A Highlander's Temptation

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Soon all would be well with them.

  Just not for her.

  And that was another reason for her tears. She knew he didn’t mean to hurt her, but she wished the young chief hadn’t mentioned her father and Scalloway. He’d been right. Her longing for both was why she’d chosen the north window to make her marks.

  And unlike the young couple she knew would soon find such bliss, she could never return to Shetland.

  Not even if she knew how to do so.

  Her father would shun her if she did.

  And that broke her heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Castle Bane was absolutely quiet when Arabella awoke on the morning of Geordie Dhu’s final day of sea prophesying. For nearly a sennight, the magnificent-bearded cook and self-proclaimed storm wizard had sought and studied a variety of weather omens. Now, on this bitter cold morn, he’d vowed to make his final assessment as to whether the morrow would prove a propitious day for a sea journey to Olaf Big Nose’s neighboring isle.

  An air of excitement had been building all week and now, seized by the sense of festive anticipation, everyone had risen early to hasten down to the boat strand to hear Geordie Dhu’s prediction.

  Everyone, that is, except Arabella.

  Her blood, too, raced with exhilaration. But it wasn’t Geordie Dhu’s ability to read the sea that saw her in such high spirits.

  It was the castle’s stillness.

  She’d been waiting for such a moment and now that it was here, she just hoped that nothing would happen to spoil it for her. Half fearing something would, she kept one ear trained on the silence as she rushed through her morning ablutions. Moraig had kindly given her a generous supply of her special gillyflower soap and Arabella now dipped her fingers in the round little jar and hurried to finish washing before ice formed on the water in her basin.

  She hadn’t felt such cold since arriving at Castle Bane.

  Shivering, she dried as quickly as she could. She combed and braided her hair even faster. Satisfied, she grabbed one of her newly sewn table linen gowns and practically leapt into it. For good measure, she swirled Darroc’s plaid around her shoulders, securing its voluminous folds with Moraig’s borrowed silver brooch.

  Then she stood still and listened.

  Nothing stirred.

  Outside, a weak sun was just rising, while a sharp wind heralded more cold yet to come. At some point before daybreak, someone had crept into the room and lit two of the hanging crusie lamps. These flickered softly, filling the air with a tinge of smoky fish oil. Several new bricks of peat smoldered in the grate, that earthy sweet smell much more pleasing than the slightly rank odor of fish oil.

  Arabella angled her head, straining to catch any other noises. She heard only the rustle of the floor rushes when she shifted her feet. Except for the hiss of the crusies and the occasional popping of a peat brick, all was quiet.

  Most importantly, none of the usual morning commotion rose up from the hall. Nor were there any footsteps outside her door or in the stair tower.

  It was time.

  Heart thumping, she flashed one last glance around the room just to be sure she hadn’t missed anyone’s silent presence. Then she went purposely to the bed and slid questing fingers beneath the mattress, quickly withdrawing two neatly stitched drawstring pouches.

  Her knees could have jellied as soon as she clutched them in her hands. It wasn’t every day, after all, that she sewed things meant to hold pilfered goods. But she steeled herself against any twinges of guilt and shoved the pouches into a fold of her borrowed plaid.

  Then she took a deep breath and slipped from the room.

  She reached Castle Bane’s kitchens without incident and with great speed, considering. But she hesitated on the threshold to Geordie Dhu’s sacred domain. She’d never stolen anything in her life and she prayed her reasons justified doing so now.

  She needed grain and honey for the Seal Isles’ Giving Stone.

  Hopefully she’d be able to procure a skin of the required fresh milk from one of the women at Olaf Big Nose’s settlement.

  For now…

  She eased the two linen pouches out of her plaid and stepped into the huge vaulted kitchens. The smell of wood smoke lay heavy on the chill air, as did lingering traces of last night’s roasted meats. Her mouth watered and her empty stomach gurgled loudly, but she couldn’t allow time to look for a spare morsel to eat.

