Adair fought to ignore the sense of loss he felt when she pulled her hand away. “I suppose ’tis too dark to see the garden now.”
“Oh, aye. ’Twould appear as no more than shadows.” She opened the door to her cottage and grimaced when all four of her cats hurried out to twine themselves around her legs.
“Four cats?”
“Shortly after my mother died someone left a basket of four kittens on my threshold. Your father denied it, but I am sure it was he. Oddly enough, there are three toms and one female.”
“Why are ye nay o’erwhelmed with the beasts?” He bent to scratch behind the ears of a large ginger tom and almost smiled at the deep, loud purr that erupted from the animal.
“I have a wee but verra comfortable cage I lock the female in when she is in season.” She picked up a sleek gray cat. “Lady accepts her occasional banishment. She has had but one litter, quickly dispersed among the villagers.” Rose frowned down at her biggest cat. “Sweetling broke through the door. ’Tis thicker now.” Looking back at Adair, she caught the faintest hint of a smile curving his lips.
“Sweetling? Ye named that monster Sweetling?”
“Weel, he was but a wee thing when I got him. The ginger tom is Growler, for he did a lot of that, and the gray-striped tom is Lazy, which he still is.”
“All alone as ye are, ye ought to have something more protective than cats.”
“Weel, Geordie the blacksmith’s son found them a fierce obstacle when he was creeping about here one night. Of course, he couldnae tell people he was sent to heel by four cats, and the tale he told caused me a wee bit of trouble for a while.”
Her familiars, the Widow Kerr had called Rose’s cats, demons in disguise. Adair suspected Geordie’s lies fed that nonsense. Many people feared cats. Even those who kept them to control vermin were often uneasy around the animals. He was sure the rumors about Rose only enhanced the tales whispered about her pets.
Adair was not exactly sure what he felt about magic. Most of the time he did not believe in it. On the rare occasion when he found himself wondering if it did exist, he disliked the idea. Rose had made no mention of it, and he hoped that was because she did not believe in it either.
He told himself it would be necessary for him to spend some time with Rose to search out the truth, ignoring the inner voice that scorned his thin excuse. In his writings, his father had talked of magic and the trouble it often caused the Keith women. Rose’s trouble was being brewed by the Widow Kerr, as her mother’s had been, and by others like Geordie the blacksmith’s son, who wished to turn critical eyes away from his own shameful attempt to attack Rose. He would not allow this superstitious nonsense to exist upon his lands.
When he fixed his attention back on Rose, he found her and her cats staring at him, their heads all cocked at the same angle. Adair could easily imagine how such things could stir superstition in the ignorant. He found it both charming and a little amusing. At the moment, it was not hard to see the beguiling child he had once known. He reached out to brush his knuckles over her soft cheek.
“Mayhap ye havenae changed as much as I thought,” he murmured. “Good sleep, Rose.”
Rose watched him walk away. With a faintly trembling hand she touched the still warm place upon her cheek. Such a light caress he had given her, yet she had felt it right down to her toes. The man was definitely a threat.
“Robert, has someone been eating my tarts?” Adair asked his steward.
Once back in his great hall, Adair had made himself comfortable in his chair and poured himself some ale. He had set Rose’s basket in front of him, intending to indulge himself. Although he had been greatly distracted by Rose, he was sure that eight tarts had remained when he left to escort her home. There were only six now. He counted them a second time to be certain, then eyed a blushing Robert.
“I had one, laird,” Robert confessed. “Your father always allowed me to have one, and I fear I helped myself out of habit.”
“Ah, and then it tempted ye to have a second. I understand. They are indeed verra tempting.”
“Aye, they are, but I only had one. My son had the other ’ere I could stop him. He was agitated after his confrontation with Meg and, as he ranted and raved, he snatched one up and ate it. I reprimanded him severely, m’laird, and he was verra sorry. Although it did ease his temper.”
“Of course it did. No harm done,” Adair murmured, then he frowned at the tart he held in his hand. “They are verra good. Rose is an excellent cook.”
“As was her mother, laird.”
