“We’ll wall it all back up.”
Peter was inspecting one of the scold’s bridles, and Martise went over to him. “Now, this one, milady, was for the fairer gender, and the fairer gender alone. If a wife did talk too much, pass gossip or the like, she was locked into this hideous mask, and I wager she did learn to keep silent in the future.”
“There’s a chastity belt over here,” Ian commented. “Our illustrious forefathers must have worried about the loyalty of their wives now and then, wouldn’t you imagine?” He grinned devilishly at Martise. “Beware, Lady St. James! The master of the castle, ye laird of the Creeghan beasts, could take a fancy to keep you forever within these walls, locked with this ghastly contraption.”
“Amusing, Ian, very droll. She’s already convinced that I’m a beast. Thank you very much.”
Ian laughed and winked at Martise. “Fear not. She doesn’t seem to be quaking.”
She was flushing slightly because his eyes were upon her and because … there was something between them. Something sexual. Tense, exciting. Always simmering beneath the surface.
“And none of us knew a thing about this place!” Conar said suddenly. “Dear God, Bruce, what else do ye think this ancient place beloved by us poor fools might hold?”
“God knows. I suppose there could be other chambers—”
“Or walled-in virgins,” Ian suggested.
“I think that when she was walled in, actually, she was no longer a virgin,” Peter said wryly. Even Bruce smiled, but his smile quickly faded. He was standing by the opening, surveying it all with distaste. His eyes fell upon Martise once again and he shrugged. “We called the Mongols barbarians. I wonder if any society was so adept at the doling out of torture and agony as our own.”
“You can’t really wall it back up, Bruce,” Ian said. He extended an arm. “This is, for all its ugliness, history.”
Bruce reflected on the comment for a moment. “Maybe you’re right. I can have it donated to the Queen. They say that she is accumulating all kinds of collections. I imagine they’ll have a place for such a one as this.” He turned around, heading for the opening. “As long as it’s out of here,” he said flatly.
They all followed him back through the opening and out into the crypt beyond.
The body of the poor girl was gone, as were the workmen, Robert McCloud, Trey, and Jemie.
Martise looked at where the body had been on the floor and then at Bruce, and found that his eyes were already upon her. “I had Robert McCloud take the wee lass on outside. I’ll take the wagon to MacTeague myself.”
He stared at her, but did not seem to expect an answer. He turned around and left the cellar.
She did not hear Peter at first when he came up behind her. “Ye mustna mind Bruce, Martise. He didna want you seein’ this new sorrow, not when you come for a sister departed, and have since been through so much.”
“So much?” she murmured. She liked his light eyes and his gentle smile, and wondered sometimes if he wasn’t the only true friend that she had found here. No, of course not. Elaina was her friend, close and sweet. And Ian and Conar were wonderful, too. It was really just Bruce, the great laird himself, who was ever rude and blatantly unwelcoming.
Not at times … the times when he held her. When he whispered, when he promised, when they both looked at one another and knew that it would only be a matter of time.
“Aye, lass, well,” Peter was saying. “Ye come fer Mary, and soon there’s a shipwreck and a man dies despite yer tender care! And then a poor girl is gone, and here today, a poor wee lass is found. It is a bit much, don’t ye ken, milady? He is worried, and that is all.”
She smiled. “And you are his uncle, and his blood, and would thus defend him.”
Peter arched a brow. “His uncle, aye, his blood, nay. We are not Creeghans, the boys and I. I am Stuart from the far north, from a place near John o’Groat’s. I married Jenny Creeghan, the sister of the last Creeghan laird, and came here, for there was much land, and the laird had need of us. I’m surprised that you did not note the plaids.”
“Pardon?”
“The colors, lass, the plaids. I wear the Stuart colors. When we rode the other day, Bruce wore his Creeghan scarf. There is a difference in the patterns, with Creeghan’s offering up a bit of red, and more yellow.”
She smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, I did not notice at all.”
“Well, now, ye mustn’t be sorry,” he said.