  With Geordie Dhu down on the boat strand, the kitchens lay in deep shadow. Across the vast space, two double-arched fireplaces took up nearly one entire wall. Wood embers glowed there, the cook fires smoored but not yet burning. And no one had bothered to light any of the wall torches.

  Even squinting, she could hardly see in the gloom.

  She pushed her braids over her shoulders, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The last thing she needed was to collide with some massive oaken table or whatnot and hurt her still recovering leg. Such would be a fitting penance for dipping into Geordie Dhu’s precious stores.

  So she moved forward carefully, taking light steps on the kitchen’s cold stone-flagged floor. She managed only a few paces before almost bumping into an iron-bound strongbox. The chest, secured with a heavy lock, surely held Geordie Dhu’s spices or perhaps the keep’s supply of beeswax and tapers. Ignoring the chest, she skirted several wicker creels brimming with onions and dried wild carrots, the pungent smell making her nose wrinkle.

  She didn’t care about vegetables.

  What she wanted was to find the larders.

  If Geordie Dhu’s kitchens were anything like those at Eilean Creag, there’d be a walk-through somewhere. A corridor flanked with storerooms and butteries that linked the work areas with the great hall.

  She bit her lip and looked around, straining to see in the dimness.

  Thanks to her mother’s insistence that she learn every nuance of running a large household—including the toil of the kitchens—she quickly found the narrow stone-walled passage she needed.

  She paused at its entrance to glance over her shoulder, then tried the first door on her right. It opened easily, so she nipped inside, wishing she’d dared to carry a hand torch as the icy cold larder proved darker than pitch. But as soon as she took a deep breath, she could have wept with relief. For once, the gods were kind.

  The sweet, rich scent of heather honey flooded the tiny room.

  Shivering with cold and nerves, she felt along the chilly stone wall until her fingers reached the edge of shelving. Rows and rows of shelves lined with earthenware jars in every imaginable size.

  They could only be filled with honey.

  Conall had praised the quality of the isle’s honey more than once when he’d delivered her dinner trays. Even so, she took one of the smaller jars, carefully pulled its waxed stopper, and sniffed.

  Honey indeed.

  Almost giddy with victory, she dropped the jar into one of her linen pouches and returned to the main area of the kitchens. Now she needed to find the meal kist, which could also be a barrel of oats, depending on how Geordie Dhu preferred to keep his stores.

  Unfortunately the first barrel she peeked into held salted herring. She blinked against the stink of brine and stepped back only to stumble over a large stone quern and its protruding wooden handle.

  “Gah!” She reeled and slammed into a cupboard, sending what sounded like an entire garrison of hornware clattering to the floor.

  Ramshorn spoons and dippers slid in every direction across the stone flagging.

  The noise was deafening.

  But the silence that followed was worse.

  Arabella couldn’t breathe.

  Her heart plummeted to her toes.

  Any moment she’d be found out. The keep might be empty, but at the moment, she was sure she felt a thousand eyes staring at her. She wanted to turn and flee, but she couldn’t leave without filling her second pouch with grain.

  So she ignored the terror beating through her and hurriedly gathered up as many of the fal
len spoons and dippers that she could. As to the rest of them, the ones that had skittered away to who knew where, she could only hope Geordie Dhu would assume one of his kitchen cats knocked down the utensils during an early morning prowl.

  It was possible.

  All castle kitchens had cats, even if she hadn’t seen a one of them.

  Feeling somewhat better—now that no one had appeared to see what caused the din—she peered through the shadows, searching for a likely repository for Geordie Dhu’s stores of grain.

  Fortune blessed her again.

  An oat barrel stood in a dark niche just to the right of one of the massive fireplaces on the far wall. She knew the barrel contained oats this time because it was topped with a large baking board. A second baking board stood propped against the barrel’s side.

  Success at last!

  Emboldened, she hurried over to the oat barrel and lifted its baking board lid. In addition to oats, a wooden dipping spoon winked up at her from within the barrel’s grainy depths.

  The gods truly were on her side.

  Sure of it, she shook out her spare pouch and reached for the dipper, preparing to fill her sack with oats.

