the MacLeod of Glen Iolair.” Hoolet fell silent, her lips pinched so tightly there was a ring of white around them. She crossed the fireplace in the corner and took the lid off the pot that simmered there. The smell of burnt food filled the room, but she scooped a ladleful of the pot’s contents into a bowl and thrust it at Laire. “Here. Ye’d best eat—but don’t think we won’t expect the cost of your meals paid in full.”
Laire peered into the chipped bowl. A strong smell of burnt oats rose from it, and she made a face.
“D’ye think ye could do any better?” the girl demanded.
“None of us can cook,” Magpie whispered. Wee Kipper nodded.
Laire took note of the thin bodies, the pronounced cheekbones, the sallow cheeks.
“I can cook porridge,” Laire said. “And bannock, and bread, stew, and oatcakes.”
“Ye can?” Magpie whispered. “Better than Hoolet? Like my mam used to?”
Laire nodded.
The lad at the table chuckled. “Ye hear that, Chieftain? She can cook.”
The young man glared at her. “Then she can prove it. She can pay us back by making the meals.” He folded his arms over his thin chest. “We’ll look for your uncle, but until we find him, ye’ll stay and work for your keep.”
“Can ye make tarts?” Magpie asked. Kipper nodded eagerly.
“Aye, if you have apples, or berries,” Laire said.
“We will have,” Hoolet said. “Go out and fetch some, Magpie.”
The child made a face, but rose obediently. Wee Kipper rose as well, but Hoolet put a hand on his shoulder. “Not you. Ye were on the mission last night. Let Magpie go.”
Mission? Laire glanced around her.
Chieftain laughed. “Aye, mission. We’re thieves, mistress. Does that frighten ye?” He sketched a mocking bow. “I am the Chieftain of the Clan of Thieves. This is Hoolet, Dux, Wee Kipper, Magpie, Bear, and—” he paused. “Where’s Fussle?”
Hoolet sighed. “Probably up in the library again, with his nose in a book. One of these days he’ll be caught for sure.”
“I’ll fetch him,” Dux said. He rose, crossed the room, slipped behind another curtain, and disappeared. All the corners of the room were hung with tattered curtains of various fabrics, like mismatched tapestries.
The biggest lad, called Bear, was on his knees, wrapping Magpie in a cloak. The child had empty bags over her shoulders under the garment. “Be quick and be smart,” he said, and unlatched the door. A gasp of icy air swirled snow across the threadbare carpet that covered the room’s dirt floor. The child went through it, and the door closed behind her, and Bear locked it again. He turned and gave Laire a grin. “I carried ye here. Can ye really cook?”
Laire looked at the fireplace, at the rudimentary and very dirty cooking equipment. “I can, but first, everything must be clean. Have you got water for washing, sand to scrub the pots, soap?”
“Hoolet?” Chieftain said.
Hoolet rolled her eyes. “All right, I’ll see to it,” she snapped. She pushed aside the same curtain Dux had and disappeared into a dark corridor.
“What will ye make first?” Bear asked.
“Stew,” she said. “If there’s meat.”
Chieftain looked at Bear. “Bear?”
“But I was on the mission last night,” Bear said.
Chieftain held up a coin. “Then buy what we need if ye can’t pinch it.” Bear took the coin with a sigh, donned his cloak, and unlatched the door.
Suddenly a strange wail filled the small space, unearthly and haunting. Laire felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. Chieftain grinned. “It’s just Hoolet clearing the way, letting the other resident of this fine house know we’re coming.”
A few minutes later, Hoolet reappeared. She had a large pot in her hands, a sack of flour, and a small boy, held by the ear. Dux followed with a handful of carrots and turnips. “Fussle was in the library, right where I expected.”
The lad looked rebellious. He pulled away and stood in the middle of the floor. “Make yourself useful. Go get some snow for water,” Hoolet told him as she set the pot on the table with a clang, and turned to Laire. “There. Now cook.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Iain woke at the knock on the door. He heard the key in the lock before he could answer. He slid his hand under the pillow and gripped the dirk. The abbess entered carrying a tray. She set it down on the table and closed the door.
