by Amanda Scott
It occurred to him as her hand moved up his thigh that even if Jonah Bonewits’s spells had been weakened, the spell that Lucy Fittletrot cast over Maggie Malloch’s son, Brown Claud, was stronger than ever. Without another thought, he gave himself up to the magic in her fingers and her rosy little mouth.
The hunters’ return to Dundreggan was uneventful, perhaps because their conversation was limited to comments on the day’s increasingly fine weather and Sir Alex’s wondering aloud more than once what the menu would be for their noonday dinner since there would be no fires at the castle. The afternoon and evening likewise passed without incident, because Bab did not see him again until suppertime, and immediately after partaking of that cold meal, Chisholm agreed vaguely to let Alex try again to beat him at chess.
That left Bab to pass the evening with Lady Chisholm in her bower. While their time was spent comfortably in pleasant conversation, she found it dull entertainment, even more so by comparison with the Beltane festivities doubtless taking place that night on the high moor and other sites throughout the glens.
She had attended such festivals every year of her life and could easily imagine the kindling of the need-fires without seeing them. The men of each village would twirl an oak windle in a hole bored in an oak plank until sparks flew. Then they would feed the sparks with fungus that grew on old birch trees and, bit by bit, add wood from the nine sacred trees until the fire roared. After rituals celebrating the power of the sacred fires to purify, there would be music and dancing.
From that point on, representatives of each household would step forward to light the torches they would take home to rekindle their own fires. The atmosphere would be merry and far more entertaining than conversation with Lady Chisholm. The fact that entertainment at Ardintoul would be even less stimulating when she returned made Bab wonder if Fate intended the rest of her life to be long or mercifully short before it allowed her to die of boredom.
Lady Chisholm recalled her attention by asking what she thought of a particular pattern of embroidery she was attempting, and Bab put her melancholy thoughts aside to discuss it with her.
Above the high moor, the sky was dark, for the moon was new and too shy to show its face, but stars blazed overhead and the revelry was loud and merry. Two need-fires flamed high, shooting crackling sparks into the black night, while pipes and fiddles played for the dancers.
Lowing cattle in the distance suggested that the ritual blessing of the beasts had already taken place, and here and there couples prepared to take their coupling leaps as soon as one or the other of the fires burned low enough to do so without risking self-immolation. Already, a few folks who had no wish to remain on the high moor until midnight had lined up to light the torches and brands they would use to rekindle their home fires for the new Celtic year. In a short time, parades of them would be wending their way back down into the nearby glens.
With attention on the dancers, the piping, and the fiddling, the merrymakers failed to see five horsemen ride onto the moor from a track to the east. Not until the men showed themselves in the fire’s ambient glow did anyone take note of them.
The pipers stopped first and then the fiddlers, and soon all that anyone could hear was the sharp crackling of the fires.
Francis Dalcross, astride a muscular bay, shouted out, “This is an unlawful, pagan gathering. You must all disperse at once to your homes.”
Somewhere in the midst of the revelers a man shouted back, “What be unlawful about Beltane? ’Tis a celebration we hold every year.”
“Aye,” shouted others. “And for hundreds o’ years afore now!”
Dalcross bellowed back, “ ’Tis a pagan celebration, disapproved by the Roman Church. We mean to put an end to it once and for all.”
“Ye dinna ha’ the right to do that!”
Others echoed that shout across the moor, but Dalcross stood his ground, and when the shouts died away to silence, he pointed at one of the men who had dared to defy him and snapped, “Arrest that man and those two others nearest him.”
A general gasp met the order, but Dalcross had his sword unsheathed and his companions held pistols at the ready, so the three victims were quickly arrested, their hands bound behind them, and rope collars rigged around their necks. Another, much longer rope looped from collar to collar, and one of the men-at-arms yanked the free end, forcing the three to stumble along behind his horse when he turned it and rode back toward the eastern track. A second man-at-arms followed.
