“All right, Lachlann, you’ve caught me,” he said, spreading his hands. “I want to ride to Dunkeathe—but just to get a look at Lady Marianne. If I can find proof she’s being forced to marry, that’ll surely convince Father to go to the king. Father hates to see a woman being used against her will as much as I.”
Lachlann regarded Adair doubtfully. “How do you intend to get into the castle? You can’t ride up and announce your intentions to Sir Nicholas.”
“I’ll sneak in.”
“Let’s say you succeed in getting into the castle. How will you know what’s passing between the lady and her brother, or if she objects?”
“I’ll find out somehow.”
“Hamish Mac Glogan is rich and has influence with Alexander. Maybe she thinks those things outweigh Mac Glogan’s faults.”
“She’s not a gomeral, and only a gomeral would think anything outweighs that old villain’s faults.” Adair’s voice hardened, like his resolve the moment he’d decided what he had to do. “You aren’t going to try to stop me, are you, Lachlann?”
His brother shook his head. “Much as I’d like to, you’d only go another time. And as you say, if she’s being forced, that’s a good reason for our father to go to the king and try to stop the marriage. So perhaps there’s no harm in a wee visit to Dunkeathe—but you have to let me go, too. You need somebody with you who can keep a cool head.”
Adair realized he had little choice but to agree, or he would have to waste even more time arguing, and he’d wasted too much already. “Hurry up, then, and saddle your horse.”
Lachlann didn’t move. “Are you planning to go dressed like that? You’ll be a tad kenspeckle in your feileadh. Should you not make an effort at disguise?”
“Losh, you’re right,” Adair muttered, looking down at his clothes.
“I’ll fetch some other garments while you saddle my horse,” Lachlann said, turning to go.
Adair beat him to the door. He didn’t want to risk Lachlann revealing their intentions, if only by accident. “I’ll fetch the clothes.”
Lachlann raised a skeptical brow. “And what will you say you want them for?”
“What excuse will you be giving?” Adair countered.
“I’ll think of something, and I’m a better liar.”
That was true. Lachlann could lie as cool as you please. “Go, then, and be quick about it. I’ll have your horse ready by the time you get back. If you meet anyone, tell them we’re going to the south meadow.”
“Aye, I remember,” Lachlann said. His hand on the latch, he turned back and flashed a grin at his elder brother. “I’m no gomeral, either, Adair.”
“THERE’S OUR CHANCE,” Adair whispered as he peered out of an alley between a tavern and the village smithy outside the castle walls of Dunkeathe.
Coming from the nearby wood, a group of laborers walked past. They were carrying bundles of long poles, probably intended for scaffolding in the castle.
“We’ll get ourselves a bundle and walk in, easy as you please.”
Dressed like Adair in tunic, breeches and short cloak, with a hood pulled up over his head and his dirk hidden in his boot, Lachlann didn’t look convinced. “Will the guards not realize we’re—?”
“They’re not even looking at the poor sods. Keep your head bowed and look humble and they’ll take no notice, the arrogant oafs. Come on.”
Planning to circle around to the wood where they’d left their horses, Adair started back toward the other end of the alley. “Hurry up, Lachlann!”
Lachlann quickened his pace, and soon they reached the clearing where other laborers stacked the bundles and tied them with short pieces of rope.
Adair waited until a group of men returning from the castle drew near. Then he hurried out of the trees and took his place at the back of the line, Lachlann behind him.
With a grunt, he hoisted a bundle onto his shoulder. The sticks were heavier than they looked, or the laborers were stronger than he’d assumed. Regardless, he started to head to the castle, pausing for a moment to glance back at his brother.
Lachlann took two tries to get his bundle on his shoulder. When he finally did, he staggered under its weight, drawing the attention of the woodcutters.
Maybe this wasn’t such a clever plan after all.