She slid an appreciative glance over his naked chest as he lay propped on one elbow, still in bed, the dirk in his hand.
“Good morning. If you’re to stay any length of time, I think introductions are in order,” she said. “I’m Janet Fairly, the proprietor of the Pearl, though my clients know me as Mistress Arabella.”
“Lindsay,” he said gruffly. He set the dirk aside and rose, wrapping the sheet around his hips.
She crossed and sat down in the chair by the fire, poured coffee into two cups. “You said you were looking for a lass.”
“Aye,” Iain muttered. “She has dark hair, violet eyes, and she’s about so tall . . .” He held his hand up to his shoulder. “She’s a Highland lass, fresh off the boat.”
“Pretty?” Janet asked.
“Aye,” Iain said. Beautiful.
Janet Fairly sipped her coffee. “I was telling the truth when I said she isn’t here, Lindsay. What made you think she was?”
“I was told she was brought here.”
“I see. I assure you that you have been misinformed. I am a businesswoman. I can see you have the means to pay me what such a lass is worth, despite your rough appearance. I would be a fool not to negotiate if I had her, but alas, I cannot sell what I do not have. Is she your wife or your sweetheart, this runaway Highland lass of yours?”
“No,” he said brusquely. He sipped the coffee, picked up a bun still warm from the oven and studded with currants, slathered it with butter and jam, and devoured it
“Whoever she is, you’re fair bristling with concern for her.”
“I’ve been tasked with finding her, that’s all.”
She frowned slightly. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does anyone’s bidding, if you don’t mind my saying. Has she money, connections, or is she alone?”
Iain felt cold dread in the pit of his stomach. “Connections, but she was robbed. She has an uncle in town—Hugh or Harrison, I was told. He’s an educated man, a scientist or a physician, perhaps. A gentleman.”
She looked at him appraisingly. “I could have one of the lasses cut your hair and shave you if you like.”
He rubbed a hand over the long stubble on his jaw. “That bad, am I?”
“You’d have more success getting answers if you didn’t look quite so dangerous. While you’re being barbered, I can make a few . . . discreet . . . enquiries.”
“I’d like to stay for a few days if I may. I’ll pay you, of course.”
“Of course,” she said. “Will this room do?”
“Aye.”
He rose and went to the window and looked down at the square. He watched a small girl race across the snowy expanse, her russet cloak flying behind her. She dropped something—an apple—and went back for it before hurrying on. She disappeared between the houses.
He rubbed his bearded chin.
As a sealgair, Iain wouldn’t be welcome in the grand houses of Edinburgh, but as Iain Lindsay, all doors would be open to him. He stared at the front door of the house across the square. He’d closed that door seven years ago, never expecting to open it again. That part of his life, his soul, was dead.
But to find Laire MacLeod, he’d have to go back to his old life once more.
“Aye,” he said to J
anet Fairly. “You may cut my hair.”
“For a fee,” she said.
“For a fee,” he agreed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Laire cooked stew with turnips and carrots, and made jam tarts. All seven of the odd collection of children and young adults tucked in to the meal, and for the first time since Laire’s arrival, the room was silent except for chewing and the clatter of spoons on plates.
She also busied herself repairing some of the clan’s tattered clothing. Wee Kipper had worn through the knees of his breeches, and Fussle had holes in the elbows of his jerkin. Magpie had nearly grown out of her gown, so Laire added a length of colored fabric from one of the curtains to the bottom. Hoolet watched her as she stitched, but looked away every time Laire tried to catch her eye.
“Is there anything for afters? Something sweet?” Dux asked hopefully after devouring three plates of stew. The little ones drowsed, leaning on each other. They looked full, sleepy and content, their cheeks rosy for once. Tomorrow they’d have clean, mended clothes to wear. It made Laire feel useful. She’d been here for a day and a night, and more time was passing . . . At Glen Iolair, the snow would be falling, binding the castle in a grip of ice and cold. Were her sisters warm? Was her father out hunting? Not this winter. She pricked her finger with the needle and winced.
