by Amanda Scott
“Phui, woman, ye needna tell me what Catriona must do. Were I no sitting in me long black robe a cat’s whisker from ye when ye made the bargain? Surrounded, I’d remind ye, by all ten o’ the others, several o’ whom still be determined tae restore Jonah tae our midst?”
“Aye, ye were.”
“I was, and ye promised no tae break any rules whilst ye settle the debate betwixt the Merry Folk and the Helping Hands over who should look after mortal Highland clans that ha’ their ancient roots stuck deep in the Borders.”
“Aye, and I’ll settle it, too, for the Merry Folk will soon see that if we ha’ tae send Border members tae the Highlands whenever a Highland mortal marries a Border lass and takes her north, we’ll soon be as populous there as they are.”
“But in the meantime, ye’ve set the lovely wee Catriona tae look after a lad from one o’ them Highland clans so rooted in the Borders that he’s coming home tae roost, whilst your Border-bred Claud were set tae look after a Highland lass.”
“Which he did do, and very well, too.”
“Aye, he did. But, still—”
Interrupting him, Maggie said firmly, “I’m going tae find him and bring him home again. If ye mean tae be obstreperous, I canna stop ye, but if ye’d like tae help, ye’ll see to it that the Circle doesna meet again too soon.”
The chief grimaced but nodded abruptly as she vanished.
Mute Hill House, Roxburghshire
“Turn about slowly, Fiona, and let me see how you look,” Olivia, Lady Carmichael said as she fanned herself with a limp hand. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, fashionably if mournfully dressed in dark purple with black lace trimming, but any onlooker would swiftly see her strong resemblance to the slim, fair-haired girl standing in the center of the elegantly appointed bower.
Obediently, seventeen-year-old Fiona Anne Carmichael turned, anxiously observing the expressions of her mother and the room’s two other occupants as all three watched with critical eyes.
Fiona was stunningly beautiful, and the elegant sky-blue brocade gown she wore became her. But then, everything Fiona wore became her.
Sunlight chose that moment to emerge from the clouds outside and pour through the tall leaded windows flanking the hooded fireplace, but that sunlight was no more golden than the soft shining curls that tumbled over Fiona’s shoulders to her waist. Her blue-gray eyes were large and luminous, their thick lashes so dark they looked as if she had blackened them. Her eyebrows arched delicately. Her rosy lips were full and eminently kissable. Sadly, though, her tip-tilted nose bore a dusting of freckles across the bridge, a detail that her cousin Anne Ellyson had learned soon after her arrival was one that Lady Carmichael deplored as the sole flaw in her daughter’s otherwise perfect complexion.
Anne had decided before the end of her first sennight at Mute Hill that she’d have been wiser to remain at Ellyson Towers despite her father’s decree. Watching narrowly now, she decided that Fiona looked worn to the bone, and considering that the poor girl had been standing and turning, dressing and undressing, and listening to her mother’s criticism and complaints for the better part of two hours, Anne could not blame her. For her own part, she wanted only to escape, and she knew exactly where she would go as soon as she could slip away.
“What do you think?” Olivia asked in the faint tone she affected these days in all but truly private conversations.
Knowing the question was not directed at her, Anne turned her head toward the fourth person in the room.
Her aunt Olivia’s waiting woman, Moira Graham, was short and plump, and looked as if she were made of soft, stuffed pillows. As she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, she reminded Anne of a cloth doll that she had had when she was small. Even Moira’s frilled white cap was similar to the doll’s.
Moira turned to her mistress, saying, “It will do nicely, I think, my lady.”
“You don’t think it could bear to nip in a bit more at the waist?”
“It must be as you wish, of course, madam,” Moira said, “but to my mind, taking it in will spoil the way that fabric drapes over her hips.”
Anne agreed. She thought the dress looked fine and much as it had an hour before when Fiona had first put it on, before all the nipping and tucking. Had Anne chosen the fabric, however, it would not have been sky blue but a shade more suited to her cousin’s misty eyes. Better yet would have been the pale pink that was Fiona’s favorite color. A girl’s wedding dress, after all, ought to be the color she liked best rather than a lesser one chosen by her mother.