“Do ye think there is magic in her food or in her garden?”
Robert grimaced. “I dinnae wish to use the word magic. ’Tis a word that can stir up trouble and talk of evil. I believe the Keith women have a true skill at cooking food that pleases both the mouth and the heart. I think they chose wisely when they chose their land, picking a place with rich soil and ample water that enhances the flavor of all they grow.”
Adair smiled faintly. “Weel said. I believe I will still have a close look at that garden.”
“Do ye suspect magic, or, weel, witchcraft?” Robert whispered the last word as if merely speaking it stirred his fear.
“Most days I dinnae believe in either. Howbeit, many others do, and the Widow Kerr seems most intent upon stirring up that fear. If I have a good look at that garden, I shall be able to turn aside such fear and superstition with clear, cold fact. I would prefer to tell the widow to close her mouth and cease with her lies, but—”
“’Twould be easier to make the wind cease to blow or stop the river’s flow,” muttered Robert.
“Quite probably,” replied Adair, faintly amused by this sudden show of temper in the usually sweet-natured Robert. “The game she plays is dangerous, however. She could get that poor lass hurt or killed. I will try to weaken the power of her poison, but if I cannae, I will make her cease. I willnae have that idiocy at Duncairn.”
Brave words, he thought later as he lay in his bed and savored the last of Rose’s apple tarts. Superstition and fear were difficult enemies to fight. Especially when Rose made food such as these apple tarts, he mused, as he savored the sense of peace and well-being that flowed through him. Any fool knew food, no matter how delicious, should not have such an effect upon one’s humors. Adair still resisted calling it magic, but he had to admit it was unusual. If he was not feeling so pleasant, such a reaction to eating an apple tart might even make him uneasy.
Crossing his arms beneath his head, he closed his eyes and was not surprised when visions of Rose Keith filled his mind. She had grown into an enchantingly beautiful woman. He had wanted her immediately and knew a long celibacy had nothing to do with it. Something about Rose stirred him in more ways than he could count. He wanted to ravish her even as he wanted to shelter her from every harsh word. He wanted her to soundly disavow any taint of magic yet found the mystery surrounding her and her garden intriguing. Just thinking about her made him feel like smiling, yet it had been a very long time since he had seen or felt anything worth smiling about.
Despite his confusion, seeing Rose in his dreams would be far preferable to what usually haunted him. Adair had a suspicion he would not be suffering any of those dark dreams this night. The painful memories and grief that had kept such a tight grip on him for so long were still there, but not so insistent, so overwhelming. He had lost so many friends, bold young men who had gone to France to find glory and riches only to find pain and death. Although he had gained some wealth, it could never buy him back the time he had lost with his family, now all dead and gone.
The grief inside his heart stirred a little, but only a little. It was as if some unseen hand had restrained that demon. He thought for the thousandth time that it was his own pride, his own arrogance, that had kept him in France, that he should have seen more clearly how time was slipping away. A soft voice in his head told him true arrogance was thinking he could foresee God’s will. Guilt, yet another demon with which he had long wrestle
d, raised its head before it, too, was subdued.
Dark, bloody memories of battle and capture were still there. He could see their nightmarish shadows lurking in the back of his mind, eager to scar his dreams and disturb his sleep, but they did not surge forward as they always had before. They were in the past, a voice soothed, one that sounded very much like his late mother’s.
That was a little alarming, he thought, yet he did not feel alarmed. He felt comforted. Adair could almost feel his mother’s touch, her soft kiss, and hear her say, Aye, my braw, wee laddie, ’twas a sad time, weighted with grief and pain, but ’tis past. Ye are alive, ye are home, and ye have met a bonnie wee lass. Let those truths fill your heart and mind and sleep, my laddie, sleep.
A bonnie lass who fed him apple tarts that made him hear his mother’s voice in his head, he mused, but could not gather the strength or will to be troubled by that. He would court Rose, he decided. It was time he was wed and set about the business of breeding an heir. Rose was the first woman he had met who had stirred such a thought in his head.
