by Amanda Scott
“Is something amiss?” Molly asked. “Is it something that I did?”
“Just look at him, Claud,” Catriona said disgustedly, falling back against the cushion again and stretching out her legs. “He is inept, after all. Mortals simply are no good at this sort of thing.”
“We disturbed him,” Claud protested, feeling guilty.
“A good lover,” Catriona said sternly, “is aware of nothing and no one but his woman. His gaze devours her. It feasts upon her beauty until he can think of nothing but possessing her, conquering her. His whole body should ache for hers.”
Involuntarily, as if he had needed no more than the suggestion, Claud felt himself begin to harden and throb, even to ache. “Perhaps mortals dinna feel things as strongly as we do,” he muttered.
“Then they should strive to do so,” she said. “But in truth, Claud, any man can stir a woman to feel things if he will but concentrate. Mortal men simply do not consider women as they should.” She sighed. “I could teach this one, if he would just notice me.”
“He did hear us just then,” Claud pointed out.
“He heard only our voices, not the words,” Catriona said as her fingers teased him. “Since he refuses to see what is before his eyes, we need not heed him.”
Claud groaned. “Catriona, stop. Whether they see or dinna see, I feel as if they do. Canna we no leave them tae theirselves, for I canna concentrate, much as I want tae gi’e ye me full attention.”
“Then you shall, dearling, for I’ve something important I want to ask you.”
“Anything! Only come away first!”
“Oh, very well,” she said.
Delirious with gratitude for her understanding, and in a rush to leave, he scarcely noticed when she turned back and made a slight gesture toward the couple on the bed before following.
“What did I do?” Molly asked urgently.
“Nothing, lass,” he replied, but his voice lacked its usual strength.
She was certain something was amiss, for he had been moving atop her and had just stopped. Before then, he had been as eager to continue as she was.
“Then why did you stop?” she asked.
He hesitated for a moment, then settled down beside her again. “I think I just want to hold you for a while first,” he said.
Having no objection to that, she let him gather her into his arms. He kissed her gently on the lips, and although she hoped for a moment that he would stir her passions as he had before, she felt nothing but deep contentment. With her head resting in the curve of his shoulder, she snuggled close to him. It seemed odd to be in bed with a man, odd but nice. She felt safe, for one thing, and she felt… but even as the thought began to form, she slept.
When Molly awoke, the curtains were open and the morning sun flooded the bedchamber with its bright yellow rays. She was alone in the bed, but Doreen stood at the washstand, folding a towel.
“Good morning,” Molly said, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
Looking over her shoulder, Doreen said, “I’m sorry to wake ye, mistress, but I didna think ye’d want to sleep the day away.”
“No,” Molly said, sitting up and plumping pillows behind her. Realizing that she was still naked, she tucked the coverlet up over her breasts. “What is the hour?”
“Nearly ten,” Doreen said. “Ye must ha’ been awake long into the night, to sleep so long.”
Unable to remember much about the previous night other than the wondrous feelings Kintail had awakened in her, Molly did not reply. It seemed as if they had scarcely begun when he said he heard voices, but she remembered little after that other than a sense of contentment and pleasure.
“I must have been very tired,” she said. “I did not hear Kintail get up.”
“He were up and out afore dawn,” Doreen said, picking up a skirt that lay ready with the rest of what Molly would wear that day atop one of the chests. “He and Sir Patrick and Sir Patrick’s uncle Ian Dubh ha’ already escorted the last o’ the guests to their boats.”
“All of our guests have gone?” Molly sat up straight in dismay.
“Aye,” Doreen said calmly, shaking out the skirt.
“But I should have been there to bid them farewell, especially Mackinnon and her ladyship!”
“Nay, mistress, they didna expect it. Ye forget it be the custom for a bride to remain secluded for at least four days after her wedding.”
“Is the groom not supposed to remain with her?”
Doreen shrugged. “That be up to the groom, I expect. The laird did say he wanted to make certain Donald the Grim were well away from Eilean Donan.”