“Too much ale this morning,” Lachlann slurred, belching, sounding so much like a Yorkshireman, Adair could scarcely believe his ears. “I hope that Norman pays well, or I’ve come a long way for nowt.”
The woodsmen laughed and went back to their work, leaving Lachlann to stumble on his way. Adair slowed his steps, letting the other men get farther ahead, and easing the pace for Lachlann.
“Where did you learn to talk like that?” Adair asked in a whisper when Lachlann caught up to him.
“Listening,” Lachlann replied, panting. “I pay attention to people, and not just the bonnie lasses.”
“You always were the watchful one. If your load’s too heavy for you, I’ll take it and go myself.”
“I’ll manage.”
“If you drop it, the guards might get curious,” Adair warned. “Unless you want to cause a stramash, set that bundle on my other shoulder, go to the tavern and wait for me there.”
“You can’t carry both.”
“I can. Do as I say. I won’t be long.”
Lachlann didn’t immediately agree.
“If I’m not able to see her, you might hear news of her in the tavern.”
Lachlann sighed, then hefted his bundle onto Adair’s other shoulder. It took a moment for Adair to get the balance right, but once he did, he was satisfied he’d make it into the castle’s courtyard without arousing suspicion or undue attention. “Wait until the sun’s about a foot above the castle walls. If I’m not back by then, head for the horses. If I’m not there, go home and tell Father he may have to come and get me out of Sir Nicholas’s dungeon.”
“Losh, Adair, be careful, or there’ll be hell to pay, and from more than Father.”
“I’ll be as careful as can be, and I’d forswear my loyalty to our clan before I let any Norman catch me. Now go. These bundles are heavy.”
“Gur math a thèid leibh,” Lachlann said before he hurried away.
“Aye, I may have need of luck,” Adair muttered under his breath as he continued on his way, quickening his pace to catch up to the last of the laborers. Silently cursing his damn hood, for sweat was dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, he was still about twenty paces behind the rest when he reached the castle gates.
He kept his head down as he passed the guards.
“There’s a strong one, to carry two,” one of them said, laughing. “Where’re you from?”
“York,” Adair grunted, in what he hoped was a passable imitation of the accent, although he didn’t sound nearly as convincing as Lachlann.
“Those Yorkshiremen are built like oxen,” another guard remarked. “That’s why they’re so good at hauling.”
For a moment, Adair felt a kinship with the common folk of Yorkshire. But he didn’t want to make himself any more noticeable, so he continued to follow the laborers until he reached a portion of the wall that was far from completed. The others had put their bundles there and turned back toward the gate.
So did Adair, but instead of returning with the others, he ducked into the alley between the well-remembered mason’s hut and the storehouse.
His gaze scanned the courtyard. There was no sign of Lady Marianne, but it wasn’t likely she’d be strolling about the bustling yard full of masons, laborers and servants like a lady in a garden. She was probably in the hall.
Adair scanned the yard again, looking for something he could carry into the hall the same way he had carried the wood into the yard.
There might be such a thing in the storehouse beside him. Aware of the guards and workmen in the vicinity, he strode toward the door of the small building as if not engaged in anything secretive. He put his hand on the latch, hoping it wasn’t loc
ked during the day.
It wasn’t, and he quickly slipped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized why the hut wasn’t locked.
There wasn’t any food in here, or drink. It contained a huge pile of sand, for the mortar, no doubt.
They could make a lot of mortar with that much sand.
Letting out his breath slowly, disappointed in his quest, he wondered why the sand smelled as it did.
Then he realized it wasn’t the sand. There were bunches of plants hanging down from the rafters—fleabane and rosemary, to be sprinkled on the rushes that covered the hall floors.
He turned and spotted a pile of rushes in the corner behind the door, perhaps excess from the last time they were swept and replaced.
He had his excuse.
TRYING NOT TO PAY any attention to the huge German mercenary leaning against the wall five feet away, Marianne sat in her brother’s hall with her embroidery, a small table bearing a silver carafe of wine and a goblet at her elbow. Polly was seated on a stool across from her, threading the needles with brightly colored woolen strands.
