Mia Marlowe

by Plaid Tidings

  “You’re trembling.” Alexander’s voice rumbled in her ear.

  “Aye. I’m no’ accustomed to horses.”

  He dismounted and then lifted her down, none too gently. “And I’m not accustomed to being thought a fool by my wife.”

  Lucinda blinked in surprise. “How have I done that?”

  His eyes hardened like burnished steel. “You didn’t bother to tell me your brother is a Radical.”

  “Beige is the color of unintended betrayal. One wouldna think it, beige being such an unassuming shade. Blood red springs to mind, but that garish hue is more fitting to purposeful duplicity. Unintended betrayal hurts all the more for the way it hides in plain sight with a clear conscience. Treachery at its most beige.”

  From the secret journal of Callum Farquhar,

  Steward of Bonniebroch Castle since the

  Year of Our Lord 1521

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Alex clenched his fists to keep his hands still. Lucinda’s mouth gaped for a moment. Then the muscles in her throat worked beneath her pale skin as she swallowed hard.

  “You knew why I was here. You knew I was tasked with flushing out Radicals and yet you didn’t think to warn me about Dougal,” he said, barely bridling himself.

  “I couldna betray him,” she finally said. “He’s my only brother.”

  “And I’m your only husband.”

  The urge to plant his fist in the nearest tree trunk was fast building to a head. Protecting his king from men who fomented rebellion against him was so ingrained in Alexander’s character it was unthinkable that he wouldn’t act against a known Radical.

  Yet, Dougal was Lucinda’s brother. How could he guard the Crown’s interests without hurting his wife? There were too many conflicts, too many competing demands on his loyalty.

  Damn it all. This is why I’m not fit to be a husband.

  “There’s no cause for concern now,” Lucinda said, wringing her hands. “Dougal has left the movement . . . and Bonniebroch.”

  “At my order.” Alex scrubbed a hand over his hair. “As soon as MacMartin—and it had to be MacMartin, damn it!—told me what your brother was, I found Dougal in the stable and advised him to make himself scarce.”

  Her face brightened and she visibly relaxed. “Ye helped him.”

  “I helped myself,” Alex said, his voice low and controlled lest he roar at her. “So long as your brother is nowhere to be found I’m not required to act on what I know.”

  The tension was back in her cheeks. “And . . . would ye act?”

  “I’d have to.”

  Her eyes glistened with unshed tears and he fought the urge to look away from her. How could she expect him not to move against a traitor to his king? How could the king expect him to turn in his wife’s brother? His gut twisted in a furious knot.

  “I’m a new laird here. What I do sets the tone for years to come. If I can’t garner respect, I’ll settle for fear. If I don’t suffer a Radical, even to protect a family member, that’ll do it.”

  Tension gave way to panic in Lucinda’s face. It glinted in the whites of her eyes and the way her mouth tightened at the corners.

  “Your people here already respect ye, Alex. Ye’ve nothing to prove to them.”

  But what about to himself? If he was no longer an agent for the Crown, what was he? He’d come to Edinburgh despising his Scottish half but now everything was upside down. London seemed a million miles and another lifetime away.

  Bonniebroch still felt like a strange dream with its resident ghosts and looming curse. The only thing real in his entire life was the woman standing before him.

  The one he made cry. One by one, tears spilled over her lower lids and streaked her cheeks, but she didn’t say a word.

  If she’d rant at him, he could defend himself. If she’d beg, he’d explain why he couldn’t make an exception for her brother. Instead, she merely wept.

  And he was the cause.

  “Christ, Lu, you’re tearing my guts out.”

  Alexander reached for her and was relieved beyond words when she came to his arms. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled her clear to his toes. He found her mouth and took it hard. She met his rough kiss with urgency of her own. Then he pulled her away from him and held her at arm’s length so he could look into her wide eyes.

  “Ye didna trust me enough to tell me the truth,” he said, not even noticing the brogue that crept into his speech anymore. His voice was thick with emotion.

  “Aye. That’s true.” She nodded miserably. “I’m sorry. I should have told ye. I’ll no’ keep secrets from ye again.”

