Did the brothers share Lady Ivone’s dislike of the lower classes? Andreu’s question brought to mind several conversations Verena had with Owen. How many times had he told her the nobility had little affection for those deemed beneath them?
"She promised to show me the town and chapel."
"You should have told me," Cairn replied. "I will have one of my men escort you."
"I’m sure your men have much to do before winter," she replied. "I wouldn’t take them away from their duties for a walk to the village and back. We will not go far and Roselyn will ensure I do not get lost."
She gave Cairn her most innocent look. That last bit was to prove she had no intention of running away and couldn’t with Roselyn’s escort. He had kidnapped Verena the day before, but she wanted him to feel she had put that behind her. It was crucial to her assignment that she be allowed to explore the land unchallenged. Verena hoped Cairn wouldn’t try to stifle her movements.
"Very well," said Cairn after a thoughtful pause. "But be careful. And do not go past the village."
"Of course," Verena said immediately. She spotted Roselyn coming toward her with a basket and waved. "Good day."
The only person she needed for this task was Roselyn. The woman was best friends with or related to half the clan. An introduction from her would do much to integrate her with the villagers—especially the generation old enough to be around during the time of Cairn’s grandfather. Plus with the villagers’ distrust of nobility having an armed escort would certainly not make them comfortable with her.
"This is my mum, Henny," introduced Roselyn a few moments later. Verena stood in the doorway of a small cottage. The room was divided with a cloth hanging from the rafters separating the living area from the common space where six people stepped agilely between a loom, spinning wheel, chest, table, several stools and a tabby cat sprawled unconcernedly in the middle of the floor. "And this is my da, Peter, and sisters, Megan, Meg, Rosie and Rose."
She smiled as she greeted Roselyn’s family. All of the sisters had Roselyn’s bright curls and infectious grin, which they inherited from their mother.
"They say my da was drunk when he named us," she explained conspiratorially. "So we got whatever names he could think of at the time: my grandmum’s name was Megan and there was a rosebush beside her home."
"It’s nice to meet all of you," said Verena, enjoying the informality of the small cottage. Despite the outside chill, inside all was peaceful and warm. A peat fire burned inside the hearth and the aroma of savory stew mingled invitingly with the smells of various herbs drying in bundles hanging from the ceiling.
"Listen to you!" Roselyn’s mother exclaimed, Henny in alarm. "Always running your mouth. And then you wonder why you can’t find a husband."
"I can’t find a husband because this town is two meters long!" cried Roselyn. "Maybe if you let me visit aunt Ester in Sheepsdale."
"Not that again," Peter interrupted. "You aren’t going to visit that crazy old bat and that’s final."
"But Da …" chorused the sisters.
"Don’t you call my sister crazy!" Henny warned, yielding a cooking spoon like a deadly weapon. "Next you’ll be blaming this infernal frost on my family too."
"I don’t see why not," Peter replied. "There’s no telling what your mother did up at the castle with the Old Lord."
"She was just a chambermaid," shouted Henny. She glanced pointedly in Verena’s direction and Peter, taking the hint, cleared his throat nervously and began cleaning his nails.
"It’s all right," Verena said to break the awkward silence. "I’ve heard about the Old Lord. I think the stories are fascinating, though I’m not sure I believe them."
"Finally a woman with sense!" Peter said, ignoring the matching scowls on the faces of his wife and daughters. "I don’t put much stock in horror stories either, but it is always fun to tease them about it."
"It’s no laughing matter," warned Henny, crossing herself. "I don’t know what the Old Lord did, or if he was as bad as everyone said he was. All I know is that when we were in trouble he found a way."
Verena tried to question her, but Henny was reluctant to speak of that time. Years ago the McPhersons struggled under warfare, a harsh winter and plague, but just as the clan faced ruin, the Old Lord produced a miracle. Piles of silver appeared, paying for much-needed food, clothing and medicine.
