The Laird

by Sandy Blair

  Angus dropped his voice to a whisper. “‘Tis the Bruce. We need speak of in private.”

  Duncan, irked by life’s timing, nodded. He would just have to speak with Beth after discovering what his enemy planned.

  ~#~

  God, if you don’t get me out of this time warp soon I’m going to kill him.

  Of all the woman in the keep, why Flora? Why not someone with a sweet disposition, some widow with six children she couldn’t hate so much? But no. Instead, “plain-as-pudding Pudding” has to find her man in the arms of a woman with a snide attitude, a supermodel face and great boobs. And lest we forget, one who also speaks fluent French. Talk about finding oneself on the short end of life’s equation! She mopped away her tears with her palms.

  Enough!

  She’d done nothing but cry herself sick for two solid hours. She’d been foolish to think she could have life otherwise. And worse than foolish for letting her guard down while in Duncan’s arms last night. She’d acted stupid, pushing aside the harsh lessons she’d learned growing up as she was shuffled from one disastrous situation to another. “Lesson Number One,” she muttered, “Love is beyond your grasp. Lesson Two; nowhere is it written that you’re guaranteed fairness. And Three; there’s only right and wrong.”

  And Duncan was, by God, in the wrong.

  At the windows she hiccupped, sniffed and studied the activity in the bailey and across the bay in Drasmoor. All of it—-the keep, the castle, even the village—-belonged to her by marriage and by law, both in this time and in her own. Amazing. Dashing the tears from her cheeks, she marveled at how life went on all around her, without her, while she huddled above it all.

  Get a grip on your heart and pride, girl. Nobody has or ever will give a damn whether you’re happy or not.

  She heaved a sigh. She couldn’t continue to lick her wounds in the solar. If the fates had decided she was to remain here indefinitely, then for her sanity’s sake things had to change. For starters, she would not live in a pig’s sty.

  Marshalling her pride and installing what she hoped was now an impregnable shield about her battered heart, she straightened. Though her body felt like she’d gone three rounds with a prizefighter thanks to the abuses she’d suffered at Duncan’s hand and the battering she’d taken by the waves, she rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath. None of that matter.

  The only thing mattered. She, by marriage and heredity, was the lady of the keep-—the mistress of Castle Blackstone--and it was about time she let everyone know it. It was time to kick ass and take names.

  Chapter 15

  Margaret Silverstein kept one eye on the parlor’s wall clock timing her contractions and the other on her anxious husband as he paced before her with Lady Beth’s diary clutched in his hand.

  Fretting day and night, Tom hadn’t eaten or slept since Lady Beth’s disappearance. And daily he went to the castle and called to the ghost. He’d tried everything he could think of from bring a telly over and turning it up full blast to leaving a letter stating the Blackstone estate was bankrupt in his effort to get a response—-even a furious one—-from their laird and still Tom could find no evidence of their ghost about the keep.

  “I’ve a bad feeling, Margaret. Lady Beth is ill-prepared for what she’s facing.”

  “I dinna agree.” Margaret wiped a damp curl from her brow, the day’s unusual heat and humidity making her even more uncomfortable. “She’s a survivor.”

  “Did ye not read this?” Tom slapped the fabric-covered journal he’d found under her pillow as he continued wearing a trench in their carpet. “She poured out her heart in this book, laid her soul bare. She’s never been loved and craves it desperately. To make matters more worrisome, she’s lived a pampered life, even by our standards, never mind the Black’s.” He stopped before her. “Ye were not there. Ye dinna hear her going on about the blasted water heater, for heaven sake! What will she do having no plumbing and no knowing the language as the MacDougall rails?”

  “No doubt, ignore him.” Margaret shook her head at her husband. She was worried, too, but for an altogether different reason. Having spent time with Lady Beth and having read the diary, she’d come away with a totally different picture of Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding.

  Sure, Lady Beth craved a man’s love and attention as any healthy woman might, but Beth wasn’t one of those foolish women dependent on a man’s opinion to feel good about herself. She was tough, had never allowed herself to be vulnerable simply because she wanted love.

