“What did ye do to make him change his mind?” Hughe asked, accusation tempered by his lowered voice.
“Nothing!” Fergus punctuated, hitting the wood again and then looking at his bloodied knuckles. If he didn’t get control of his temper, he’d damage his hand. It was much better to hit something softer. He eyed the whimpering woman in the dark corner. “He just suddenly decided I might be dangerous to her, is what I heard from a guard outside Elizabeth’s privy chamber whom I pay.”
“One of them must have seen your temper or heard of it,” Maxwell said.
Fergus kicked the stall door. “And now I’ve kidnapped his sister. He’ll be after me.” Fear tingled along Fergus’s arms. He rubbed sweating palms against his coat.
“You took her because you love her and when you caught the news that the betrothal might be negated, you couldn’t help but to steal her away and marry her before God.”
Fergus looked heavenward. “They won’t believe it.”
Maxwell’s voice lowered into a calm, severe command. “You agreed to the plan, Campbell, for the good of us both.” Fergus watched the elderly man as if he were a serpent. Hughe Maxwell was short in stature, his well trimmed graying hair giving the only hint to his fifty years. Yet even though Fergus outweighed the man by nearly one hundred pounds, Fergus still bowed to Maxwell’s authority.
“You marry Brianag, Campbell, and I will see Toren MacCallum married to Margaret,” Maxwell continued. “With a foot in the door on MacCallum land and Brianag held within your walls, we will undercut the strength of Toren and Eadan. MacCallums will be undone and you will have their grazing pastures all the way to the sea.”
“And ye?” Fergus asked. His eyes glanced to the back of the stall where Brianag MacCallum lay bound and gagged. He’d agreed to this scheme because he wanted MacCallum land that bordered his own. His father had waged open feuding with the MacCallums, but Fergus was determined to undermine the clan from the inside out. When Maxwell had suggested he request a truce with the old laird through his marriage to Brianag, he jumped at the idea of having one of the MacCallums under his heel. Fergus adjusted his hardening member at the thought of lovely Brianag bound and helpless and at his bidding. Perhaps he’d use the ropes again when he got her back home.
“I will stay behind,” Maxwell reminded Fergus, “and act helpful, sending them in the wrong direction. Plus I need to press Elizabeth on our claim.”
“Ye’re a colder bastard than I, Maxwell, throwing yer own daughter to the enemy ye plan to destroy. What will become of her then?”
Hughe frowned, his gaze glistening with such intensity that Fergus felt a prickle at the base of his neck. He reached up to rub the spot.
“She’s obedient, I raised her that way.”
“I guess it is a good thing she survived the fire then, so ye could use her. With yer son ye wouldn’t be able to get a foothold into their clan.”
Steel glinted as it flew through the air. Whump. The dirk stuck into the wooden support next to Fergus’s shoulder.
“A bhidse, Maxwell!” Fergus croaked, jumping sideways.
Hughe Maxwell’s voice lay flat like death as he walked forward. “If she had died instead of Edward, I would not be at war with Toren MacCallum.” He looked hard at Fergus while he worked the dirk free of the wood. “Do not speak of my son. Get your bride and head for the outskirts of London. My men wait there to escort you north.”
“Where my men wait,” Fergus mumbled under his breath, as he walked into the stall. He was shaken by the man, his cold hatred. At least with himself, his people knew to give him wide berth during his rages. One never quite knew when Hughe Maxwell would strike.
Fergus’s voice came strong and emotionless to match Maxwell’s. He must control himself if this new scheme was to work. “Hello Brianag lass,” he drawled out to the bound girl in the corner.
****
“Stay here,” Kat mimicked Toren’s command in a childish voice. “Like heck I’m just going to stay put when Brianag’s missing, Drakkina is demanding her necklace, and you’re off to talk with one of the most fascinating monarchs in history, the history that I spent four years of my life studying!” Kat let anger roll out in the empty room. At least she thought it was empty. Her birthmark didn’t tingle or burn alerting her to Drakkina, so the witch must have moved on. Where to exactly, Kat had no idea. “Some temporal realm,” she said flippantly, as she fought with the ties holding the large sleeves up on her shoulders. She grunted in frustration. Elizabethan clothing was exquisite, but not practical, especially when one was raised in twentieth century casuals. At least she knew something about how the costumes were put together and could untangle herself from some of the layers. She would have stripped completely and roamed the halls naked but it was cold. And what if she ran into Toren?