Polly wasn’t even trying to ignore the German. She kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at Herman, who was over six feet tall, with a hideous scar down the left side of his face. It was as if his skin had been wet clay and someone had scraped their fingers from his eye socket to his chin.
“Heavens above, my lady,” Polly murmured in Saxon. “Ain’t he a horror?”
“He’s supposed to protect me,” Marianne replied, her mastery of Saxon basic at best as she gave Polly the explanation Nicholas had given her shortly after the Scots led by Seamus Mac Taran had departed.
She’d been afraid he’d discovered that she’d been out in the yard at night, but Nicholas had said nothing about it.
Perhaps Nicholas wisely feared she’d try to flee before the wedding, even if he didn’t know she’d made one attempt already, and this German was his means of assuring she would be here when Hamish Mac Glogan came to claim her.
How little Nicholas knew her! It would take more than a guard to dissuade her from escaping, if a marriage against her will was the alternative. She was just as determined as ever to get away, and no unsympathetic brother, or apparently sympathetic Scotsman—even one who’d kissed with such passion and who’d haunted her dreams every night—was going to stop her. Unfortunately, time was running out, and it was but two days before she was to be wed.
She’d considered trying to speak to the priest Nicholas had sent for before the ceremony, to tell him that she was being made to marry, but Nicholas would probably make that impossible.
The only other plan she’d come up with was to feign illness on her wedding day. Yet Nicholas might suspect her of trickery, and insist she attend nonetheless.
Polly shifted nervously. “He looks like something straight from hell.”
Marianne couldn’t disagree with that. “Pour me some wine, will you, Polly? It’s warm today.”
Indeed, it was warm enough to make her think this terrible country might actually have a summer, after all.
Polly set down her work and did as Marianne asked. As she handed the goblet to Marianne, Herman suddenly moved, bending down to pat the head of an inquisitive, and very ugly, brown boar hound that was sniffing the fur wrapped about the German’s stocky legs.
Polly started with a jerk, sending wine slopping over the edge of the goblet and onto Marianne’s embroidery.
“Oh, no!” she cried, immediately setting down the wine and starting to mop the spill with the edge of her sleeve. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve ruined it! I’m so sorry, my lady!”
“It’s all right,” Marianne hastened to assure her. “You only got a little on the corner.”
Polly didn’t seem to hear, either because she was too upset, or because of the noise of the workmen outside. They must be doing something on the wall behind the hall, perhaps finishing the merlons.
“It’s nothing to be so upset about. Truly,” Marianne said soothingly. She slid a glance at the hulking German, who was still petting the dog and muttering in his native language. “He scares me, too.”
The young woman stopped dabbing, raised her red-rimmed eyes and sniffled. “You aren’t angry with me, my lady?”
Marianne shook her head and gave Polly a conspiratorial smile. “Once, before I came here, I spilled a whole…” She searched for the right word. “Bucket? No, carafe,” she amended. “I spilled a whole carafe of wine on the Reverend Mother’s head.”
Polly stared, her mouth an astonished O.
Marianne nodded and leaned back in her chair. “I did,” she confirmed. “The Reverend Mother was very angry. She said I must have been sent by the devil to trouble her, and if I didn’t want to burn in hell, I had to pray for forgiveness twice a day and…”
Again she searched her memory for a word. Not finding it, she acted out dipping a cloth and moving it in a circle.
“Scrub?” Polly offered.
“Yes, that’s it!” Marianne cried. “Scrub all the floors for a week.”
Polly’s eyes grew round as wheels. “You never had to wash floors!”
“I did,” Marianne confirmed. “So what is a little wine on my sewing? It isn’t very good anyway.” She studied the stain that was about the size of a coin. “That might even make it look better.”
Polly smiled tremulously. “I think you sew very well, my lady. And the colors are very pretty, the red especially. It’s as bright as holly berries.”