He saved the clan, but there were those that spoke of the matter in hushed voices, believing the miracle was not the work of divine intervention, but another, darker influence. Verena could understand Henny’s reluctance. As a pious woman she was caught between loyalties to the clan and the church. It was much easier not to question it, not to have the burden of guilt on her mind, always wondering if she owed her survival to a wicked agreement.
They talked of other things, of sewing and recipes and babies. Peter suffered through it with barely a grumble, used to being the only man in a house full of women. Though Verena knew she would get no more information from them, as the hours passed she found herself reluctant to leave. Despite the poverty of their circumstances a bond existed between them which she could only admire. The relationship she had with her adopted family of spies was more practical than emotional. For the first time since she could remember she found herself longing for a real family.
"We should be leaving," said Roselyn, taking advantage of a lull in the conversation. "We have much to do today and the hour grows late."
Verena rose slowly from her stool. She watched from the doorway as Roselyn kissed her mother and father goodbye. She told herself she had nothing to envy. Roselyn’s family had neither her resilience nor skills. They were the kind of people who would till the same dismal fields for generations and yet every year hope for something different. Owen would scornfully call them hopeless.
"I am sorry we stayed so long," Roselyn apologized, misinterpreting Verena’s pensive mood. "My sisters and I don’t know when to stop talking."
"Don’t be silly. It is the cold that has me so grim."
"Welcome to Scotland!" Roselyn cheerfully replied.
Chapter 19
Next the women visited the small village church to attend evening prayers and meet the priest. Verena wasn’t surprised to find the tiny chapel nearly overflowing with people praying for a gentler winter. They respectfully made room for her and Roselyn. From their awed looks she surmised many of them had heard Cairn’s story the night before. They treated her like a curiosity and though uncomfortable it was better than scorn for her English heritage.
The priest was a thin older man named Father Simon. Despite his small stature he was a gifted orator and possessed a powerful voice. He kept the congregation enthralled with his sonorous tones. Father Simon spoke of redemption of past sins and of hope for the future—subjects the McPhersons were sorely in need of.
He was old, perhaps old enough to be the confessor of Cairn’s grandfather. They approached him after the service for an introduction.
"You look like you haven’t been to confession in a while," said Father Simon with little preamble.
Verena smiled nervously and promised to come back soon. It would take hours to confess the sins of her shady past and she knew better than to trust anyone, even a priest, with the truth. Instead she would tell him the story Hadran concocted for her, perhaps embellished with a few more maidenly virtues. Though a part of her felt guilty for lying to a priest, that was a small sin compared to the others she had committed.
There was no time to question the priest about his knowledge of the Old Lord, but she now had an excuse for wandering about the village alone. Verena could say she was visiting Father Simon or Roselyn’s family.
The women made two other stops that day—one to greet a clanswoman named Abby and her adorable new babe and one more to see the blacksmith about new hinges for a castle door. Thanks to Roselyn’s friendly introductions much of the curiosity surrounding Verena began to fade. On their return to the castle several villagers waved cheerf
ully as they walked through the muddy streets. She decided she was well on her way to becoming ingratiated with the community.
"That was brilliant the way you handled Old Thomas," exclaimed Roselyn as they made their way back to the keep. Thomas was one of the McPherson clan elders. He was firmly set in his beliefs about Langthorne and anyone from there. To make matters worse he had lost a grandson during Cairn’s recent travels. Thomas had no intention of being courteous to Verena, even if she did save his laird’s life.
Encouraged by the reception she had received from the other villagers, she worked to conquer the old man’s prejudice. The others had overcome their distaste of her background and she was confident Thomas would too. Hadran told her often enough that there were many ways to get around a person; she just had to discover some common ground.
Inspiration struck as she saw the old carpet, frayed from years of use, covering the floor of his cottage. Though shabby and faded, it had once been a thing of beauty and looked incongruous in a peasant’s cottage. It must have come from the castle.