  She moved close and stood tiptoe to reach his mouth again. He savaged her lips for a moment, then became aware that she was working the buttons of his trousers. He pulled back once more.

  “Are ye doing this so I’ll protect your brother?”

  “No. I trust ye to do what ye must about Dougal.” Her chin quivered when she lifted it. “This is only about you and me. You’re my husband. I owe ye my first loyalty.”

  “And I owe you,” he said. No, he shouldn’t say that. He might still have to turn Dougal in. But at the moment all he could think of was the soft warmth of her mouth, of the feverish workings of her hands at his waist, and the haven that waited for him inside her.

  And he couldn’t wait another minute. Alex walked her backward to the broad trunk of a smooth-barked arbutus and lifted her skirts. With her spine pressed against the tree, he hooked an arm under one leg and raised her knee so she was open to him.

  She whimpered into his mouth with need, so he took her. Thank God she was more than ready because he couldn’t hold back, couldn’t be gentle.

  Lucinda couldn’t either. After only a few thrusts, her insides fisted around him in quick pulses, while she clawed at his back and cried his name. He followed quickly in a heart-pounding release that made him arch his spine and caused his eyes to roll back in his head.

  Alex pressed into her, unwilling to withdraw. He knew who he was when he was with Lucinda. Once they separated, his sense of himself would become murky again.

  Whatever else his wife was, whatever secrets she might withhold from him, he’d lay money she was part witch. He’d intended to have a shouting row with Lucinda to rival anything his father had ever launched against his mother. Instead he’d rutted her in a quick impassioned taking that left him wondering what their fight was about in the first place.

  She stroked his head and kissed his cheek. “I may have no’ shown it well, but I do love ye fine, Alexander. In the days to come, dinna forget that.”

  If he lived to be a hundred, he never would.

  But then, as the blood left other parts of his body and returned to his brain, he wondered what she meant about “the days to come.” Keeping mum while she let her husband harbor an enemy of the king was bad enough. In the fresh rush of loving, Alexander didn’t have the heart to ask her what other secrets she might be holding.

  If she was planning to betray him again, he decided he didn’t want to know. But as he smoothed down her skirt and refastened his trousers, he promised himself that he’d walk wary around his wife.

  Just in case.

  “Well, since Lord Bonniebroch sent Dougal MacOwen off instead of arresting him, does that count?” His round face expectant, Lyall Lyttle leaned over Farquhar’s shoulder, but the old ghost closed his private journal abruptly.

  Early yesterday, one of the stable lads had overheard the laird order his brother-in-law away so he didn’t have to bind him over to the authorities for being a Radical. The news had spread through the castle grapevine like bedbugs through a new straw tick. It seemed as if the laird had protected someone who might be considered an enemy, so now every soul was hopeful the second knot that bound Bonniebroch’s curse had been loosed.

  “Nae, it doesna affect the curse,” Farquhar said wearily. He too had hoped the laird’s action—or inaction—in the matter of his Radical brother-in-law would meet the enchantment�
��s requirement. Unfortunately, the old steward had felt nothing stir in the realm of the spirit, no release of the talon-hold grip of the curse.

  “But I thought his lordship only had to defend a foe—”

  “Only defend a foe?” Farquhar repeated tetchily. He rarely let Lyttle’s naiveté bedevil him. One of the good things about being pure spirit was that the passions that afflict the flesh had dissipated in the old steward over the centuries. Still, a little irritation bubbled up inside the ghost. Surely Lyttle couldn’t be that much of a simpleton! “D’ye ken how rare a thing it is for a man to protect his enemy?”

  Lyttle’s guileless eyes blinked slowly. “But, as an Englishman, Lord Bonniebroch must count a Radical his enemy.”

  “Aye, nae doubt, he does. But as a Scotsman, he also counts this particular Radical a brother-in-law, which doesna lend itself to enmity. At least, it shouldna.”