Marianne knew flattery when she heard it.
She didn’t sew well because she hated it. She’d only started this because she wanted some excuse to talk to Polly, for a servant knew many things about the running of the household, such as who would be where, when. Polly was also familiar with the countryside and the people who lived outside the castle, as well as the roads leading away from Beauxville.
As Marianne went back to working on her ugly embroidery that looked like miscellaneous blobs of color linked by green strings instead of intertwined roses and vines, two male servants came into the hall and set new torches in the sconces in the wall. A middle-aged serving woman swept out the hearth, leaving some coals at one side to kindle the fire anew in the evening.
Out of the corner of her eye, Marianne caught a movement to her right. Another servant laying rushes.
Whatever for? They’d just been changed yesterday.
There was something odd about that man….
Marianne stiffened and her hand went instinctively to her lips as the memory of the Scot’s kiss returned full force.
What in the name of the saints was he doing here? And he had to be up to no good—again—to come in disguise. She should call out the guards or summon Herman.
Yet if she did and the Scot was imprisoned, who knew what he might say to Nicholas? He might reveal that she’d been alone with him. Then Nicholas would surely lock her in her chamber until the wedding, with Herman to guard the door. She’d have absolutely no chance of escape.
She had to get that Scot away from here before anybody realized who he was.
She hastily slipped her needle through her linen and addressed Polly, doing her best to sound as if everything were perfectly normal and there was no need for alarm. “I think I’ve had enough sewing for today. Please go to the laundry and see if my shifts are dry.”
Polly rose, reaching for the tray bearing the wine. “Yes, my lady.” She sighed. “I wish you weren’t leaving here so soon. Only two more days, and you’ll be off to Menteith.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Polly,” Marianne truthfully replied. “Now hurry along. I really ought to begin packing. Oh, and see if there’s some extra linen to line the chest, please.”
“Yes, my lady,” Polly replied before scurrying away.
When she was out of sight, Marianne got to her feet. “You there, with the rushes,” she called out. “Come here.”
CHAPTER FIVE
AT MARIANNE’S SUMMONS, the Scot slowly stra
ightened. “Yes, my lady,” he said humbly, and in a broad Yorkshire accent.
As he walked toward her, she couldn’t understand how he’d tricked the guards at the gate. It should have been obvious this man was no peasant, and not only because of his powerful build. He had the same warrior’s walk as her brother, a rolling gait of unexpected and lithe grace.
When the Scot came to a halt in front of her, she gestured at her embroidery frame.
“Pick that up and come with me,” she commanded, lifting her wooden sewing box. She started toward the curved staircase that led to the bedchambers, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the Scot followed her.
Herman pushed himself off the wall, lumbering after them like a bear just waking from the winter. As always, though, the German halted at the foot of the stairs. Her brother’s bedchamber was between hers and the hall, so Herman went no further during the day or the night. The only other entrance to the apartments was at the opposite end of the upper corridor and led to the courtyard. It was always guarded by two men, and had been since her arrival there, lest somebody slip in from the yard and gain entry to the hall, or assassinate her brother in his bed.
“So, he’s set his hound to watch you,” the Scot said softly in French as he followed her up the stairs. “Does he know about the other—?”
“No. You have nothing to fear about that.”
“The only thing I feared is that he’d discovered our meeting and taken his anger out on you. I’ve come back to make sure you’re not suffering for that. Or anything else.”
“I’m quite well.”
“That’s not what I meant. Is he trying to force you to marry against your will? Is that why you were running away when I met you in the courtyard?”
Her heart did an odd little twist. He sounded so sincerely worried. Yet it was impossible that this man, this foreigner, this barbarian who barely knew her, could be concerned about her fate. It was much more likely he’d come back to the castle for other, more devious reasons. “Nicholas isn’t the fiend you seem to think he is.”
Bride of Lochbarr Page 6