Turning back to the crowd, Dalcross snapped, “You will put out these fires at once and return to your homes. You may rekindle your home fires as you will.”
“What about them lads ye’ve taken away?”
“The sheriff will hang them for indulging in pagan rites as a lesson to the rest of you that we will no longer tolerate such goings-on. And on Sunday next when you show yourselves in the Kirk, you should pray for your souls, every last one of you, and pray that our Almighty God above forgives this dreadful sin.”
With angry muttering, several men in the gathering stepped forward, but since the muttering ones were unarmed, threatening gestures from Dalcross and the two still with him stopped them in their tracks.
The crowd was silent, allowing the deep voice that spoke from the shadows to be easily heard: “Stop where ye are, Francis Dalcross. I see ye ha’ replaced the fine Italian sword I deprived ye of wi’ another just as fine, but my men in the trees ha’ longbows and guns, and their aim be true. One move from ye or your lads and I promise by the word o’ Sionnach Dubh it will be your last.”
Everyone turned toward the voice, and a large black stallion moved just far enough into the ambient glow for them all to see it and to see the faint outline of the cloaked figure astride it. The silvery blade he held aloft was shiny enough to catch the flickering firelight, making it twinkle as brightly as the stars overhead.
“Sionnach Dubh!”
What began as a whisper soon grew to an audible murmur that swept across the high moor.
Dalcross glowered at the dark figure. “There are five of us, you scoundrel. Surely, you don’t rate your skills so high that you’d dare take us all on at once.”
“Mayhap not five ordinary, well-armed men,” the Fox said. “But three with as little skill as ye and your men possess should not distress us.”
“Three?”
“Aye, for I’ve already dealt with the two louts ye sent off wi’ your three victims, and those victims be free. Ye’ll no see them again yet a while, for I’ve explained to them that they must keep clear o’ ye.”
Dalcross looked over his shoulder, but the two soldiers who had led the three men away, and the men themselves, had disappeared.
As he looked back, the man to his left raised his pistol and kicked his mount forward, sending villagers scrambling for safety. Before he could shoot, an arrow from the darkness pierced his shoulder, and as he dropped his gun with a shriek, a few erstwhile celebrants yanked him from his saddle and quickly subdued him.
Others, taking advantage of the diversion, snatched Dalcross’s sword and that of the man beside him, and their pistols, and dragged both men to the ground.
“Take care, lads,” the Fox said, his voice carrying above the glee. “Francis Dalcross carries a dirk in his left boot and may ha’ other such toys scattered about his person, so search him and his men well. Keep all their weapons but then escort them to the edge o’ the moor and set them free.”
As several men moved to search the captives and did the job so thoroughly that their heavy jacks of plate and belts were ripped off and cast into the shrubbery, another voice was heard to snap, “We’d do better to hang the lot o’ them!”
“Nay, for we dinna be murderers,” the Fox said. “We seek only to retain our lives and traditions and persuade the likes o’ Dalcross here to let us be.”
“But if we set them free, they’ll only come back!”
“Ye’ll keep their horses and send the men off down the track. If they go careful
ly, the stars will guide them safely back to Glen Mor and Inverness.”
“But what if they linger?”
“I doubt they’ll be so daft to stay after making so many enemies,” he said. “Still, if they give ye trouble, take their boots. I’d warn ye, too, Francis Dalcross, that folks betwixt here and Glen Mor dinna take kindly to strangers. Ye’d do well to keep off the main tracks, since ye nae longer ha’ your weapons.”
Laughing now, the villagers hastened Dalcross and his men on their way. When they returned to the still blazing need-fires, they saw the great black stallion rear high as Sionnach Dubh vanished into the night.
When Lady Chisholm announced that it was time to retire, Bab made no demur. She had been yawning for half an hour, and looked forward to a full night’s repose. Tomorrow, perhaps, Patrick would come to take her home.
The notion had its merits, but when she realized that it would not disturb her much if he failed her, she did not try to analyze her feelings.
