by Eliza Knight
His men nodded, all of them looking cautiously around.
Was it his imagination or was there a mist rolling on the ground around their mounts’ hooves that had not been there before?
Beiste withdrew his sword, his men following suit. They moved to form a circle, their warhorses’ rears bumping into each other as they gave each other their backs, a form of defense should the enemy present itself from any side.
“Show yourself,” Beiste growled to the ever growing shadows.
The wind whistled, rustling the trees that surrounded them. The moon cast shadows everywhere, dark in some places and lighter in others. It was hard to make out where the enemy could be hiding, if at all.
A bird of prey made a piercing noise overhead and then there came a rustling from a bush to his right. Beiste did not wait for his enemy to present himself. Instead, he kicked his horse forward, thrusting his sword toward the shrubs, only to pull back at the very last minute when a young lad’s face poked free.
“Please…” the lad begged. “Dinna hurt me.”
Beiste recoiled, though he didn’t sheathe his sword in case this, too, was part of the trap. “What are ye doing hiding about? How long have ye been there?”
The lad shivered. His clothes were torn. And though Beiste couldn’t see in this light if they were dirty, the stench alone was enough to beg the affirmative.
“I…” The lad rubbed at his arms and stepped out from the bush. At his height and the still soft lines of his features, he couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve summers. “I am lost.”
“Where do ye come from?”
He shrugged. “I dinna know the way.”
“Name your clan,” Beiste demanded.
The lad’s eyes widened into dark circles, his mouth popping open in fear but no sound coming out.
Beiste gritted his teeth and worked to make himself more pleasant though his business was urgent. “Come now, lad, tell me. I willna hurt ye.”
The lad shook his head. “I’ve no clan.”
“Your parents are drifters?”
To this, he nodded, rising up on his tiptoes before settling back down, as one does when given an idea. “They are…they are merchants.”
Beiste narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious. “What do they sell?”
The scamp glanced down at his arms and spoke softly, uncertainly. “Wool…?”
Beiste frowned, examining the lad’s torn clothes, his too short breeches and tunic. Not even made of plaid, but a thin brown wool that had seen not simply days of better wear, but years and possibly even decades.
“Failing merchants?” Beiste couldn’t help but say.
The lad nodded, once more. His shoulders slumped. His chin fell to his chest as he softly said, “’Haps that is why they left me.”
Beiste grunted. Perhaps the urchin could be believed. At the very least, that his family had left him behind. Bastards, leaving the poor lad to starve in the woods or be carried off by a predator. Or worse—taken as a slave by the Vikings. “Did ye happen to see what happened at the castle yonder?”
The lad chewed his lip, but nodded all the same, wringing his hands something fierce.
“Tell me,” Beiste encouraged.
“They…came and killed…” His teeth started to chatter. “My parents were there…”
Beiste narrowed his eyes on the poor creature. Perhaps his parents hadn’t left him, after all, and they’d been killed in the massacre. Anything was possible.
“Where are the Vikings now?”
The waif shook his head, knees knocking together. “I dinna know. They left early this morn or ’haps it was yestermorn.” He swiped at tears leaving pale tracks in the dirt on his face. “I dinna remember.”
“Did ye happen to catch which way they went?” Beiste knew his question was a long shot, but it couldn’t hurt to ask all the same.
“Aye. They headed toward the mountains.”
Toward Dunstaffnage. Or to simply seek refuge in a place he’d be less likely to find them. Beiste let out a growled curse, which had the child nearly jumping out of his skin. He offered a gruff apology. If the castle was abandoned, its inhabitants either killed, fled or taken hostage, this made Beiste’s mission all the more dangerous. He’d need reinforcements. But first, they’d have to carry on to Castle Gloom to see if any clues had been left behind.
“Come with us,” he told the lad.
The young one shook his head vehemently. “I canna. I’ve got to… I’ve got to find my family.”