  It was such a tangled mess. Watching his laird stumble about trying to make the right decisions when Farquhar couldn’t even tell him what the three needful deeds were or offer advice about how to fulfill the requirements of the spirits—it was the most onerous burden Farquhar had ever shouldered.

  The steward floated over to the round window that looked down into the bailey. A heavy fog had rolled in during the night, obscuring the dozens of men who were checking the tack on their mounts or sharpening the wicked boar spears. Voices were muffled or amplified in turn depending on the shifting currents of thick haze. Then the order to mount was given. The sound of pounding hooves as well as the plodding tramp of the beaters who would venture out on foot echoed off the stone castle walls.

  “It appears the English willna wait for the sun to burn off the mist before starting their hunt,” Farquhar said.

  “And they swear no’ to return without a pair of tusks. They mean to stalk the boar all day, even by dusk and then by torchlight if needs be.” Lyttle shook his head. “Are all Englishmen so daft?”

  “Nae more nor less than other men. Though I’m hoping a Highlander would show a bit more sense in this case.” Farquhar stared down at the men as if it might allow him to peer into their secret hearts. While he could occasionally read men’s faces with uncanny accuracy, he wasn’t truly privy to their thoughts. “’Tis bound to be a dangerous enterprise. Fortunately, his lordship probably has plenty of enemies to pick from in yon crowd, should he choose to protect one.”

  “And should he decide no’ to?”

  “We’ll climb that stile when we get to it, aye? Sufficient unto the day, Mr. Lyttle.” Farquhar drifted back over to his desk and eyed his journal with speculation. “Let us no’ borrow trouble from tomorrow. Lord Bonniebroch cleared the first hurdle. We may hope he clears the second and third as well.”

  “’Twould be better if we could do more than hope,” Lyttle said grumpily. “Is there naught ye can do to show him the way?”

  Farquhar ran a spectral fingertip over his private journal, wishing he could still feel the grain in the Cordovan leather. A fresh idea quirked up one of his wiry brows. “Aye, mayhap there is.”

  Mr. Farquhar wasn’t the only soul watching the hunters fly through the portcullis. Lucinda used the secret corridor to make her way up to the battlements so she could stand in the brittle chill while Alexander led the party out. The pack of hunting dogs raised a cacophony of yelps as they trailed the riders. The feral sound made all the small hairs on Lucinda’s body stand on end.

  “If I were a self-respecting boar, I’d head for the hills about now,” she muttered as she pulled her cloak tight around her and wished for thicker boots.

  “Och, there y’are, milady.” A maid who was either Jane or Janet made her way along the battlements toward Lucinda.

  She bore a mug of something warm enough to send steam into the cold. Lucinda accepted it gratefully and wrapped two hands around the mug.

  “Thank ye . . . Janet.”

  “I’m Jane, but it makes no never mind. We often confuse people.”

  “Where is Janet?”

  “Meeting Seamus Abernathy down by the river.”

  Lucinda frowned. “But I thought he was your beau.”

  “He is. And Janet’s as well. We’re just after confusing him a bit. A confused man is a biddable man, me old mam always says.”

  Alexander might be confused from time to time, but there was nothing the least biddable about him. Memories of the quick taking in the forest yesterday brought heat to Lucinda’s cheeks. Their marriage was still filled with awkward silences and moments of mistrust, but their bodies spoke the same language.

  Lucinda wished their hearts did as well.

  She brought the mug to her lips. It was filled with coffee, black and hot, but she scented a whiff of alcohol too.

  “Aye, milady,” Jane said as if she’d heard Lucinda’s unspoken question. “Cook thought as ye’d need summat more than coffee to warm ye whilst ye watch the hunt.”

  Jane leaned over the crenellated edge to point out her father who was on the march with the beaters. Lucinda wondered at the excitement dancing in the girl’s eyes.

  “Seems to me that a man afoot is in more peril than one who’s mounted,” she said. “Are ye no’ the least scared for him?”

  “Och, no. Weel, I suppose I might be were it no’ for the curse, ye ken. Me father might take a wound and be in pain for a time, but eventually he’d heal. I mind the time when young Davey Drummond broke his arm falling out of a tree. Took him the better part of a decade to heal, but when one of us is injured there’s no question of it being mortal. We canna die, remember.”