She sighed as she dropped the farthingale and stepped out of the stiff circle that held the skirts out. Toren, she shook her head. Soul mate? Well, he definitely could see through her magic.
Kat’s fingers touched the slight puffing of her dimpled skin on her right cheek and ran them across the scar to her hairline. He’d touched her ugliness. No one had touched her scars before. The few relationships she’d attempted were with men who seemed more inclined to running their hands across her boobs than across her cheek. Yet Toren had cradled her face in his hands, even with the rough skin.
Kat picked up the mound of damask and velvet and smoothed it back into the wardrobe. She stood in a chemise of soft linen that reached her ankles. It looked like an old fashioned nightgown. Since Elizabethan women didn’t wear underwear and a quick search of the room showed that her own Wednesday underwear and bra were missing, Kat realized she’d have to go commando under the thin material. She pulled on some boots that were only a little too big.
Kat stepped out into the candlelit corridor and glanced both ways. The long hall seemed empty. Which way to go? She wasn’t the best with direction and decided to turn the way Toren and Eadan had gone. Silently she counted the doors running down the hall. Occasionally she stopped to touch one of the vibrant hanging tapestries. “So much more beautiful in full color,” she whispered at the heavy stitching. Back home she would never be allowed to fondle the pieces that had all faded with age.
“Ten, eleven, twelve…” Kat paused at a dark staircase that wound downward. “Okay,” she breathed, “twelve doors and down.” Not that she’d be able to remember her way back, but she’d try. Kat felt the rough wall as she descended. “I guess they put the hand rail up for visitors five hundred years later,” she whispered and guarded her footing on the narrow rock slabs. She reached a landing. Voices floated from the right and she turned that way, keeping concealed. She was feeling a bit thirsty and would give anything for a bottle of water. Hopefully there was enough liquid in the fruit to keep her shields functioning well. Or else she’d be the start of a ghost rumor as the lady in white. Come to think of it, those ghosts usually had something akin to the nightgown looking chemise she was wearing.
“The Spanish decided to wait out the winter, but it’s already April. Elizabeth must dispatch the troops.” A male voice spoke softly but with a vehemence that stopped Kat. They were discussing the Spanish Armada, how exciting! Kat had written a paper on the famous sea battle. She’d love to pop in and tell them exactly what would happen, though perhaps that would change history, which she definitely didn’t want to do. Plus they’d probably burn her for being a witch once events started to happen as predicted.
The second well dressed man whispered back, moving his hands about in concern. “She says she doesn’t want to pull her people away from their lives until she must.” As long as nothing interfered, all would be well and the English would win. Kat knew this, but Elizabeth didn’t. She was a very brave woman, Kat thought, and hoped to get a chance to talk with her again when she wasn’t in shock.
It was getting late, yet there still seemed to be quite a number of people milling through the halls. Some minstrels played in one lar
ge room where people danced. Kat stood at the arched opening into the room, entranced by the simple yet beautiful music, all played without synthesizers or amps. To get a taste of this back home she had had to seek out Renaissance Faires that were often more touristy than accurate. What a wonderful time to live, she thought, although hot showers, toilets, tampons, and clean water were definitely a draw to the twenty-first century.
“Sara, child where are you?” a richly garbed woman rounded the corner opposite the room, her head swiveling left to right. She had dark hair piled high on her head and wore her velvet gown gracefully. It was obviously tailored to fit her trim body to perfection, unlike the borrowed gown Kat had worn. “Where has that child gotten herself?” she murmured.
The clipping of a strong pace made Kat jump and she turned to see Eadan striding toward the woman. “Lady Margaret,” he said, and bowed his head slightly. “Have ye seen my sister, Brianag? She did not return to her rooms after the evening meal.”