Ian came up behind his father. “She should never be sorry, Father, for what?”
Martise smiled and shrugged. “Ignorance. Shall we go up? I wish to make sure that Elaina is all right.”
Ian nodded, looking regretfully back toward the hole. “’Tis just so fascinating. I wish Bruce weren’t so hell-bent upon removing it all.”
“I think it has more to do with the poor lass in the wall,” Peter said.
Ian shrugged. “Aye, Father, but ’tis all ancient history here, don’t you think? I pity the lass, but it seems that our pity for her is wasted, for surely she came here long ago, and there’s naught to be done for her now. Still … ah, well, let’s go up, indeed, let’s go up. I’m fair starving, I say. We missed a meal in the excitement. I’m sure Freya will have something on.”
“How could you possibly eat now?” Martise asked.
“Hunger, ’twill do it every time,” he said, and grinned, and she found that she was smiling, too.
Martise headed for the stairs with them behind her. Elaina was waiting for them in the great hall with a large decanter of sherry set upon the table. She served them all, and then asked questions, since Bruce had mentioned the chamber to her on his way out.
To her surprise, Martise found that she was famished herself. And the meal Freya had indeed readied for them was another of her delicious fish concoctions, and so she ate heartily and well. Ian spoke about the collection longingly, telling her tales from the Tower of London, and more ghost stories about the castles at Stirling and Edinburgh.
“You should have seen the chamber, Elaina!” Ian told her.
She shrugged. “Perhaps I will. It was just that … seeing that poor dear girl’s bones there …” She shuddered and broke off. “’Twas well and enough for me for the moment!” she assured them.
They lingered in the great hall for some time, then Peter mentioned that he had work and Ian sighed and agreed, yes, he had to see to their foremen and managers.
The men went on to their labors, and Martise spent time with Elaina, watching her pick up a beautiful piece of needlework. She hadn’t Elaina’s patience, though, and after a while, she snatched a bright red apple left on the table to bring to Desdemona and wandered outside, toward the stables.
Night was coming, more quickly each day now, so it seemed. There was a mist that night, cool and smooth and rising from the ground.
It appeared that the world was gray as Martise entered the stables. She held still for a moment and saw that two lamps were burning just inside the heavy doors. They barely seemed to cut through the shadows. But after a moment, her eyes adjusted, and she saw Desdemona’s stall. She walked down to the horse, opened the stall door, and walked up to the mare’s head. Desdemona shifted, then nuzzled Martise with her soft muzzle. She must have smelled the apple. Martise spoke to her softly and soothingly as the mare neatly bit the apple, snapping it in two. She ate the one half before going for the other.
Martise heard a soft rustle and, startled, she looked about. She didn’t see anyone, but as unease swept along her spine, she cried out, “Who’s there?”
There was another rustling sound. Suddenly, Martise could remember nothing but the sight of the corpse in the wall, and panic seized hold of her. She was a fool to be out here. It had gotten dark so quickly, and things … things happened at Castle Creeghan.
“Who’s there!” she snapped again boldly. She could not panic, she must not!
And then, just over the wooden wall that delineated Desdemona’s stall, a forehead app
eared, and two very wide, very frightened eyes.
“’Tis me,” came a voice, and then, as an afterthought, “Jemie, milady. Jemie MacPeters.”
“Jemie!” She almost laughed out loud with relief and pleasure. “Oh, Jemie! Why were you hiding from me?”
She came out of the stall and impulsively stroked the urchin’s face, despite the dirt and grime upon it. “You frightened me by hiding!” she admitted.
He blushed furiously. “I’m sorry, ever so sorry, milady. I didna know who it was meself. I couldna—” He wanted to say more, but suddenly, he couldn’t.
She smiled, thinking that the boy wasn’t really retarded or daft, he was just slow, and needed help. “It’s really quite all right. I understand. I frightened you, too, right?”
Eyes still wide and luminous, he nodded vigorously.
“It’s because of the girl in the wall today, right?”