  “Tom, dear, ye’re fashing is understandable, but ye forget that she made a comfortable life for herself without anyone’s help. And she’s brave.”

  Beth had stood up on more than one occasion for co-workers when she felt they were being treated unfairly at the risk of her own job security, and she’d thwarted a mugger. In a verra unorthodox manner by kicking him in the jewels then vomiting on him, but she’d done it.

  Aye, if anyone could get his lordship’s undivided attention it was Lady Beth, which was precisely where Margaret’s worry lay.

  Margaret kenned Tom didn’t agree but she believed Lady Beth would try to hold her own against their laird. As Tom continued his fretful pacing, Margaret shifted and tried to get comfortable. She glanced at the clock as another contraction started. With a mixture of excitement and dread, she decided they were definitely coming closer together.

  “Tom, how will we know if all has gone well?”

  “Perhaps...” He stopped and grinned for the first time in days. “I’ve got to go to the castle.” He raced to the hall and slapped on his hat. As he shoved an arm into his coat, he said, “I must get his diary, the original one.”

  “Tom, stop.” Margaret grimaced as she levered her ponderous body into a standing position. As she did, a puddle of amniotic fluid formed at her feet. “Yer babe has finally decided it’s time, dearest. Our laird’s diary will have to wait.”

  Chapter 16

  Dressed in jeans and armed with the poor excuse for a broom that she’d found in the kitchen, Beth chased two mangy dogs, three children, and the idle priest out of the hall. She didn’t care if they all thought her crazed. They’d just have to live with it because the hall was in for an overhaul.

  She swept rushes from one corner and started stacking the long benches in it. As she started dragging one of the many long tables toward the corner, Rachael appeared at her elbow.

  “My lady, there’s nay reason to strain.” Within minutes, Rachael had summoned half a dozen women to help. Much to Beth’s surprise they all smiled at her now and appeared more than willing to do her bidding.

  As they grabbed opposite ends of one trestle table, Rachael whispered, “Did his apology meet yer esperances—-yer hopes?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him, Rachael. If the man dies of a heart attack, I don’t want to hear about it. Leastwise, not until after the funeral.” She’d given Duncan Angus MacDougall as much thought as she was ever going to expend on him.

  “Heart ah tak?”

  Beth rolled her eyes and clutched her chest as she pantomimed a heart seizure.

  “Ah, oui. “ Frowning, Rachael muttered something in French before adding, “As ye luste, mon ami.”

  Thankful her friend let the subject of her wayward husband drop, Beth said, “After we get all the furniture moved, I want the room swept clean. I don’t want to see so much as a crumb on the floor.” She wanted to see the wide-plank flooring gleam.

  “Of course.” Rachael issued rapid instructions in Gael to four of the women and within minutes everyone was amiably chatting as they swept the rushes out the door and down the winding stairwell to the bailey. While one woman went for fresh rushes and Rachael dug around in the west wing for lavender and whatever herbs she could gather, Beth scrubbed everything made of wood. As she labored, she hoped the caustic lye soap did as much damage to germs as it was doing to her hands. If so, she’d be making headway.

  With most of the tables scrubbed, Beth found
Kari at her side.

  “Please, to help ye, my lady?”

  Beth nodded. “Aye, ye may.” She pointed to the soot-coated fireplace on the east-facing wall. “I think the stone work used to be cream-colored, or at the least beige.” In her time the fireplaces had elaborate white marble facades, but not so in Duncan’s. He had built them of etched sandstone with broad mantels. From his diary, Beth knew the keep to be ten years old. How the fireplace facades had become so disgusting in so short a time, she couldn’t fathom unless the chimneys needed cleaning. If so, she could address it later. Right now, she just wanted to dine in a clean room.

  “Can you take a scrub brush to them and find out?” When Kari only smiled then shrugged, Beth had to wait until Rachael returned to translate. Once Kari understood what was being asked of her, Beth set Rachael to rearranging the tables.

  “But the rushes, madame. They are not yet spread...down.”

  “We’re not putting them down Rachael. We’re putting them up.”

  Rachael’s sable, almond-shaped eyes grew round as quarters. “Pardon, madame?”