At least Olivia had not insisted that her daughter wear the dark purple mourning she favored for herself, but somehow she had got it into her head that Fiona’s intended husband, Sir Eustace Chisholm, Laird of Ashkirk and Torness, fancied sky blue, and so sky blue the dress had had to be. No one argued with her, because one never knew what the result would be if one even hinted at opposition.
“Anne dear, pray fetch that lavender lace scarf from the table yonder and drape it over your cousin’s shoulders.”
“Yes, Aunt Olivia,” Anne replied, moving with her customary calm grace to obey. As she approached Fiona with the filmy lace scarf, she encountered a look of such abject, pleading misery that she felt an impulse to gather her into her arms and attempt to soothe her fears and frustration.
Ruthlessly stifling that impulse, Anne smiled instead and said to her aunt without looking away from her cousin, “It must be nearly noon, Aunt Olivia, and the Laird of Ashkirk is rarely behind time. I warrant you will want me to help Fiona change into something more suitable to receive him.”
“Yes, of course,” Olivia said with a sigh. “But first we must see to this business. Their wedding, after all, is only two days away.”
“If I could just sit down for a minute,” Fiona said in her soft, breathless voice, “I’m feeling a trifle faint, but I am sure the sensation will soon pass.”
“Don’t talk like a noddy,” Olivia said with more spirit than she usually revealed. “You cannot sit in that gown or you’ll muss the skirt, and in any event, you cannot possibly be as tired as I am. Why, I’ve scarcely enjoyed a night’s repose since your father died. What with the shock of Sir Christopher’s death and then his father’s, followed so soon afterward by that of my dear brother, Armadale, I can assure you my grief knows no bounds. And grief, my dear Fiona, is far more exhausting than simply standing to have one’s wedding dress fitted, so I do not want to hear another word of complaint from you.”
Tears sparkled in Fiona’s eyes, doubtless at the mention of her father’s death, but Anne knew they would do her no more good than if Anne were to mention her own several losses over the past year. It seemed to have altogether escaped Olivia’s notice that she shared her bereavement with others.
Anne smiled encouragingly at Fiona and murmured, “Just a few more minutes, love.”
Since her back was to her aunt and Moira, she knew they would not hear or see that she had spoken, but when Fiona’s eyes welled with more tears, she could have kicked herself for offering sympathy.
“There now,” she said in a louder, brisker tone as she draped the lavender lace over her cousin’s shoulders. “Is that how it should look, Aunt Olivia?”
“Stand away so I can see,” her aunt said plaintively.
Obeying without further comment, Anne hoped she would see for herself that the lavender shawl did not improve the gown. Little could detract from Fiona’s ethereal beauty, but the fine lavender lace draped over the heavy sky-blue brocade was a near thing. Without it, at least the gown bore distinctive elegance.
Olivia frowned, but whether at the effect of the scarf or because she had detected Fiona’s tears Anne would not know, for at that moment pandemonium erupted in the great hall adjoining her ladyship’s bower.
Dogs barked and men shouted. Other less easily identified sounds accompanied these, as plump Moira hurried to open the connecting door.
Her mistress cried out to her not to do so, but it was too
late. As the door cracked open, a small bundle of red fur hurtled through the opening, followed moments later by six large, baying hounds.
The door crashed back against the wall, nearly to the undoing of Moira, for although she snatched her skirts out of the path of the pursuing dogs with one hand, she failed to release her hold on the door handle with the other and was nearly flung against the wall when the door banged back.
Fiona shrieked and snatched up her skirts. Olivia cried out again to Moira to shut the door, but two large men trying to follow the dogs blocked the way, becoming entangled when they tried to push through the doorway together.
Anne stood where she was, noting first and with relief that the dogs took no interest in the shrieking Fiona, and then that the small bundle of fur, which she had taken for a cat, was in fact a terrified fox. When she saw it dash through the opposite doorway toward spiral stairs leading to the upper and lower levels of Mute Hill House, she caught Fiona by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake.