Reaching the door to her chamber, she remembered the previous night, but despite her faint hopes, she felt no surprise to find Giorsal in sole possession of the bedchamber. Water steamed on the washstand, and Bab’s nightclothes lay ready for her. With a sigh, she let Giorsal help her prepare for bed.
Before she sat down to let the woman brush out her hair, however, she knelt to put another log on the fire.
Noting this, Giorsal said, “It be gey cold tonight, mistress. That fire were burning when I come in, but the heat doesna seem to stir beyond the fireplace.”
“I’ll get into bed soon, but you may go as soon as you brush my hair,” Bab said, sitting. “I mean to stay by the fire and toast my toes for a few minutes.”
“I’ve already warmed your bed wi’ yon warming pan,” Giorsal said. “Ye’d best hop in as soon as I’m done here, whilst it still be warm.”
“Very well,” Bab said, knowing better than to argue. Five minutes later, she climbed into the warm bed, let Giorsal tuck her in, and bade the woman goodnight.
Giorsal drew the bed curtains, and a moment later, Bab heard the door shut quietly. In a trice, she was up and sweeping the bed curtains back again so that she could watch the flickering firelight. But the fire burned down quickly.
Still not ready to sleep, she got up and knelt to put on another log.
Brushing off her hands, she straightened and turned, only to walk into a large, muscular, black-cloaked body. Strong arms enfolded her.
It was all that she could do not to scream, for she had not heard the least sound to warn her of his arrival and would have crumpled right down to the floor but for his arms closing tightly around her. But when they did, the shock of his touch left her stiff and still, scarcely able to breathe.
“Sorry, lass,” he murmured close to her ear. “I didna meant to startle ye.”
She swallowed, still speechless. As tall as he was, and the way one hand held the back of her head, her left ear pressed flat against his chest and she could hear his steady heartbeat. Compared to her own heart, thundering away in her chest, his was beating strong and slow.
The hand cupping her head eased its grasp.
Finding her breath at last, she looked up at him. He was wearing the hoodlike mask, and by the fire’s glow, she could see only the indistinct shape of his head. Reaching up, she touched the mask’s hem between her thumb and forefinger, but he caught her hand and held it tight.
“You have got to stop sneaking up on me like that,” she muttered fiercely. “You frightened the liver and lights right out of me.”
“Never that, sweetheart. Ye’re a canny lass, and ye didna even shriek.” His hand tightened around hers when she tried to move the mask edge higher.
“I want to see you,” she said. “You should not even be here, but since you are, I want to see your face.”
“Nay, lass, that would not be safe for either of us.”
“Do you not trust me?” That he could sneak into her bedchamber, twice, and then not trust her to protect his identity was hurtful. “I would never betray you,” she said quietly, striving to make the declaration sound as sincere as she felt.
“I believe ye,” he said just as quietly, his deep voice touching those chords inside her as it had before, making her blood hum as it coursed through her veins. “I ken fine that ye wouldna willingly betray me, but under certain circumstances, no one can trust himself to remain silent, let alone trust someone else to do so.”
The humming changed to an icy chill as his meaning struck home. “Do you fear they might torture me?”
“Neither Dalcross nor his son be known for mercy,” he said. “They say they speak for the King, but they believe they speak for the Pope and for God himself.”
“Faith, then why did you come here?”
“ ’Tis a fair question,” he replied, “especially since it becomes clearer each time we meet that ye represent grave danger to me.”
“And you to me if what you said about the torture is true,” she murmured.
“Aye, but only if Francis Dalcross should persuade himself that ye ken all he wants to ken about me. At this present, ye need only assure him that ye ha’ never seen my face. Can ye do that an he questions ye, lass?”
“You speak only of Francis Dalcross. What about his father?”
“Francis pays more heed to ye than his father does. What’s more, I think he yearns more for power than does Sheriff Dalcross and seeks a route to it through Cardinal Beaton and his lust for keeping the Highland Kirk under Rome’s domain.”