The clan had promised to help her find Uncle Hamish—tomorrow, when they woke in the afternoon, after sleeping part of the day away after a mission tonight.
She looked at Dux’s hopeful face. Behind his wire spectacles, he was little more than a boy himself, a lad who liked sweets.
“I was hoping there might be some spices for the tarts,” Laire said, regarding the wee pile of apples that Magpie had brought back. “They taste very fine with cinnamon and sugar—or some honey.”
“They have spices upstairs, in the kitchen,” Hoolet said though a mouthful of food. “What’s cimm-a-mow look like?”
“It’s reddish brown, like your hair.”
Hoolet ran her hand through her curls.
“Perhaps you should take Laire with ye,” Dux suggested.
“Upstairs?” Hoolet said, her eyes as wide as an owl’s.
“For apple tarts, I’d send her to the palace,” Dux said.
“I want an apple tart,” Magpie said sleepily.
“Tomorrow,” Hoolet said to the bairn. She looked at Laire, her eyes narrowing to slits. “The old woman upstairs goes out early most days, so we’ll go up as soon as she leaves. If ye try to run, I’ll gut ye, is that clear?”
Laire gave her a sweet smile. “Aye, but who’ll make the tarts then?”
Hoolet looked away first.
Hoolet led Laire up the narrow stone stairs that led from the cellar to the back of the basement scullery. The thieves had made their home in the lowest room in the house, the one usually used for storing coal, or brewing, or laundry.
Hoolet paused at the top of the steps and sounded her ghostly call. For a moment she stayed still and listened. “Nothing,” she said at last. “The old woman’s out. She spends a lot of time at the taverns, since there’s not a lot for her to do here. There was a manservant, but he’s gone.” She grinned. “He decided the house was haunted, didn’t like it here. The woman has been harder to shift. I think she might be deaf, but Chieftain says she’s just lazy or stubborn. We watch over the place well enough. It’s our home. If she knows we’re here, it suits her to ignore us.”
She called again, a long, fearful moan, just to be sure the poor deaf housekeeper was out. Nothing stirred in the empty house around them. Laire held her breath as they stepped into a small scullery. Pots and pans lined the shelves along the wall, and a row of plain plates and bowls stood on a sideboard. Most were dusty from lack of use. “She doesn’t bother cleaning anymore. No one comes here.”
Laire wondered what would make someone abandon a fine house. She followed Hoolet silently.
“Since there’s no one here, there’s something I want ye to see,” Hoolet said. She darted through the scullery and out into the kitchen. The fire stood carefully banked. Hoolet pointed. “There’s the pantry. It’s locked, but I know how to pick a lock. We’ll come back later for the spices.”
Hoolet led the way up the kitchen stairs to the main floor. Beyond the door at the top was a grand hallway. There were portraits on the walls, grim faces that glared down at them, powerless to stop the invasion of the unwanted visitors. Hoolet hurried past them without looking. Laire mouthed a silent apology as she rushed to keep up. “Dining room, salon, and the library,” Hoolet said as she hurried past the doors. She paused at the library’s double doors and pushed them open.
“This is where Fussle likes to hide. He and Dux read books. I don’t see the point of it myself.” She swept along the shelves that lined the walls of the big room, running her hand over the leather spines of the books and twitching the dust covers on the backs of the high-backed chairs. The fine wood floor was bare, the carpet was rolled up and stored against the wall.
“Fine isn’t it? Bet ye’ve never seen the like of it.” Hoolet said.
Laire didn’t reply. It was a grand room in a grand house—as grand as her father’s castle, home. Someone had collected all these books, had lived here . . . Where were they now? She imagined Glen Iolair like this, empty and abandoned, the family gone, or worse . . .
Hoolet grabbed her sleeve. “Don’t stand there gawkin’ at the air! Come on.” Laire followed her back to the corridor and along to a grand foyer. The floor was made of colored marble tiles here, and a wide staircase climbed toward a domed skylight three floors above them. Snow clung to the leaded panes, edging them with fine white lace and casting delicate shadows on the walls and floor. Hoolet started up the steps, and Laire did her best to keep up and not “gawk.”