  Lucinda wondered if Mr. Farquhar had told the residents that they’d turn to stone if the curse wasn’t lifted. The prospect of becoming a statue was daunting, but the folk of the castle didn’t seem panicked by it. “If ye canna die and always heal, I’m surprised ye wish the curse to be broken.”

  Jane’s smile faded a bit. “I know ye dinna understand the way of it, but we are mortal tired of being stuck. I used to wish to become a bride and have a husband and bairns of me own, but that canna be so long as the curse prevails.”

  “But what about Mr. Abernathy? You might at least wed.”

  “Ye’d think so, but no. I canna make up me mind to have him and it’s such fun for Janet and me to bedevil the man.” Jane leaned her cheek on her palm. “O’ course, after three hundred years of the chase, he still doesna seem to be able to decide which of us he favors either.”

  In the woods below, the riders had far outpaced the beaters and taken their station in a frost-kissed meadow at the base of a rising peak. The beaters thrashed through the underbrush. If there was a boar hidden among the brambles, they’d drive him to the men armed with spears and crossbows.

  “Truth to tell, I’m more worried for Lord Bonniebroch during this hunt,” Jane said artlessly. “He’s no’ touched by the curse, so we must hope the boar doesna touch him either.”

  “Scriptures admonish us to obey the spirit of the law instead of the letter. Since the Bonniebroch curse doesn’t rise to the level of holy writ, I may have thought of a way to tell his lordship what must be done without actually ‘telling’ him. At this point, ’tis worth a try.”

  From the secret journal of Callum Farquhar,

  Steward of Bonniebroch Castle since the

  Year of Our Lord 1521

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Clarindon had bowed out of the boar hunt, deciding instead to spend the morning chasing a charming upstairs maid about the castle, hoping to catch her beneath a kissing bough. Alex wished he could have done the same with Lucinda.

  As Alexander shifted in the saddle, the creak of leather sounded preternaturally loud.

  Of course, one of the best things about this blasted hunt was that everyone was forced to be quiet lest they warn the quarry of their presence. Lord Rankin couldn’t pontificate on everything under the sun. Sir Darren MacMartin couldn’t make sly remarks, laden with innuendo and half-truths. As they waited for the beaters to flush out the boar, Alexa
nder was alone in the crowd of English nobles and their retainers with only his thoughts to keep him company.

  As he looked down the line of hunters, bristling with weaponry, he mostly pitied the boar.

  Then their quarry shot out of the woods in a black blur with a pack of baying hounds nipping at its heels. The boar was of monstrous size, almost four feet at the shoulder and his back measured more than six. Alex estimated its weight at over five hundred pounds. It turned in the center of the clearing and one of the hounds leaped up to grasp it by the ear. With a toss of its massive head, the boar ripped open the dog’s guts, sending it keening and writhing in agony.

  Alexander revoked his pity for the boar in a heartbeat.

  Forewarned, the rest of the pack circled at a respectful distance and took turns rushing the beast, harrying it with nips on the heels and keeping it turning in tight circles to face new threats.

  Lord Rankin was first to raise his crossbow. Alex clamped a hand on his forearm to stop him. “You’re likely to hit one of the hounds. Those dogs are facing enough danger without our adding to it.”

  Rankin’s lip curled in distaste. “Never figured you for squeamish, Mallory. Very well. Spears, it is. Likely more sport that way, in any case.”

  Lord Rankin strapped his crossbow across his back and untied the long spear that had been affixed to his saddle. Alex held Badgemagus still as he watched Rankin barrel across the clearing toward the beleaguered pig. Between the racket from the beaters who ringed the clearing, the tearing teeth of the hounds, and the dozen or so mounted hunters, the boar had no chance.

  Nothing sporting about this, he decided.

  Alex wouldn’t have minded the boar hunt if the castle was short of meat and needed to fill its larder so that people might eat.

  But to kill another creature merely to watch it die made his stomach turn.