“Did Donald not return with Mackinnon, then?”
“Nay, I think not. He had men and horses waiting near the village, my Thomas said. Donald told the master he did have business up north somewhere.”
“Wicked business, most likely,” Molly said.
“Aye, but he did no mischief here in the castle, thanks to our men keeping watch. Moreover, Ian Dubh and Mauri’s Malcolm will follow them for a time, my Thomas said. They be taking that Tam o’ the master’s, too, and Thomas says Tam were a running gilly afore the laird took him for his personal servant and Tam can still run like the wind for hours. The way be rugged, but they’ll send him back if they need more men. Will ye dress first, or shall I fetch ye your breakfast here?”
“Fetch some food, please, but then I’ll dress. You may fetch me a fresh shift before you go.” She adjusted the coverlet, adding, “Surely, no one expects me to stay in this room for four days. I’ll not do it.”
Doreen did not reply, and when she had gone, Molly slipped the clean shift on over her head but decided not to get up until the maidservant returned. Again, she tried to recall what had happened the previous night, but although she remembered pleasurable feelings, her brain remained otherwise uncooperative.
“A bride shouldna be alone the day after her wedding,” Maggie Malloch’s familiar voice declared with strong disapproval.
“Good morning,” Molly said as the little woman took form at the end of the bed, leaning comfortably against a bedpost with her neatly booted feet stretched out before her and her pipe in hand, its smoke curling gently upward.
“And a good morrow tae yourself,” Maggie replied. “Did ye send him away, then, the laird?”
“Do you not know where he is?”
Maggie shrugged. “ ’Tis nae business o’ mine what he does wi’ his time.”
“But you just asked where he was,” Molly reminded her.
“Aye, but that were because I ha’ found ye alone, and a bride shouldna be alone the morning after her wedding day.”
“Well, he was gone when I awoke. Doreen said he arose before dawn to make sure Donald the Grim got up to no mischief and had departed as planned.”
“Aye, that one’s a menace, and no mistake.” Gesturing airily with her pipe, Maggie added, “Did ye enjoy your wedding night then, and all?”
“Do you not know about that, either?” Molly knew she was blushing.
“Whisst now, lassie, it were your night and no an event tae which others should be party, for all that the custom in these parts remains sadly unmannerly.”
“Well, the wedding guests did not follow us up here, but nonetheless Kintail said that he could hear voices, so perhaps someone was watching.”
“Voices, eh?” Maggie sat up a little straighter. “What sort o’ voices would these ha’ been, then?”
“I did not hear them,” Molly said. “Kintail said he thought he heard someone—three times he said so, in fact— and after the third, the only thing I remember is snuggling down beside him and waking up this morning.”
Maggie frowned. “Be that so, in troth?”
“Aye, but there was no one about, and there is nowhere for anyone to hide.”
“None that ye could see, at all events,” Maggie amended. “Mayhap it isna such a bad thing that the laird could hear them, for it shows that he’s summat improved in his ways. Nonetheless, I mu
st look into this business straightaway.”
“But how could anyone—?”
The sound of a step outside the door interrupted her, and as she shot a glance in that direction, the door opened to admit Doreen with her breakfast tray.
When Molly looked back, Maggie was gone.
Chapter 16
“Claud! Ye pernicious dunghill-strumpet’s fool, where be ye hiding?”
Maggie’s fury reverberated through their little abode, making the very walls vibrate, and in the little parlor, Claud trembled at the sound.
He leaped to his feet, but before he could take a step, the parlor door flew back on its hinges and Maggie swept into the room, saying angrily, “What the plague ha’ ye been at now, ye witless trull-bender?”
Backing away from her anger, Claud sputtered, “N-nothing, Mam!”
“I suppose ye and that Highland giglet were never in the laird’s bedchamber, rattling like a pair o’ fractious magpies and preventing the poor man from seeing tae his business!”
“Catriona be nae giglet!”