Margaret? This was the daughter of the devil? The one who supposedly had Toren’s child?
“Nay, Sir Eadan,” she answered and glanced downward. Was that a blush? She looked back at Eadan. “Have you seen my daughter, Sara? She’s run off again.”
Eadan frowned slightly at the reminder of the child. “Nay, I haven’t.” He paused and studied her. “Lady Margaret…why do ye say that Tor fathered the child when ye ken that he did not?”
Seems that Toren’s brother was as direct as Toren. Kat held her breath waiting for a reply.
“Excuse me, Sir, but I am not at liberty to discuss this matter. I must find my child.”
“He will not marry ye, Margaret,” he said to her retreating figure as she all but scampered down the corridor calling Sara’s name. “But I will,” Eadan said softly as she moved out of earshot. Kat’s mouth dropped open. This was better than The Tudors on Showtime, she thought as Eadan entered the room of people and started making a few inquiries about Brianag. So Toren was right in thinking that Eadan had a thing for Margaret.
Kat stood still for several more minutes while her mind whirled around the social predicaments of Toren’s family. And what about this devil that helped raise Toren? Where was he and what part did he play in this lie? Kat pulled away from the archway and walked further. Perhaps she’d investigate the gardens looking for Brianag. Being invisible kept her safe. She turned toward where she thought the front of the palace must be. From what she had seen, she must be in Hampton Court. She’d visited it during college. Although this Hampton Court smelled a bit more “lived in.” Yes, fresh air would be a good idea.
Kat turned down a short flight of stairs to a servant’s door, and there on the bottom step sat a little girl leaning against the wall.
“Oh,” Kat gasped and the little girl turned. Kat let go of her shield, else she’d frighten the child who had obviously heard her. “Hello there,” Kat said from two steps up.
The little girl scrambled onto her feet. She was dressed like the adults so she must have been six or seven years old. A discolored blob sat below her left eye, the birthmark Brianag had mentioned. It looked to be a strawberry hemangioma. Lizzie, one of Kat’s children at the orphanage, had come to Sister Mary’s with one on her cheek. The doctors had told them it would eventually fade away and it did, but not until Lizzie was eight and a half.
The child pulled her hair to fall in front of the quarter sized birthmark. Kat squatted down so she was on the child’s level. “Would you happen to be Lady Sara?”
Sara looked up, but she kept her focus downcast. “Aye, milady.”
Kat smiled warmly. “I believe your mother is looking for you.” Sara nodded but gazed down at the steps before her. “You shouldn’t run around in the dark in such a large castle. You might not find your way back. I’ve certainly gotten turned around and may not be able to find the way back to my own rooms.”
“I don’t know how to find my mother,” the child confided, glancing upward through her hair.
“Well then, we can be lost together,” Kat said and held out a hand. “My name is Kat”—she hesitated—“Kat Di-Ciadaoin, but you may call me Kat.”
Sara smiled timidly, still hiding half her face behind hair. The child either didn’t know Gaelic or she was too proper to laugh at the silly name. Sara tentatively met Kat’s hand with her small fingers. They were cold and thin and white. Kat wished she had some hot cocoa to give her. Sara stumbled as she walked up the steps.
“You should pull your hair away from your eyes, Sara. It is so dark here,” Kat said, but Sara didn’t do anything except lean more into her as they made it up the rest of the steps. “I don’t mind your birthmark.”
Sara looked up at her. “Birthmark?”
Kat pushed back Sara’s hair and looked at the hemangioma. It was red, even in the muted candlelight given off by one of the hallway sconces. “I’ve seen one before,” Kat assured her. “And it faded away by the time the girl turned nine years old. How old are you?”
“Seven years,” Sara said, touching the raised mark. “My grandfather says I’m cursed.” Her small voice caught at Kat’s heart and Kat bent down. If this was the twenty-first century, she’d report Sara’s grandfather to Social Services. Kat pushed back her own hair and released the glamour she used to cover her scars.