Beiste frowned, contemplating whether he should simply scoop up the scamp and tell him to keep his mouth shut or to let him wander the wilderness, possibly being eaten in the process, no doubt starving before he found anyone. Nay. That made his decision quite sound. Human decency, not to mention his position in the land as a leader, dictated he simply could not allow the poor thing to suffer. Even if it hindered their mission.
The child had been brave enough to keep an eye on the enemy to see where they went. He deserved, at least, some protection for the night.
“I didna ask ye, lad.”
The gulping sound coming from the lad’s throat was loud enough to reach everyone’s ears and caused a few snickers amongst the men.
The child stepped forward, his feet bare, no doubt covered in bloody, infected scrapes from walking the woods.
“Where are your shoes?” Beiste shook his head. “Never mind. We’ll get ye something to wear.” He held out his hand to the lad, helping him up behind him on the horse. With the moon shining on his face, the lad looked somewhat familiar. Perhaps a trick of the light or, mayhap, even all bairns looked the same. “What is your name?”
“Er—John, sir.”
“I am Laird MacDougall.”
That brought about another round of shivers from the lad, which Beiste ignored. He nodded to his men and they rode down the hill to the castle. The gates were wide open. The specters of the once grand castle welcoming anyone who dared to enter. The scouts quickly dismounted and made a tour of the grounds and keep, only to return to tell Beiste it was, indeed, abandoned.
Any clues as to the Viking who’d taken hold of the place were left in the ashes of small fires, if there ever were any.
“Eat a meal, get some rest. Come first light, we go back to Dunstaffnage for reinforcements. Together, we will ferret out the enemy in the mountains.” Beiste glanced around the eerily empty bailey. “Close the gates. I reclaim this castle in the name of MacDougall.”
A vision of his father flashed before his mind’s eye.
“For now,” Beiste added.
He’d honor his father’s legacy and give the castle and lands back to Erik Cam’béal as soon as the man could be found.
Chapter Five
“My lady?” A soft tap sounded at the door.
Elle opened her eyes and stretched wide on the bed. Her entire body was stiff from the past days of traveling, the never-ending hours she’d spent worrying and pacing the chamber. Praying, hoping, begging for Beiste to find her brother.
The door opened and Elle watched from the crack in the curtain she’d pulled around the bed (to ward off any nighttime ghostly visitors) as a short, round, middle-aged woman scampered into the room. Her graying red hair was pulled up in a tight knot on top of her head and she wore a white apron over her MacDougall plaid gown.
“My lady?” The woman spoke softly, kindly. “Are ye awake?”
Elle stretched her arms up over her head, wishing she were not. She then pulled the bed curtains open a ways. “Aye.”
The older woman smiled at her. “Good morn. I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. Lach. I’ve brought your morning meal.” She pointed toward the table where a tray of food had been set. “When ye’re done breaking your fast, the master’s ordered a warm bath be drawn for ye.”
Elle blinked. Had she heard correctly? A bath? Most ordinary people, let alone prisoners, were not gifted the luxury of a bath. Or warm water to wash with.
Another kindness he’d shown her
. When would they cease? What did Beiste MacDougall hope to gain by his considerations where she was concerned?
Elle sat up and pulled the curtain the rest of the way open, immediately struck by the scents of the meal laid out for her. A hunk of pork, freshly baked bread, and was that milk? ’Twas not the typical breakfast she was used to. Nay. At Castle Gloom, and she presumed everywhere else in the world, breakfast consisted of a bit of bread and watered wine, or sloppy porridge (unless a household was lucky enough to find a cook who considered porridge an art form). But this, this was a veritable feast.
“’Tis a fine set up,” Elle murmured, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her mouth watering.
The lady beamed. “Aye, my laird wanted to be sure ye were pleased and well fed.”
“Why?” Elle couldn’t help but ask, her mind immediately going to a suckling pig being fattened up right before the slaughter.
“Ye’re our guest,” Mrs. Lach said, cocking her head to the side in question. “Come eat now. I’ll have the bath and water brought up.”
“My thanks.” The wooden floor was cold against Elle’s feet. She hurried to the tapestried rug and then climbed onto the chair, sitting cross-legged to keep her feet from touching.