“A black plague on Catriona—and on ye as well,” Maggie snapped. “By my troth, I should hand the pair o’ ye tae the Circle and let them ha’ their way wi’ ye.”
Claud gasped. “Nay, Mam, ye wouldna do such a thing!”
“Mayhap, I will, or—an ye heed me—mayhap I willna tell them yet,” Maggie said, her voice suddenly low and almost gentle.
The new tone terrified Claud even more. “What then? What will ye do?”
In answer, her hands flashed up, palms out, and Claud suddenly found himself flung backward, hard, against the wall. He slumped to the floor, winded but otherwise unhurt, realizing only when he looked up that her hands still were raised.
She was muttering.
“What be ye saying, Mam?” His voice sounded weak and unnaturally high, more like some ancient crone’s than his own.
The muttering continued for another few horrible seconds, but then she lowered her hands and said in that terrifyingly calm voice, “I ha’ but two questions tae ask ye, Claud, and ye’d best answer them straight, because what I ha’ done will make ye gey sorry an ye dinna speak the truth.”
“What will ye ken, then?”
“Who put the laird and our lady tae sleep last night?”
“It must ha’ been Catriona,” he admitted, too afraid of her to prevaricate.
“Why did that bed-swerver put them tae sleep?”
“I… I dinna ken why.” The moment the words were out, his body began oddly to twitch and tingle. “What did ye do tae me, Mam?” he shrieked.
“Naught that will harm ye so long as ye speak the truth tae me, Claud. Think now. Why did the wicked trull put them tae sleep?”
“She wanted tae watch, but she said the laird were inept, and she let me take her away, but I dinna ken for sure that…” He fell silent, remembering what had happened next. He was not analytical by nature, but neither was he stupid, and the tingling in his body was growing warmer—not pleasantly so, either. “I—I think she went wi’ me only because…”
“What?” Maggie said, her tone calm now, as if she knew that he could not refuse to answer.
Nor could he. “She asked me where Dunsithe’s treasure lies hidden,” he said, looking at the floor, his voice no more than a whisper.
“And what did you tell the malevolent slut?”
“That it were your spell cast over it, Mam, that I ken naught o’ its ways.”
“Then what did she say?”
It occurred to Claud that his mother had exceeded her two questions, but he did not have the courage to point that out, although he would have preferred not to answer this one. Nevertheless, the words spilled from his lips, and he seemed unable to stop them. “She said I must ask ye tae tell me its secret.”
He did not dare look at her, and the silence that followed made him tremble again. An odd little voice in his head chose that moment to list all the things he had done to sink himself into this mess, and his fright blossomed into dread.
“Ye mustna see her again, Claud,” Maggie said quietly. “Forbye, lad, but ye ken now that her sole interest lies in how easily she can manipulate ye and make ye act for her and for her laird. She covets Dunsithe’s treasure for him, and she hopes ye can help her acquire it. Ye canna help, though, and that ye’d best believe, lad. Even I couldna help her find Dunsithe’s treasure.”
“Truly, Mam?” That she could not sort out her own spell was hard to believe.
“Truly,” she said. “The spell I cast that night will dissipate only when them what deserve the treasure discover the means tae retrieve it.”
“But the treasure still lies at Dunsithe, does it not?”
“Aye, but that be nae concern o’ yours or yon feckless Catriona. What powers ye possess were no intended tae serve such a witless broomstick as that one. Heed me now, lad, for I’ll tell ye what I ha’ done.”
Claud braced himself.
“What time ye spend now in her company will only weaken your powers. Moreover, each time ye use them, ye’ll feel their use in a way tae make ye value them more. D’ye accept this punishment, Claud?”
Bitterly, he said, “Do I ha’ a choice?”
“Aye, lad, ye do. An ye refuse my punishment, I must take the matter up wi’ the Circle, for ye ha’ meddled wi’ your lady tae serve yourself instead o’ her—and that for nae reason but pleasuring. Your duty be tae the Maid o’ Dunsithe above all else. So now, Claud, will it be my punishment or the Circle’s? Ye must choose.”