For one brief moment he feared that, too, was caused by her apple tarts, but only for a moment. Adair knew the feelings Rose stirred within him were caused by Rose and Rose alone. The seed had probably been planted years ago by the endearing child she had been. He would have her for his own, but first he would get her to cast aside all this dangerous foolishness about magic.
As sleep crept over him, Adair thought he heard his mother’s voice again. She was scolding him for thinking he could take only a piece when true happiness and the prize he sought would only come to him when he could accept the whole. Adair decided he was too tired to understand what that meant.
Chapter 3
“Ye willnae get away with using your witch’s tricks on the laird.”
Rose sighed, then took several deep breaths to try to smother her anger. Mistress Kerr’s voice was enough to stir her anger now. After years of enduring the woman’s poison, she simply had no patience left. She knew she had to be careful, however. Every word she said to the woman had to be carefully weighed or it could come back to haunt her. It was not fair, but Rose knew she had to remain calm and courteous. It was her own fault she was going to have to endure this confrontation. She had been so caught up in her thoughts about Sir Adair that she had undoubtedly missed several opportunities to elude the woman.
“Pardon, Mistress?” she asked in a sweet voice as she turned to face the woman.
Mistress Kerr crossed her arms and glared at Rose. “Ye heard me. The mon has barely warmed the laird’s seat and ye are trotting up there with some of that cursed food. Aye, and then ye bewitched the lad so that he followed ye home.”
“Ye make our laird sound like some stray pup. And might I ask how ye ken he walked me home?”
“Geordie saw the two of ye walking along hand in hand. Ye have probably already lured him into your bed.”
“Ye insult the laird and me. Our laird is a gallant knight and didnae like the idea of my walking home alone. Since Geordie was obviously lurking in the wood again, it appears the laird’s protection was needed.”
“If ye hadnae bewitched the poor lad, he wouldnae be such a trouble to ye.”
“Mither,” whispered Anne, shock and a tentative condemnation in her voice.
Rose glanced at Anne, who stood just behind her mother. She was a little embarrassed to realize she had not even noticed the young woman, then told herself she had nothing to feel guilty about. Anne had developed a true skill at hiding whenever her mother was near. The fact that Anne could do so when only a few paces away from the woman was astonishing. It was also, Rose decided, a little sad.
“Geordie is nay bewitched,” Rose said, surprised at how calm and reasonable she sounded, for she was furious. “He is a rutting swine who sees a lass alone as easy game. I would think he deserves far more watching than I do.”
“Oh, aye, ye would like it if I ceased to watch you,” snapped Mistress Kerr. “That would leave ye free to ensnare the laird.”
“The mon has survived ten years of fighting in France. I dinnae think he can be brought to his knees by a wee, red-haired lass.”
“Heed me, Rose Keith: I mean for my Anne to become the laird’s wife.”
“I dinnae want to be,” protested Anne, even as she retreated a few steps from her mother.
“Hush, ye stupid lass,” snapped Mistress Kerr. “Ye will do as ye are told. And ye can begin by ceasing to fawn o’er that fool Lame Jamie.”
“The laird doesnae want to wed me, either.”
Mistress Kerr ignored her daughter and returned her glare to Rose. “I mean what I say, Rose Keith. I have plans for the laird and I will be verra angry if ye interfere with them.”
Rose watched Mistress Kerr stride away, Anne a few steps behind her. Since Mistress Kerr was always angry with her, Rose idly wondered how much would change if she did interfere. Then she sighed and started to walk home from the village. Even if she fled to a nunnery on the morrow, if Mistress Kerr did not get her daughter wed to the laird, Rose knew the woman would still blame her. She also knew she should take the woman’s threats very seriously, but it was a warm, sunny day and she would not spoil it with dark, chilling thoughts of what might happen.
Instead, she fixed her thoughts on what Mistress Kerr had let slip about Anne. Anne wanted Lame Jamie, Meg’s father. Rose grimaced, not fond of the name Meg’s father had been stuck with. The man had only a slight hesitation to his walk due to a broken leg that had not healed exactly right. Unfortunately, there were half a dozen men named Jamie around Duncairn, and people felt compelled to mark each one with some extra, identifying name, and Meg’s father did not seem to mind.