The bread had been slathered with butter and apple jam. She took a bite of it, savoring the warmth and sweetness. Then the pork. Then a big gulp of milk. If Beiste MacDougall wanted to feed her like this, she’d gladly take it. Her belly rumbled for more, but she forced herself to eat slowly, else she become ill. While she dined, several servants filtered in and out with a large wooden tub that they lined with linen. Steaming buckets of hot water and scented soap soon followed.
She could smell the sweet herbal scent from where she sat and beamed at the luxury of it. At Castle Gloom, they used soaps made from tallow and ash. Nothing sweet smelling, but it got the job done. When Mrs. Lach sprinkled thyme into the steaming water, Elle had to clamp her lips closed from nearly crying out with joy.
Her exuberance at the bath was almost too much. She forced herself to sit still, to finish her meal, and to figure out just what Beiste MacDougall was up to.
Good food. A bath?
She might have thought he was wooing her, save for the fact that he certainly could not be. Could he?
Nay.
Besides, she wasn’t interested in being wooed. With both of her parents gone, it was her job to raise Erik up to the man he was meant to be. She’d have to run Castle Gloom until he was of age. Attend gatherings of the elders; work with them to keep the clan prospering. The last thing she needed was to worry about a brute like Beiste MacDougall. Aye, she needed him, at present, to help her. But there, all ties ended. She would return home with Erik and rebuild. Fortify.
And perhaps, in ten years’ time, when Erik was able to be a leader without her guiding hand, she could find—
Och, who was she kidding? By that time, she’d be an old maid. A spinster. The elderly sister of the laird. As a lass of twenty-one now, her father had been beginning his search for a husband before Bjork had…
Elle sat back in her chair, swallowing around the lump in her throat. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes and she blinked them away, not wanting anyone to bear witness to her grief.
Mrs. Lach swept away her empty trencher and cup and, thankfully, ushered her toward the tub. Elle was stripped of her nightrail and climbed into the steaming water, unable to help the small moan that came out.
The bath was glorious, sweeping her sorrow back into the deep cavern in her chest.
What Mrs. Lach and Beiste MacDougall failed to realize was that this was her first bath. At Castle Gloom, she washed plenty, using a basin of frigid water in her chamber every morning. Unless it was warm enough, then she made the trek down to the burn with the other ladies and they washed in the thawed, churning waters.
But this…this was heavenly.
The hot water loosened her aching muscles, easing away the tension that had been growing since Bjork first made his appearance.
Using the scented soap, Elle scrubbed her body clean once, then a second time, luxuriating in the sweet smell and the tingly, fresh feeling on her skin. She scrubbed her hair until it squeaked, sliding wet tendrils beneath her nose to breathe in the floral essence. Had her hair ever smelled this good?
Elle stood up, her feet beneath the water still warm while the rest of her swiftly covered in gooseflesh. She spotted the linen left for drying on a chair. Just when she was about to climb from the tub, a swift knock came at the door, followed quickly by the door pushing open and Beiste MacDougall filled the doorway.
For several heartbeats, they simply stared at each other. Each of them in shock. Eyes wide. Mouths agape.
What was he doing here? Oh, saints! She was naked!
Finally, Elle reacted, dropping back into the water. She tucked up her knees to hide her breasts and wrapped her arms around them, glad for the soapy film on top of the water that obscured mostly anything else. “What are ye doing?” she shrieked. “Get out!”
“I…um…right!” Beiste backed out and slammed the door shut behind him.
Elle fairly leapt from the still warm water, grabbing the linen that Mrs. Lach had left for her to dry with. With trembling hands, she scrubbed the water from her skin and wrung out her hair, rushing to don a clean chemise and gown that had been laid out on her bed. She ran a brush through her thick hair, wincing at the pain of the knots. Then she marched to the door, whipping it open. A glower was still on her face and a hand on her hip.