The dour old man’s expression instantly brightened when she asked of it. He explained it had been a gift from the old lord to Thomas’ father for years of service. From his confident look Verena knew this man took great pride in serving his laird.
Verena exploited that, telling Thomas his grandson had died bravely in service. Indeed, he sacrificed himself for Cairn. No elegy could have been more inspirational, not even the one Cairn had given Verena the night before. By the time she was finished old Thomas had tears streaming down his cheeks thinking of the glory of his family.
Somehow she had preserved his grandson’s memory—a man she had never met—and connected with a man that was certainly old enough to know about the treasure. Verena couldn’t help but think how proud Hadran would be of her progress.
Late that afternoon the ladies entered the castle through the large kitchen located just beside it. They had both built up ferocious appetites during the long day and hoped to sneak off with something before the evening meal. Roselyn made a half-hearted protest that it wasn’t proper for a lady to be wandering about in the servant’s areas, but she brushed that aside. She knew plenty of ladies who took very active roles in running their households, including cooking, cleaning and the often-dangerous chore of brewing, but it was obvious when she entered the kitchen that Ivone and her resident ladies didn’t share this belief.
The pandemonium of food preparation was immediately halted as the servants became aware of Verena and Roselyn hovering just inside the door. She had made too much progress in the village to become shy now. Resolutely she squared her shoulders and strolled into the kitchen as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"That smells delicious," she said to the rotund matron she assumed was the head cook. "Is that rosemary?"
The woman nodded her head nervously, but was obviously pleased by the compliment.
"It’s one of my favorite herbs, especially made into marmalade with honey."
The cook broke into a full grin as she accurately guessed her recipe. Verena returned the smile, remembering with nostalgia the glorious summer she had spent posing as a servant to the French Lord Charles de Ravenna’s head cook. Verena had gained at least 10 pounds that summer picking up the delicious leavings from his table and made off with his prized spice cabinet.
"Lady Verena," said Roselyn, enjoying her position as her guide. "Allow me to introduce you to Mistress Gertrude."
"I am delighted to make your acquaintance," she said respectfully. She knew from experience that it was always a good idea to make friends with the kitchen folk.
The leftovers from the previous night’s feast had been picked over by the castle staff, but Mistress Gertrude insisted on making something fresh for Verena and Roselyn. The ladies munched happily on the simple meal, sitting at one of the large kitchen tables and comparing recipes.
She found Gertrude to be a very able cook with the simple tools she was given, but strangely hostile to experimentation.
"Our haggis is better than anything some fancy French chef could throw together," she proudly argued with a hint of bitterness. Verena surmised she had disputed that point with Ivone on more than one occasion.
She nodded her head in agreement; nonetheless she found Gertrude listening raptly as Verena hypothesized a way to cheaply double the recipe’s yield. Thanks to that summer in France she knew how to stretch a meal and the simple tricks she explained to Gertrude instantly endeared her to the cook.
"Gertrude is never that nice to me," whispered Roselyn as they made their way up the castle steps.
"’Tis merely a matter of how people are approached," she replied, echoing one of Hadran’s favorite sayings. "That old, fancy rug looked conspicuous in Thomas’ cottage so I asked him about it. And as the head cook Gertrude would obviously be interested in discussing food so I used that to establish a connection between us."
"That sounds so methodical," said Roselyn, looking at Verena in surprise. She inwardly winced, wondering if she had said too much. Perhaps an innocent, young maid wouldn’t be so socially savvy.
"But it makes sense. You wouldn’t speak to Lady Ivone about your father’s indigestion."
Roselyn giggled, picturing that conversation.
"There is a great deal I wouldn’t dare discuss with her," she replied, conspiratorially.
Lady Ivone was twice a widow and the former ruler of the McPherson clan. She held herself apart from them, perhaps to reinforce her cloak of nobility. She was used to a certain amount of power and now with the death of her second husband she was forced to concede that power to her stepson. How did she feel about the change? As ruler of the clan Ivone would have been privy to her husband’s secrets. Perhaps she should question her about the treasure.