  It was then that she heard a shuffling sound.

  Arabella froze.

  Her hand was deep inside the oat barrel, but she didn’t dare move. She wished she could press her fingers to her temples for her head suddenly pounded with a vengeance. Her stomach lurched and her chilled fingers clenched around the long handle of the dipper.

  Slowly, very slowly, the intense silence reassured her.

  She was indeed alone.

  Feeling foolish, she scooped up a large dipperful of oats and poured them into her pouch. She helped herself to a second scoop and a third, certain the Giving Stone would appreciate a generous offering.

  Not that she truly believed the like.

  But if she meant to bend her knees at some long-dead hermit’s cell, she might as well attempt to plead her wishes to the Auld Ones.

  She was desperate.

  And it couldn’t hurt to appease the gods of both worlds.

  At best, the seabirds and island creatures would thank her for her gifts.

  So she dropped the dipping spoon back into the oat barrel and carefully tied the drawstring of her pouch. Then she lifted the baking board lid back into place, only now noticing how easy it was to see where to fit the board securely across the top of the barrel.

  A circle of flickering torchlight illuminated the barrel and the wall behind it. The blaze also shone on her, its heat warming her back and—dear saints—catching her out in all her thieving glory.

  “O-o-oh, no!” She wheeled around, managing to hold onto her bag of oats, but dropping the jar of honey.

  It landed on the floor with a loud crack, splitting into two perfect halves. The honey oozed out to spread across the stone flagging, stopping just short of a pair of small black boots, scuffed and well-worn.

  “What be you doing, lassie?” Moraig held the hand torch higher. Her eyes glittered in the smoking light.

  Arabella couldn’t speak. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth and she was almost sure it would remain there forever.

  She wanted to sink through the floor.

  Mad Moraig hobbled around her and thrust her torch into an iron bracket on the wall. Turning back to Arabella, she dusted her hands and then set them against her narrow hips.

  “If you had a need o’ oats and honey, I’d have told Conall to fetch you some.” She angled her gray head, peering at Arabella with bright, all-seeing eyes. “You need only to have asked.”

  “I couldn’t.” Arabella found her voice at last. It sounded rusty, mortified. “I—… I didn’t want anyone to know I desired them. They’re for my ablutions.”

  The excuse turned her cheeks crimson.

  “Eh?” Moraig lifted a scraggly brow. “Be you no’ pleased with my gillyflower soap?”

  “Your soap is the finest I’ve ever used.” Arabella rushed to reassure her.

  Moraig’s flowery scented soap was of superior quality.

  “It is only….” She cast around for a reason. “I like to keep a small bag of oats in my cleansing ewer.” It wasn’t a lie. She did do this when she remembered. “The oats soften the water and soothe my skin.”

  Moraig nodded sagely. “Aye, I’ve heard the like.”

  “The honey….” Arabella twined the oat sack’s string around her fingers. “My throat has been achy since yestere’en and I wanted to keep the honey at my bedside.”

  That was a flat-out lie, even if honey did have restorative powers.

  Her throat was fine.

  And her face was burning hotter than Moraig’s torch.

  But the old woman merely bobbed her head again, her smile sweet. “Oh, aye. The honey be good for all manner o’ ills, sure and it is.”

  Looking down, Moraig nudged the broken honey jar with her toe. She stared at the shards for a long moment and when she finally raised her head, she was no longer smiling.

  But her expression wasn’t unkind.

  “Now, lass”—she pinned Arabella with a piercing gaze, her eyes deep-seeing and lucid—“I’d know the real reason you wanted the oats and honey.”

  Arabella swallowed.

  Moraig hobbled closer and patted her arm. “I’ll no’ be saying anything to Himself, dinna you worry. Nor the others. I saw them eyeing you darkly at the start and we’ll no’ be wishing them riled again. Truth is”—she glanced again at the spilled honey—“I have a notion why you want such goods. But I’d rather hear it from you.”

  Arabella inhaled deeply and released a great sigh.

  Shame scalded her.