She frowned as she wondered exactly what Mistress Kerr’s objections were to Lame Jamie. The man was barely thirty, was a widower, had a fine cottage and only one child. He was not rich, but he was far from poor. And, unlike Mistress Kerr’s thin claim of kinship to the old laird, Lame Jamie was second cousin to Sir Adair. Of course he was not the laird, she thought, and felt sorry for poor Anne. Even though Anne was two years older than she, free to choose her own husband, Rose knew the woman lacked the courage to break free of her mother’s tight grip.
“Wheesht, if I was a witch, I would brew up a potion to give poor Anne some backbone,” she muttered as she started up the path to her cottage.
Suddenly Rose stopped and carefully put down her basket. It took her a moment to understand what had so firmly caught her attention. Her front door was slightly open. That was not an immediate cause for concern, for Sweetling was capable of opening the door. He only did so, however, when something outside strongly caught his attention. She told herself that there was still no need for alarm—a cat’s interest could be firmly caught by a falling leaf—but she still looked around very carefully. Geordie was still after her, always lurking in wait.
Her heart skipped with fear when she saw that the gate to her garden was open. Sweetling could not do that. Only human hands could manage to open the heavy, iron-banded gate. Picking up one of the stout cudgels she kept in several strategic places, Rose crept into her garden. It was not until she reached her apple orchard that she saw the intruder.
The laird was strolling through her garden. In some ways, he had the right, as she was on Duncairn land despite the hereditary rights granted the Keith women. Nevertheless, she was irritated that he had not waited for a personal invitation. It was that irritation that subdued the urge to laugh at the way her cats trailed behind him, stopping when he stopped and even studying what he studied. It was impossible to completely restrain a brief grin, however, when he crouched to pick up a handful of dirt and her cats joined him in poking and sniffing at the ground.
Sir Adair’s years as a warrior were revealed by how quickly he heard her approach, and the speed with which his body tensed and his hand went to his sword. He stood up, brushed the dirt from his hands, and bowed slightly in greeting. When he glanced down at her hand and faintly smiled, she blushed
, realizing she still carried the cudgel.
“A stout weapon,” he murmured. “Ye hold it as if ye ken how to use it.”
“I do.” She leaned the cudgel up against the trunk of an apple tree, idly stroking the trunk as she often did, for it was the tree her mother had planted when she was born.
“Did ye have one near at hand when Geordie attacked ye?”
“Aye, but my cats got to him first.”
He looked down at the cats flanking him. “I didnae let them out.”
“I ken it. Sweetling can open the door.” She smiled faintly. “He does so when something catches his interest. I kenned he couldnae open the garden gate, however.”
“Ah. I came hoping ye could show me the garden so many talk about, but when ye didnae appear after near half an hour, I decided to meander through it on my own. ’Tis weel laid out, and the wall that encircles it is a fine tall and stout one.”
She nodded and started to follow him as he resumed walking. “It took many years. Some was done by the Keith women, some by their husbands, and some in return for food when harvests were poor or destroyed.”
“And your harvests have ne’er been poor or your crop destroyed?” He paused by some blackberries growing near the wall and plucked a few ripe ones.
“My harvests have been hurt at times, but my garden is weel planned, the wall shields it from damaging winds as weel as from intruders, and I have plenty of water close at hand. We dinnae have large fields to protect, and o’er the years we have done all we can to protect what grows here. Some of the people have accepted our ways, if their own gardens are small or in one small area of the larger fields they plow and plant. At times, the fact that our garden still grows whilst others falter and fail has caused us trouble. ’Tis mostly good planning, its size, and ample water within these walls that makes it flourish.”
“And what makes it so, weel, comforting?” Adair moved so that Rose was standing between him and the trunk of an apple tree. “I should like to scorn its effect upon people, but I cannae. Nor can any others. ’Tis the one thing they all agree upon.”
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