Throughout the day she had identified three individuals who might know something of the Old Lord’s treasure: Lady Ivone, Father Simon and Thomas. Until Verena was assured of their trust she would go slowly with the questioning to not arouse their suspicion.
First Verena would conduct a detailed search of the castle with special attention on the Old Lord’s chambers. When Cairn’s grandfather died his son shut up that wing of the castle. It seemed like the most promising place to begin her search.
"I’m glad his lordship brought you with him," said Roselyn impulsively.
Verena gave a bland smile before entering her chamber, surprised by the girl’s esteem. Roselyn wouldn’t feel the same when her work was done.
Chapter 20
The door creaked open and Verena’s hand reflexively reached for her hidden knife. She had long ago retired for the night, exhausted from the day’s exercise, but came instantly awake at the sound of her late night intruder.
"Milord?" she mumbled in the dark.
"You didn’t bolt the door," Cairn replied as he stalked toward the bed.
She knew he would come tonight, but could no more lock him out than stop her anxious heart from pounding in her chest. She waited in breathless anticipation as he slowly began to undress.
"Tell me to stop."
Verena dumbly shook her head. Cairn’s hand had reached below the blankets to caress her calf, working its sensual way up her leg.
"Tell me to leave."
"No."
"Why?"
His hand had reached the top of her inner thigh and paused there, waiting for her response.
"Because … because I want you, Cairn McPherson. It has nothing to do with fear or obligation. You are stronger and braver than any man I have ever known and I know I would have your protection regardless of my actions tonight."
Cairn smiled in the moonlight and for a moment the worry lines disappeared from his brow. His eyes communicated the hunger she had seen in the woods, but this time she returned his gaze with confidence. She reached up to trace the dimple on his cheek, running her fingers slowly over his chin, nose and lips. Before she could pull away Cairn’s hand cupped her chin, lifting her for a gen
tle kiss.
She gasped as Cairn began to gently massage her breasts. She cried out in pleasure as he used his thumb and forefinger to tease her nipples. There was no pretense or coyness in her response. All thoughts of Langthorne, Hadran and Owen were forgotten as she reveled in Cairn’s skillful touch.
He released one hand to slide across her stomach and touch the vee between her legs. She felt like a flower opening itself to his expert caress. As his fingers stroked her Cairn released her fragrant dew into the air.
In the midst of pleasure Hadran’s training came unbidden to her mind. Verena was supposed to be seducing Cairn, not the other way around. She reached for him, but her fingers were inexplicably clumsy. It was hard to concentrate with Cairn working his magic on her nether regions.
"Relax," he said softly, pleased by her reaction.
She sucked in a sharp breath watching Cairn reposition himself. His head was dropping lower, kissing a fiery trail across her bosom, down her stomach and lower. Surely he wouldn’t …? But Cairn’s mouth didn’t hesitate. She was puzzled by his tender attention. Where was the selfish noble? Where was the haughty upper-class disdain?
He was gentle at first, teasing Verena with a release that hovered just beyond her reach. But he soon grew bolder and more vigorous until the workings of his mouth were a sweet torture. She was calling his name, moaning and panting beneath the light of the full moon.
She buckled wildly, unaware of the sounds coming from her. She needed more, but didn’t know if it was possible to go higher than the heights of passion she was currently soaring. She was soon to find out that she could. Cairn lifted her knees and dipped his head again. Waves of passion rolled over her coaxed by the expert dance of Cairn’s tongue and lips.
Without removing his mouth Cairn began to massage her with his hand, penetrating and caressing her with his fingers and tongue. She clutched the covers, arching her back and pleading for another release. When it finally came her entire body vibrated, unconsciously tightening around Cairn’s fingers and holding him hostage within her.
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