  And try as she might, she couldn’t form the words to tell Moraig the truth. She smoothed her hands down the front of her shawl-draped plaid, her mind racing. She didn’t want to lie to Moraig. The old woman had been so kind to her and deserved better.

  “Ah, well….” Arabella straightened her shoulders. “You have the right of it,” she admitted. “I do have other reasons for needing the oats and honey. Darroc has promised to take me to see the Seal Isles—”

  She glanced aside, her face flaming again. “There’s a hermit’s cell on the main isle. St. Egbert was a follower of Columba and I wish to pray at his cave. I thought I’d leave victuals there in gratitude.”

  Moraig’s brow hitched again. “Did you now?”

  Arabella nodded.

  “Do you ken”—Moraig looked down at her hands, worrying her gnarled fingers as she spoke—“there be folk hereabouts who pour oats and ale into the sea when the fishing’s rough and times are hard. They do be hoping that such offerings might help ease their woes.”

  She glanced up then, the image of guilelessness. “Right enough, that’s what they do.”

  Arabella’s mouth twisted. “How did you know?”

  Moraig gave a peal of fluty laughter. “Can you no’ see how old I am, lassie? Besides”—her eyes twinkled as she leaned close—“so far as I ken, there’s no many o’ Columba’s men who’d be glad of a pagan offering.”

  “You are most wise, Moraig.” Arabella dropped onto an oaken settle against the wall. “It wasn’t well done of me to try and fool you. Please forgive me.”

  “Whist!” Moraig cut the air with a hand. “Though I am for thinking the oats and honey aren’t meant for leaving on some cushion o’ heather?”

  “No, they aren’t.” Arabella folded her hands over the sack of oats on her lap and looked across the main body of the kitchens. “The hermit cell isn’t the only shrine on the Seal Isles. There’s another, much older one called the Giving Stone. I learned of it in my childhood. It’s said to be on the beach of the main island. No one at Eilean Creag much speaks of the stone these days and I believe most folk who ever heard the tales have forgotten.”

  Moraig joined her on the settle. “And what be the stone’s powers?”

  “The stone blesses women.” Arabella inhaled a jittery breath. She fe
lt silly recounting such things. “The stories I recall describe it more as a strange outcropping of rock than an actual stone. Most importantly, there’s a nearly perfect circular hole through its center.”

  “Ahhhh….” Moraig adjusted her black skirts, sending up a faint waft of gillyflowers. “Can it be the stone has something to do with love?”

  Arabella dug her fingers into the pliant sides of the oat bag. “The stone serves women in three different ways, depending on their need,” she explained, feeling more ridiculous with each word. “Women seeking the stone’s benevolence must crawl through the hole at the moment of sunrise.

  “If a woman is with child, the stone grants her an easy birth. If the woman is barren, she can be sure that she will soon ripen with child. And”—Arabella hesitated—“if a woman is unloved, the stone ensures that she will win her heart’s desire.”

  Moraig put a hand on Arabella’s arm, squeezing. “So the victuals are a thanks offering.”

  “They are more than that.” Arabella shifted on the settle, uncomfortable. “As I understood the telling, a woman must bestow three gifts on the stone after she crawls through its hole. These offerings must be made no matter her wish. Grain represents the ripening of a child in a woman’s belly. Fresh milk is required, too. It stands for an easy birth.

  “Honey”—she glanced at the shattered jar—“signifies the sweetness of true love.”

  “And I mind that’ll be what you’re hoping for.” Moraig slapped her knee. “I kent it, just!”

  Once again Arabella wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

  “That is so, aye.” She spoke before she lost her nerve.

  Moraig deserved the truth.

  To her surprise, the old woman chortled. “There be none in these isles with more respect for the old ways than me. But—” she sprang to her feet, her eyes glinting in the torchlight—“I’m for telling you that you’ve no need o’ such a ceremony.”

  Arabella stood. “I’ve come too great a distance not to honor the stone. And”—she smoothed her skirts—“to pray at the hermit cell.”

  Even if she believed neither would help, she meant to do both.

  It was a chance.