“Hush, love,” Anne said. “Those dogs care only about the fox. See, they have already run away after it.”
The exhausted Fiona burst into tears.
Holding her, listening to the fading sounds of men chasing the dogs chasing the fox, Anne turned to her aunt and said, “I am going to take her upstairs, madam. She should wash her face and rest before she dresses to receive Eustace Chisholm.”
“Where did those damned dogs go?” bellowed a familiar masculine voice from the great-hall doorway, where Sir Toby Bell, Lady Carmichael’s uncle, filled the opening nearly as completely as the two men before him had. Huffing, he turned himself slightly so as not to catch the jamb with the dress sword he wore and entered, hooking his thumbs in his sword belt as he glared across the room at his niece, clearly expecting an answer.
“Your dogs have no business in this chamber, sir,” she said, her voice weak again, her posture limp and pathetic. “Everything is still wet outside from the rain, so they’ve surely tracked mud all over the floor. You know how they distress me!”
“Shouldn’t have opened the door then,” he said with a mocking smile. “I warrant my dogs didn’t distress you as much as they distressed that witless fox, though. Would you believe it, the beast was just strolling up the avenue toward the entrance as mild as you please. Front door was shut, of course, until my dogs began barking and that fool man of yours opened it to see what the din was about.”
“Please go and collect them,” she said, putting the back of one hand to her brow. “You know how the least little disturbance oversets me in my grief.”
“God’s wounds, Olivia, it’s been five months and more since that fellow Ashkirk died.”
“I grieve for my husband, sir,” she protested indignantly.
“Fiddle, lass, you grieve for your lover. Stephen died nearly two years ago, and after Kit Chisholm’s disappearance and supposed death spoiled your plan to marry Fiona into that family, you set your own cap for Ashkirk. ’Twas his death that cast you into this stupid melancholy of yours, for Stephen’s death scarcely affected you. I should know,” he added. “Came to live here directly after Stephen died, to lend you the consequence of having a gentleman in the house, didn’t I? I tell you, you were as right as rain until Ashkirk popped off.”
Anne was not surprised to see tears well in Olivia’s eyes, for she had quickly learned that, like Fiona, her ladyship could produce such tears at will and without in the least disturbing her fine complexion.
Olivia said faintly, “You are cruel, uncle.”
“I am honest, Olivia, that’s all.”
“I shall mourn Stephen’s death until I die,” she said with a tearful sniff.
“Bosh,” he retorted with a chuckle. “Now where did those damned dogs go?”
Anne waited no longer, swiftly taking Fiona from the room and upstairs to her bedchamber before anyone could think to stop her. It was another three hours, however, before she was able to make her own escape.
Elsewhere
After her meeting with the Clan’s chief, Maggie retired to her private parlor to consider how to proceed. She dared not trust Catriona. If anything was certain in this world or the mortal one, it was that Catriona was not dependable, although, to be fair, she had behaved well since Claud’s disappearance. When she had accepted the task of serving the Chisholms, she had taken that task to heart despite opposition from her tribe and fiendish interference from Jonah Bonewits.
Thinking about the troublesome, shape-shifting wizard seemed to bring him right into the room. She could almost see his harsh features in the flames dancing in her fireplace. Blinking away the annoying hallucination, she returned her thoughts to Catriona and the sacrifice Claud had made for the wee strumpet.
Maggie knew it was unfair to blame only Catriona, but blaming her had become second nature because of the ease with which she manipulated Claud. Of course that, Maggie had to admit, was Claud’s fault as well, thanks to his predilection for falling into lust with any beautiful lass who flitted past him. Still, the plain truth was that if Catriona had not been there when Jonah…
Here, fairness intruded again. Catriona had been at the site of Claud’s mishap because her charge had been there, and in serving her charge, she had enraged Jonah and nearly lost her life. Maggie could not blame her for enraging Jonah, however, since Maggie herself had frequently enraged him.
The flames shot higher and seemed again to depict his features. Indeed, they seemed clearer than before. Suddenly, she realized what was happening and the fury that had smoldered since Claud’s disappearance suddenly erupted.