“I met him—Francis, that is—at Stirling,” she admitted. “I… I liked him.”
“Aye, well, he can be likeable an he chooses.”
“Patrick did not like him. I hate it when Patrick is right and I am not.”
He chuckled but made no further comment. He still held her hand clasped warmly in his, and his other arm felt snug around her waist.
“That sounded petulant,” she said with a sigh. “I am not usually so irritable.”
“Doubtless your ill humor arises from too much time spent in the company of yon noddy, Alex Chisholm,” he said.
“I don’t know that I would say that,” she said.
“I say it. Ye asked why I came here tonight, remember?”
“Aye,” she said, wishing again that she could see his face. It was hard to read his thoughts or even his tone when she could not see his expression.
“I came because I couldna stay away,” he said. “Ye draw me like a lodestone, lass. I saw ye riding wi’ him, and I was sorely tempted to snatch ye away, fearing ye might die o’ boredom afore I could enjoy your company again.”
Intrigued, she said, “Where did you see us?”
“On the ridge when ye rode onto the high moor to hunt. Although I were on the watch for Beltane mischief even then, I couldna stay away from ye then any more than I could stay away tonight.”
“But if it is so dangerous—”
“I’d ha’ dared anything to see ye tonight, sweetheart.”
Both the repeated endearment and his passionate tone delighted her, but fear of discovery tempered that delight, and common sense stirred her to say, “I fear you flatter me, sir. I once told Francis Dalcross how I longed for adventure. Perhaps he mentioned that to others, and you somehow came to hear of it.”
“We dinna move in the same circles, Dalcross and me,” he said. “Still, I ken fine that ye seek adventure, lass, for I do myself, and one adventurer be bound to recognize another. ’Tis why I also believe ye ha’ nae more use than I have for yon sniveling coward, Alex Chisholm.”
Bab stiffened. She had let the earlier insult pass, but although she did wish Sir Alex would bestir himself to find a way to help his people, and had certainly said as much to him, she had never called him a coward or thought him one.
The word hung heavily between them.
She realized that her companion must be aware of the tension in her body. “Did you hear something just then?” she asked, hoping to divert him and thu
s not have to explain feelings that she did not yet understand. “I thought I heard a noise.”
“Nay, lass, I heard naught. Ye were saying… about yon Chisholm…” He paused expectantly, leaving her no choice but to reply.
Drawing breath, she equivocated, saying, “He has been kind to me, but in truth, I do find it dull here. If only women could enjoy such adventures as men enjoy, I might have done as Patrick has. He does not boast about his adventures, of course, but other men boast of theirs, and I should like very much to perform daring deeds to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”
“You can safely leave the protection of the people of Glen Affric and Glen Mor to me, sweetheart,” he said softly.
“Can I?” Her breathing was ragged again.
“Aye.” Still holding her hand, he moved his other one to her shoulder and turned her, then put his fist gently under her chin so that she looked up at him. “I want to kiss you again,” he said. “Can I trust you not to touch my mask?”
“Aye,” she said, the word no more than a whisper. Thinking he might not have heard, she added, “I won’t touch it, truly.”
He let go of her hand, and she slipped it beneath his cloak, encircling his waist with her arms, feeling the hard muscles there.
In the glow from the fire, she saw him put a hand to his mask, and as his head bent toward hers, he eased the cloth upward. She saw nothing useful though, because his mouth touched hers at once, and although his eyes gleamed and stared straight into her own, she saw none of his other features.
She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, but unlike the first time he had kissed her, this time she tried to pay more heed to what she could learn about him.
His chin was smooth where it touched her, so she could tell he was clean-shaven, but that told her little, because many Highland men, fashionable and otherwise, cut their hair short and forbore to wear beards.
The thought checked itself in the stream of her consciousness. Why had her judgment suddenly linked him, even briefly, with men of fashion? As he kissed her, a part of her mind played with that thought, but its importance quickly faded.