Again, he nodded vigorously. It didn’t seem, though, that she was reassuring him. If anything, he seemed more frightened.
“Well, you really mustn’t be frightened. Things happened long ago.”
He looked doubtful, then he opened his mouth, trying to speak. “Na, na, lady,” he managed to mutter. Then suddenly, his hand was anxiously on her arm. “Ye must take care, ye must run. ’Tis the masters. They be the sea gods and the earth gods. We must never, never go agin them, never, me ma said, for there’d be no food, no land, no shelter. But ye’re not one of us. Ye mustna disappear, ye must take care, ye’re—ye’re kind, lady. And his eyes be upon ye. The devil’s eyes, lady, he do mean to keep ye!” He was backing her against the wall, his hand still upon her. He was a youth, but he was strong, she thought. Cords were knotted in his throat. His fingers felt like steel.
She had no doubt that he was speaking about Bruce Creeghan, but he was scaring her silly himself.
She couldn’t stand there any longer, feeling his touch and wondering if she might not be the fool, if he might not be dangerous. He was telling her things, she thought. Telling her that the master was responsible for death and disappearances.
And that he was watching her.
She would be next.
And still, even as Jemie warned her, his fingers were upon her. Too powerful.
She caught his hand where it lay upon her arm and tried to smile. The effort was futile. She dropped his hand and told him, “You must not say such things, Jemie, truly, you must not!”
Then she did run, as fast as she could, into the courtyard. Once there she paused, feeling the mist swirl around her feet. Night had fallen. It had not come subtly; it had rushed down upon them. In the mist and the darkness, she felt real terror. She picked up her skirts and fled toward the doors to the hall, certain that all the demons of hell were behind her.
She reached the doors. Gasping, she turned around swiftly. There was no one behind her. The mist swirled silently in the darkness of the night. She was alone. Completely, terribly alone.
She swung open the doors to the great hall and passed through the entryway. She wanted to reach her room as soon as possible.
But the great hall was not empty. Even as she came into the entryway, she heard voices. She held still, holding her breath, and realized that Bruce had come back. He was by the mantel, and he was talking with his Uncle Peter.
Arguing with him.
“Well, ye’ve changed, Bruce, and I don’t mind saying so. Ye’re nigh on hard as nails now, stubborn, man, I say, and I can reason with ye no longer.”
“There is no reasoning it—” Bruce began, but he cut himself off and walked toward the entryway.
He stared at her, and she felt like a schoolgirl caught in the act of eavesdropping. Color flooded her cheeks. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. If you’ll both excuse me—”
“Ye needn’t be excused, milady!” Peter said quickly, inclining his head at her. “We were done speaking, lass, rehashing words said before. Ye two excuse me.” He nodded to them both.
Bruce did not see him go up the stairs, for his eyes never left hers. “Come in, sit, enjoy the fire,” he said softly.
“Really,” she protested. “I was just going to my room.”
“But you must not,” he told her, and, smiling, he took her arm and led her to one of the chairs before the fire. He rested his booted foot upon one of the stone supports before it and set his elbow on the mantel, smiling down at her.
“It seems that we have so little time alone,” he said.
“Or perhaps too much,” she murmured.
He laughed, and then left the hearth and sauntered around behind her. She felt him at her back and nearly jumped when his hands fell softly upon her shoulders. Then his thumb gently caressed her cheek.
Fire seemed to flame throughout her. She fought hard to remain still. There were things she wanted to say to him, things she wanted to shout.
Accusations that screamed within her heart.
“The games are this week,” he told her lightly. “It seems that you will still be with us for the event.”
“What is the occasion that brings these games on?” she whispered.
“Pardon?”
“Well, I’ve heard about your maypole, and the fact that the dances were once a form of worship, just as the pole itself is a—a symbol.”
“Phallic?” he inquired politely. She gritted her teeth. For a man determined to shelter her from the horrors in the cellar, he had no difficulty with sexual boldness.
“Indeed. So what brings on this fest?”