Beiste eyed her slowly, from head to toe, as though she’d not even bothered to put on the gown. Every place his eyes caressed, she felt upon her skin. She became hot, tingly, and her belly flipped in a way that caught her breath. For heaven’s sake, she liked his perusal. She could tell that he liked what he saw.
No man had ever seen her naked. None. With the line of thought she’d had earlier regarding her spinsterhood, she’d been certain no man ever would. And, she’d especially not thought that a man would look at her the way Beiste MacDougall was looking at her now. Like she was a tasty morsel he’d like to eat. His eyes had grown dark as he met her gaze. Her breath caught. Was he going to…kiss her?
Och, but why did she want him to?
He stepped closer and her heart kicked up a notch. Her lips parted. Waiting.
Nay! This was wrong…but, oh, how she wanted to know what it would feel like to have his lips on hers…
She licked her lower lip, prepared for when he reached for her. The feel of his strong hand grazing her upper arm, but then, just as suddenly, he seemed to come to his senses and took a step back.
Elle cleared her throat, grateful (if a little disappointed) that he’d had the sense to back away from kissing her. She straightened, hands on her hips and berated him. “Do ye often barge into a ladies bedchamber without knocking?”
“Nay.” His voice was thick, gravelly, and sent a chill of desire racing over her spine. “Never.”
Desire. She desired him. The feeling was new, heady, and left her searching for words, when all she wanted was to lie down and explore these feelings more wholly. “Then why did ye do so, just now? Ah-ha!” She narrowed her eyes and poked his chest. Good heavens, he was thick, hard with muscle. Elle forced herself not to concentrate on that aspect of him. “Dinna answer that.” Why was her voice so husky? She cleared her throat, something she’d been doing a lot around him. “Ye knew I was having a bath. ’Twas trickery!”
Beiste grinned slowly, the teasing glint in his eyes confirming her words even as he said, “Nay, nay, nay,” and held up his hands. “That was not it at all. I simply…” He trailed off, eyes once more raking over her before he frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.
Elle watched a play of emotions come over his features that made her a little unsteady on her feet. What game was this that he played? She enjoyed it and was scared of it all the same. She’d yet to discover the rules or the way to win. And what was the prize?
; “Well, what is it?” she asked. Then, suddenly, the cobwebs of confusion were swept clean. “Wait, ye’re back! Where is Erik?”
Now Beiste cleared his throat. “That is what I came to tell ye. May I come in?”
All the heat that had filled her blood pooled around her feet, replaced with an icy chill. “Nay. Just say it now.”
That shadowy darkness that had been on his face when she first met him clouded over his features. She knew without him having to say anything that Erik was not at Dunstaffnage.
Elle backed up, shaking her head. “Nay. I willna believe it. Tell me ye found him!”
Beiste followed her into the room, reaching for her for a brief moment before letting his hands fall at his sides. “I’m afraid Castle Gloom was abandoned. Not a soul in sight.”
Elle slicked her hands through her wet hair, grabbing the sides of her head as though that could stop the instant pounding she felt in her skull. Poor, Erik! She should not have left him. Oh, for the love of all that was holy, she prayed that he was not dead. That Bjork had not found him.
“Nay…” she whispered. “How could this be?”
“They’d already gone. Hid up in the mountains, perhaps to set up a trap, or lay in wait, or prepare for another siege. Here.”
“And Erik? No one was at the castle? No sign of my brother?”
Beiste’s eyes flickered over her face. “Nay.”
Elle dropped to her knees on the floor, sobs racking her body. She wasn’t one to break down so easily, but when she’d abandoned her brother, thinking to make him safer, she’d never expected that he’d simply vanish. That she would have done better to just hand him over to the enemy herself. “Nothing?”
Beiste knelt on the floor in front of her. “Nay,” he whispered.
Shocking both him and herself, Elle hauled off and punched him square in the chest. Beiste barely budged, barely made a sound, didn’t even try to stop her as she pummeled him some more. Working through the anger, the anguish. Until, finally, he grabbed hold of her, crushed her to him, her arms pinned to her sides. He stared into her eyes.
“Enough,” he said softly.