  “You’ll see in a bit. Just get the tables aligned like so...”

  As they labored, Beth thanked God Miss I’m Too Sexy Flora never showed. Had she the nerve, Beth would have set her to cleaning the chimney flues. With a short-handled broom.

  Three hours later her helpers stood looking about with mouths agape, then slowly, one by one, they all started to smile. Beth, admiring their labor, smiled for the first time in hours, too.

  She congratulated them, and then asked, “Are the fresh rushes on the lowest level and the sign nailed to the door?”

  Rachael translated and Kari grinned. “‘Aye, my lady.”

  “And the dogs—-lymers--are washed?” They nodded again. “Great. Now to the kitchen.”

  ~#~

  Duncan’s stomach growled and his eyes burned. Isaac and Angus had been sequestered with him for what felt like a lifetime, as they sorted out their dilemma.

  Albany had ordered the clan leaders to pair up in teams of two for the first rounds of the tournament. He paired them not friend with friend but foe with foe in an effort to keep the peace, teaming Duncan with the Bruce, which to Duncan’s mind just tempted fate. He still wanted the man dead.

  “So ‘tis agreed,” Duncan said, coming to his feet. “We’ll invite the Bruce and a limited contingent here.” It bothered him that his holding and table were not as impressive as the Bruce’s but Blackstone offered security. “Over mead we can work out our difficulties. He’ll no doubt want to ride first in all events, which I will agree to, as a condition to Isaac holding the purses. I want separate stabling and guards for my warhorses. I do not trust the man not to slip something to mine should we win the first rounds and need ride against each other for the gold cup.”

  “It’s as sound a plan as any,” Angus agreed after he’d spent the last hour inventing what-if situations they might have to counteract.

  Isaac yawned. “My lord, I’m starving and ‘tis past the time for clear thought. If ye don’t mind, I’ll like to see my wife and then my bed.”

  Ack! My ladywife.

  The last time Duncan had excused himself to seek out Beth, he’d been met with blatant hostility as she bustled about. When he’d asked for her time, she’d glared and closed all but her middle finger into a fist in answer. Stunned, he’d laughed. Victorious Sassenach archers used the same obscene gesture when confronting the French, men fond of cutting the third finger from captured enemy archers so they couldn’t fire a crossbow ever again.

  Tired now, he had no desire to try broaching Beth’s defenses yet again, but try he must. He’d been in the wrong.

  At the keep’s second level, Sean MacDonnell of Keppoch, now married to Duncan’s cousin, halted him.

  “My liege, I’ve just returned from purchasing the iron in Oban and have news.”

  “Aye?”

  Sean shifted his weight nervously. “I’ve no fondness for carrying tales but...” He looked about and behind then lowered his voice. “I met a man there who, being in his cups and quite sotted, boasted of a relationship with a woman of our sept. He described her and she cannot be any other than Flora.”

  “Then ‘tis good.” The thought of marrying his sister-by-marriage off made him grin.

  “Nay, my lord, ye do not understand. The man is a Munro now attached to the Bruce clan.”

  Duncan frowned. “The Bruce’s?”

  “Aye, and he’s not inclined toward handfasting or marriage. He’s a tinker, my lord, someone beneath her aspirations. I did not have a good feelin’ just from his manner, my lord, so I bring it to ye attention.”

  “Thank ye, Sean.” Flora, being a Campbell and in his household, had nay reason for meeting a man of the Bruce’s.

  None.

  As they continued down the stairs, Duncan murmured, “Angus, set a man to watch her. I want to know where and when she meets this man again.”

  “Aye, but mayhap Rachael...?”

  “’Twould be better, less conspicuous,” Isaac agreed. “I’ll bring it to my ladywife’s attention.”

  Duncan nodded as he came to full stop just steps inside the hall. Angus, paying no heed, ran into his back.

  “What in all that’s holy...?” Duncan asked no one in particular. His advisors stepped around him.

  Angus started to laugh. “Appears yer ladywife took it into her head to civilize us.”