“Hmm,” he murmured. “Well, it is fall. It is nearly All Hallows’ Eve. Surely, it must go back to the bringing in of the harvest, don’t you imagine?” He was no longer behind her. He had walked around again, as lithe, as silent, as agile as a great cat. He sat in the chair opposite her, his legs outstretched, and he smiled. Complacent.
Dangerous.
“You’re to win the caber throw,” she said.
“Aye.”
“And will you?”
“I do assume so,” he said, adding a blunt “I’m good.”
“Very powerful.”
“Milady, why do I always feel that your words are leading somewhere?”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she looked to the fire, and she felt its warmth lull her slightly. She turned back to Bruce and asked a question instead, softly, almost wistfully. “What was your life like with Mary, Bruce?”
He lowered his eyes. “Mary was sweet and bright and everything that a man might love,” he replied. “As lady here, she was deeply cherished.” His eyes rose again to hers. “That I swear to you,” he said, a deep tremor to his voice. But then instantly, he changed again, and his smile tightened. “Ah, alas, I had forgotten. You are convinced that I did Mary in, are you not?”
“Not convinced.”
“Just very suspicious.”
He stood, and in seconds he had passed the distance between them. Upon his knees he caught her hand and turned it palm up. And he began to stroke it as he spoke, and she felt the hypnotism of his voice, and even as she longed to bolt, she sat still. She watched his thumb move over her palm, and she wondered how such a simple movement could seem so intimate, how it could touch her deep inside, seem to strip away her clothing and leave her bared and naked.
And vulnerable.
“It’s been an intriguing day for you, has it not?” he said, and his voice was soft, and it seemed to blend with the flicker of the fire that warmed his face and burned within his eyes. “Alas, you must wonder about me, for the lairds who came before me do not speak well for the clan! A poor wee lass walled in, implements of torture inside the walls … and there’s more, of course. In the 1600s one of the lairds was dragged from this very hall, from his stance by this very hearth, by a neighboring earl. His people had tried to defend him, but he had stolen the earl’s daughter, you see. The earl swore that the Creeghan had taken maiden after maiden. He and his men brought the laird to the town, and there accused him of crimes of lust and bloodlust, and he was be
headed by the earl’s sword then and there. There are many, many skeletons inside many closets, milady. It is, I think, a danger of knowing one’s past so well. I do know mine. And it is frightening.”
“Ah,” Martise whispered. “But the sins of the fathers need not be visited upon the sons!”
He laughed, delighted. “No? But the warning is clear and bold! Women beware, for women have met such sorry ends within these walls. Terror has come here.”
“But …” She paused, moistening her lips. And then she demanded, “Is it coming here again, my lord? Is it all happening—again?”
He folded her hands within his own. “You should leave here, milady.”
She shook her head. “I cannot.”
“Why?”
“I—I must know.”
“And what if you do risk your own life?”
“Do I do so?” she demanded.
He did not answer her, but cross-queried her instead. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing!”
“Ye should know that the infamous lairds of Creeghan deal harshly with thieves.”
“I am no thief!” she protested.
“No?” He brought her hand to his mouth, kissed the back, and twisted it slowly, then kissed her palm where he had stroked it before. Excitement seemed to sear and dance within her, and shocking sensations rushed to even more shocking and intimate places.
And he rose, pulling her up with him, and kissed her lips softly, and then with more passion. His fingers curled into her hair, and he loosed it about her shoulders, and his whispers touched her ear and raced hotly against her flesh. “Ye should go, milady, I warn ye again, fer if ye stay … I want ye as I do not remember wanting even air to breathe, or water to drink. I want you as simply as I want to wake, to move, to live. I do not know what so drives the ache and the longing and the need. I want you beneath me, naked, with this great tangle of hair spread out beneath us and between us, golden like flame, soft like silk, taunting. Aye, my dear Lady St. James, I want you hot and anxious and eager and awaiting my touch with those naked blue eyes of yours wide and seeing the beast and the man for all that he might be.”
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