“People used to not want to touch me,” Kat said while she tried to sound confident. Sara looked at her closely, studying the puckered skin. Would this child recoil from her like so many others? “Unfortunately,” Kat continued, “my scars won’t fade away like yours will.” Kat almost couldn’t stand the silence as the little girl studied her. “I know, they make me ugly.”
Sara smiled, her gaze meeting Kat’s. “I think you’re beautiful, Lady Kat.” The little girl tucked hair behind her ears so she could see and clasped Kat’s hand. “Do people stare at you?” she asked as they walked down the corridor.
Kat smiled in the darkness and sighed. “No because I cover my scars up.” Here she was trying to help this little girl understand that her birthmark didn’t make her less of a person when all her life she had hidden her own scars because they made her ugly.
“With your hair?” Sara asked.
“No, I use…heavy make up to cover the scars so that they aren’t that noticeable.”
“My mother will not allow me to use makeup,” Sara said.
Kat thought about the heavy paste favored in Elizabethan times, some of which included lead. “Your mother is right. You are too young, and like I said, your mark will fade within a couple more years.”
The little girl huffed. “Years, that is long.”
Kat squeezed her hand gently. “I know, but it will fade. And then people will only notice your kind and understanding heart because you will know what it’s like to look different and you will be kind to those who suffer the same.”
It was true. Kat knew firsthand what it was like to suffer stares and whispers. Those without magic to hide their scars were the brave ones. Kat’s face flushed hot. She could hide when this brave little girl could not. But she walked along holding Sara’s small hand and listened while the child talked about spring flowers and pretty birds she liked to paint.
Kat and Sara wandered down the long halls looking for familiar paintings and statues. Kat never saw Brianag. When they approached others, she would cloak both herself and Sara. After a few times, Sara stopped and turned to Kat.
“How do you do that?”
Sara had noticed? Since they were linked, the child should not have seen that she’d turned invisible.
“Do what?”
“Walk us right past people. Not one said a word to us. No stares, not even nods.”
Kat breathed out a silent sigh and patted Sara’s hand. “It’s late. Everyone must be too tired to notice us.”
That seemed to satisfy Sara and they continued until Kat heard Margaret’s desperate voice calling softly around a corner.
“Sara…Sara, where are you?”
Sara turned towar
d the voice and let go of Kat’s hand, running down the hall. “Mama!”
Kat stood back silently watching. Should she leave or disappear? Margaret grabbed the little girl up in her arms. “Where have you been? You scared me half to the grave,” she scolded but hugged tightly. It was quite obvious that Margaret loved her little girl, legitimate or not, and with the devil’s mark. “You didn’t show your face to anyone, did you?”
Sara looked down at her feet. “I met a lady. She helped me find you.” Sara turned to where Kat stood, but Kat had faded to invisibility. “Lady Kat?”
Kat didn’t say anything.
“Kat?” Margaret said and looked down the hall. “Did she say that she was friends with the MacCallums?” Oh, she knew, Kat thought. Best not to show herself.
“She did not say, Mama. But she did say that she knew a girl like me, who had a mark. And it went away when she turned nine years old.”
Margaret looked down at her daughter and smiled. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful,” she said and pulled Sara into a hug. “We will beseech the Virgin Mother about it.” She squinted to see down the dim corridor, her doe-like eyes raking along each stone. “Come, it is late.” They turned and walked back down the other hall.
“Kat!” Kat jumped at the deep voice. She whirled around and pushed back up against the wall. Toren’s long legs ate up the distance between them. His thundering halted before her and he placed his hands on either side of her shoulders, palms against the wall. “When I say to stay in the room that is what I mean.” His words weighed with barely controlled fury. Toren ran his hands down her arms, stroking gently. He pulled his short cloak from his shoulders and draped her. “I find ye chilled, half naked, alone in a dark, dangerous castle.”
“There is no danger for me,” she retorted. “I blend in with the walls, remember.” Even with his anger, his hands were soothing as they continued to rub up and down her arms. “Only you can see me.”
Masquerade (The Dragonfly Chronicles Book 3) Page 11