He sighed. Just as he had thought, the choice was no choice at all.
Nell and her party reached Glen Shiel, and by late afternoon, they were riding along a narrow track with the river to their left and high, steep peaks rising on either side of them. They had ridden hard from Stirling, stopping only to request hospitality for each of the two nights, and then continuing on each day at dawn.
“How much farther?” she asked their guide. “If memory serves me,” he began, as he had every time she had asked such a question, “it will take us about an hour to reach Loch Duich and half an hour more to reach Eilean Donan. At least we are blessed with fine weather,” he added. “It may rain later, though. I feel mist in the air.”
Nell could feel the mist on her face, but it was a lovely, soft day, and she would soon accomplish at least one of her goals. What to do about the others, she did not know. First, she would have to rid herself of Jamie’s too-observant guide.
They slowed to rest the horses, and when the steep embankment on the north side of the River Shiel suddenly became a sheer cliff to the water’s edge, they paused at a convenient ford to water the horses before crossing to the south bank.
Nell strove to conceal her impatience. She glanced at Jane, her tirewoman, and saw that she looked tired. No wonder, Nell thought. They had ridden long and hard. The men who had ridden with them to Stirling had shown no surprise at their stamina, and even the guide Jamie had provided had soon taken their measure. The first night, surprised at learning that Nell expected to be on the road again at dawn, he had dared suggest she rest longer. The second night he just nodded obediently in response to her commands.
“Not much farther now,” he said a half hour later.
Hearing Jane’s sigh of relief, Nell smiled at her and said, “If Kintail proves hospitable, perchance we’ll linger a few days with him and have a good rest.”
“We cross this river again near the mouth of Loch Duich,” the guide said. “The land there is particularly boggy, so we must take special care.”
Nell was accustomed to bogs. The Scottish west march was rife with them, and for that matter, Douglas land in all three Scottish marches contained bogs. She had learned their secrets. The one ahead did not concern her.
When they came to it, it proved to be woodland with soft, mushy ground but none that she considered treacherous. They rode through the first part of it without incident and crossed a plank bridge over the river. To her left lay the waters of Lo
ch Duich, and the sight filled her with eager anticipation. Molly was near.
Nell smiled, although tears stung her eyes, and just then, without warning, men dropped from trees and burst from the shrubbery, surrounding them.
The attackers had no horses, and most were bare-legged, wearing only long saffron-colored fabric kilted round their waists with belts, from which hung scabbards for dirks or swords. The scabbards were empty, though, for the weapons were in the men’s hands. Errant shafts of sunlight sparkled on cold steel.
The riders had scarcely seen man or beast since entering Glen Shiel, and the men of her escort, overwhelmed, were no match for the assailants. The guide reached for his sword but fell with the weapon halfway out of its scabbard. The two men-at-arms fell, too, leaving the women to fend for themselves.
One attacker grabbed Nell’s reins and spoke to her, but he spoke the heathenish Highland Gaelic, and she could not understand him.
“Does no one amongst you speak plain, broad Scot?” she demanded, dashing an impatient sleeve across her still damp eyes.
“If ye mean the tongue spoken by the villainous English, lass, I speak it well enow,” one of the men said. “Who be ye and what possessions ha’ ye got that we might find useful— after your pretty selves, o’ course.” He leered at her.
“I am Lady Percy,” Nell said, retaining her dignity with effort. “I come on the King of Scot’s business and bear his warrant, granting me safe conduct.”
“Och, does yon wee bletherer, Jamie, think he rules the Highlands, then?”
“You know that he does rule them,” Nell said, striving to keep her increasing fear from revealing itself in her voice. “He is High King of all Scots.”
“I ha’ heard that,” the man said, still grinning. “All the same, I ha’ never laid eyes on the man, so I’ll wait till I do to decide will I follow him or no.”