Every footstep echoed through the empty house like thunder, and Laire bit her lip, aware she was trespassing. Surely only tragedy or illness would make someone leave such a house. Papa had always protected his daughters from such things—until Bibiana. Tears blurred her vision, and she stumbled.
“Keep up!” Hoolet admonished in a whisper that echoed.
Hoolet ran lightly along the gallery of the second floor until she came to a set of double doors. “They keep these rooms locked, but that’s no problem.” She withdrew a scrap of metal from her bodice and worked it expertly into the keyhole. The lock opened with a click, and Hoolet swung the doors wide.
The bedchamber beyond was glorious. A full tester bed, swagged with fading brocade curtains, took up half the room. A vase filled with long-dead roses stood on a table by the bed under a portrait of a young woman. A dusty mirror stood in the corner, reflecting the presence of two slim, shadowy figures creeping in on tiptoe.
Hoolet crossed to a second door, this one unlocked, and opened that. The hinges creaked an objection. Laire saw a dressing room beyond containing a wardrobe, a dressing table, and a round copper bath in the corner, empty and tarnished.
Hoolet went directly to the wardrobe and opened it. “Look.” Laire saw the beautiful dresses inside, shimmering silk, dazzling brocade, fine wool, and glowing velvet. More still were sealed in muslin bags.
Hoolet pulled out a blue silk brocade trimmed with white lace. She went back to the bedchamber and stood in front of the dusty mirror, holding the gown before her. “What I want to know is if ye can make me a gown like this one, since ye can sew so well.”
Laire gaped at the beautiful gown, at the expensive fabric and the delicate stitches that adorned the sleeves and bodice. “Not like this,” she said. She could sew a fine seam, fix a hem, adjust a bodice, or fix a tear, but she couldn’t make a whole gown. She imagined her sisters’ reaction to the beautiful dress. It would match Meggie’s blue eyes, suit Cait’s slim figure . . .
Hoolet sniffed and tossed her head. “I thought not. And if you’re wondering why I don’t just take this one, it’s because we have a pact. We don’t steal from this house, and we protect it from those who would. This is our
home. We’re safe here. Borrowing a pot or a pinch of spice is one thing, but a gown like this—” She ran her hand over the soft fabric, longing clear in her eyes.
“Try it on,” Laire said. Hoolet looked at her as if she were daft. “What can it hurt? There’s no one here, and the lady who owns it has probably forgotten it. Trying it isn’t the same as taking it if we put it back afterward. I’ll help you with the laces.”
Hoolet blinked like the owl she was nicknamed for. She bit her lower lip, considering. Then she looked at the gown again, and pulled her own tattered dress over her head.
Iain stared at his face in the mirror when the girl finished shaving him. He’d given up his own name, had stopped being Iain Lindsay, the clean-shaven respectable gentleman he saw in the glass seven years ago, in Paris, and had become the sealgair. He never thought he’d see his own face again.
He turned away and crossed to the window. Below, three children threw snowballs at each other. He’d seen the small girl with red curls before. Today she was with two small lads. He glanced around the square. Which house did they live in? There were only four houses on King James’s Square, and one stood destroyed by fire, a mass of black timbers and broken bricks. They could not have come from the Pearl, surely. The third house was empty, the inhabitants away, and Lindsay House was lonely and forlorn . . . but the door opened as he watched, and a woman came out. She was bundled against the cold, but he knew Morag Lindsay, though she was older now. She pocketed the key, made her way across the square, and disappeared. Morag was still there, after so many years . . . He scowled at the house. The shuttered windows scowled back. It looked neglected, guilty of all the sins and sorrows that had occurred inside its walls. It was a fitting place for the Lindsays of Craigmyle . . .
The Pearl was near silent around him as the lasses slept after a busy night. They’d wake again at dusk to preen and prepare for the hours of business.
He’d occupy his day and his night in searching for Laire MacLeod. He looked up at the sky, clearing at last after two days of snow. Had she found her uncle or a safe place? His gut tightened, imagining her fate. Hypocrite—what right had he to worry over her fate, to fear for her? He was the one she was running from.
The Lady and the Highlander Page 13