  The great hall, normally just a clutter of chairs, tables, and benches scattered over rushes, had been swept clean to the wood and divided across the middle by a pair of waist high, open chests, their shelves still full of books from the library. The end of the hall in which Duncan stood held a long dais with a head table before the fireplace. All the other tables were arranged in neat rows, separated by a center aisle. Each table was adorned with wild flowers, two large wooden bowls, candles, and odd white fabric cones. Mouth agape, he stared at the opposite end of the hall to where chairs had been arranged in a circle before the fireplace. More seating--a half dozen benches-- were positioned against the back of the book chests. One of the two colorful rugs he’d brought back from the Holy Lands now lay before the sitting area’s fireplace while the second hung in the center of the north wall. Two tapestries he’d brought back from France as prizes—and which he’d totally forgotten about--now hung on either side of the hanging carpet.

  On either end of the mantles and sideboards sat large pewter pitchers filled with tall reeds and lavender. His coat of Arms, its bent armored right arm holding a cross-crosslet with the motto Vincere et morri—-”To win or die”--lounged not in a corner of the solar where he’d dropped it, but now hung above the dining end’s mantle. Above the opposite fireplace hung his best shield, it’s bright fields of red and gold announcing by candlelight his lineage and relationship to the King to one and all. Two of his best pennants hung on either side of the windows on the south wall, opposite the Persian rug.

  “Merciful Mother, is there naught of mine she hasna plundered?”

  Isaac, looking about wide-eyed, mumbled, “I dinna think so.” He pointed to his left. “There be yer heavy armor. Apparently, she couldna get yer new chain mail to stand on its own.”

  Angus grinned. “What say ye, Duncan? Yer best lance in his hand is a nice touch, nay?” He lifted the helmet’s face guard and laughed. “‘Tis full of straw.”

  Duncan, on the verge of bellowing for his wife, snapped his jaws closed when the bailey bell suddenly rang and people started marching up the stairs and into the great hall. The men, uncharacteristically mute, took their places at the tables while the women chatted in animated fashion and settle the bairn, who, wide-eyed, spun and excitedly extolled on all the changes Beth had wrought.

  He silently took his seat at the center of the head table after checking to be sure nothing sharp lay on the seat. Angus, still grinning like an idiot, sat to his right, and Isaac took the seat to Angus’s right.

  “Why are the men so quiet?�
�� Isaac whispered.

  “I don’t understand any of this, friend.” Duncan examined the pot of heather before him, and hoped his wife would make an appearance soon. He wanted an explanation.

  “What are the bowls for?” Angus asked as he peeked under the white cone.

  Duncan shrugged his good shoulder as three women marched in, carrying dozens of tankards. He sighed in relief as Beth followed, carrying a large flagon of ale. She whispered something to one of the women as she handed off the flagon, and then exited before he could get her attention.

  As a lass filled his tankard, he asked, “What say my lady to ye?”

  “Lady Beth cautioned that I should serve from the left, lest I be fond of scrubbing possets for a fortnight, my lord.”

  Having no idea why serving to the left held importance, or why posset scrubbing would be just punishment should the lass not, he said, “Ah.”

  The ale served, more women placed baskets of bread at each table as others arrived with platters of roasted venison, fish, eggs, and with what appeared to be weeds. Beth returned and stood by the door watching the proceedings as more women followed with bowls of sauce. When all met with her approval, the women took their seats, and Beth came to sit on his left.

  All eyes were upon them as he pulled out her chair. “Good eve, my lady.”

  She said not a word, only lifted a brow when Flora glided into the room and took a seat in the first row, directly before them.

  Beth picked up her white cone, made a show of flapping it out before placing it in her lap. The women mimicked her actions. The men, frowning, followed suit. Not a one, apparently, was of a mind to garner his ladywife’s or his own wife’s disapproval.

  As Rachael served Isaac, Beth ground out between clenched teeth, “May I serve you, my lord?”

  Cautioned by the fierce glint of steel in her eyes, he said, “Thank ye. All smells verra good, my lady.” When the corner of her mouth twitched, he added, “Appears verra good, as well.” Her gaze slid to his lips, but she remained mute as she slung food into his wooden trencher. He scowled when she placed the weeds in it.