“Show yourself properly, ye meddlesome knave, or I’ll make that fire too hot tae hold ye,” she snapped, flying to her feet. “Ye needna hover about, trying tae read me thoughts, for I’ll tell ye tae your villainous face just what I think o’ ye.”
The shape in the flames oscillated as if the energy producing it faltered, but then, with a whooshing sound, an orange-gold cyclone of sparks whirled out of the fireplace to the hearth, where it lengthened upright into the outline of a tall, long-robed man, and then solidified until Jonah Bonewits looked as he always did.
He wore a long gray robe, and his hair was dark at the roots and fair at the tips, radiating from his head like rays of the sun. His long, narrow face was not remarkable unless one counted thin yellow, green, red, and blue streaks on each cheek, but his dark eyes gleamed and his smile was mischievous.
Fluttering the six, heavily ringed fingers of one hand, he said, “Well, Mag?”
“It is not well, ye shameless murderer. What ha’ ye done wi’ my Claud?”
His laugh sounded both eerie and menacing. “Woman, our Claud is a fool. Did ye have half the brain in your head that ye think ye do, ye’d no miss him at all.”
“Where is he?” she repeated, fighting to control her temper.
“I thought that brilliant mind o’ yours had worked it out for ye.”
“Ye’ve been spying on me, is that it?”
“I have and all. Ye’re too smart for me, Mag.”
“Ye’ve fooled me often, Jonah Bonewits, but I ken ye fine, and I hold by what I said tae the chief. Ye’d no kill our Claud an ye could avoid it, nor would ye send him tae fly wi’ the Evil Host, for he’d be as lost tae ye in either instance as he would be if ye’d let that lightning bolt kill him. So ye…”
She hesitated, unwilling to put the thought into words again lest he instantly prove her wrong and end her mission before it began.
As often happened, though, he read her thoughts easily. “Ye’re not usually such a coward, Mag,” he said. “Ye’ll no find him, though, seek ye how far.”
Relieved to hear him admit that Claud still lived, she said shrewdly, “ ’Twould ruin the game for ye did I ha’ nae chance tae find him, so I’ll wager ye’ve put him somewhere in plain sight, did I only ken where tae look.”
He grinned. “Aye, well, mayhap ye’re right, lass. But consider that if I did such a thing, I might add a trick or a trap to
the plan.”
“I ken that, too,” she said.
“Ye won’t ask what they might be, will ye?”
She did not, knowing he would refuse to tell her and declining to give him that satisfaction.
“Very well, to prove ye’re wrong about me, I’ll give ye one wee clue. He’s where ye think, in plain sight, but ye’ll never recognize him as our Claud.”
“So ye’ve made him mortal.”
Jonah shrugged. “In a manner o’ speaking, I’ve melded him.”
“Melded? What mean ye by that?”
“Just that I’ve bound our Claud’s entity to that of a mortal, that’s what, and that’s where he’ll stay.”
“Unless ye intervene,” Maggie said, eyeing him narrowly.
He did not reply.
She shook her head at him. “Ye’ll no cozen me into believing ye did this melding business without leaving yourself a way tae alter things if ye want to, Jonah. Ye’ll always keep control o’ your mischief.”
“Mayhap ye give me powers more credit than they deserve.”
“Nay, for I believe ye want summat, and ye ken fine ye’ll no get it wi’out summat tae bargain in return.”
“Ye ken well what I want, Mag.”
“Ye want me tae fail at making peace betwixt the Merry Folk and the Helping Hands. Ye’ve made that plain from the start.”
“Only so ye’ll lose your place in the High Circle and see how it feels. Ye can make your silly peace if ye resign. But I’ll want me own seat back when ye go.”
She frowned, thinking furiously and exerting herself as she did to hide her thoughts from him. He might suspect what she was thinking, but she could keep him from actually reading her thoughts now that she knew she must.
“They willna let me resign until the peace be made,” she said. “I’d ha’ nae authority over them obstreperous hill folk were I no a member o’ the Circle.”