by Jayne Castel
“Why didn’t ye tell me ye were working as a serving wench?” she asked softly.
Heather put down the hairbrush on the mantelpiece. She stood by the glowing hearth, enjoying the heat that seeped through the thin fabric of her night-rail. Although they were well into spring now, she’d forgotten how cold this castle could be all year round.
“Ye know why,” she replied softly. “Ma would have had a fit.”
“Ye could have sworn me to secrecy.”
Heather cocked an eyebrow. “Ye mean she didn’t rip my letters from ye and read them herself?”
Aila drew herself up, irritation flashing across her features. “Of course not! I’m no longer a lass … she knows better than to do that!”
Heather smiled at her sister’s fire. Aila De Keith was no longer the blushing sixteen-year-old that Heather had left behind. She was twenty-one and maid to the Lady of Dunnottar. Heather was pleased to see that although Aila had inherited her father’s quiet nature, she also had his spine.
It would serve her well in future. Life rode roughshod over the meek.
With a sigh, she went to the bed, lifted the covers, and climbed in next to Aila. It felt strange to be sharing a bed with her again, after all this time. Heather had gotten used to sleeping alone. However, there wasn’t a chamber available for her.
Heather didn’t mind really. She’d missed Aila during her time in Fintry. Sharing a room again meant that they’d have a proper chance to talk without their mother eavesdropping.
“Ma was quiet this evening,” Heather said, lying back and staring at the wooden rafters above them.
“She’s in shock … she thought Iain was going to cut Da’s throat,” Aila replied, her tone sharpening. “We both did.”
Heather swallowed. “I had no idea Iain would do that … he’s grown even harder since he went away.”
“I don’t think our parents blame ye, if that’s what’s worrying ye,” Aila said softly. She too lay down, although she rolled over on her side and propped herself up onto an elbow so she could study her sister’s face. Once again, Heather felt uncomfortable under her assessing stare. “I certainly don’t.”
Heather shifted her attention from the rafters to her sister’s face. “It’s good to be back,” she murmured, her throat thickening. “I just didn’t want to cause problems.”
“We’re all happy to have ye here,” Aila replied, placing a hand over Heather’s, which rested upon the coverlet. Her sister’s mouth curved then. “Even if ye are like a tempest.”
Heather snorted. Their father had always called her that as a bairn—a tempest that raced through the castle, all long brown hair and skinny limbs. “I don’t mean to be.”
Aila’s smile widened. “And of course, we’re all dying to know more about that man ye traveled here with.”
Heather heaved a deep breath. She’d been awaiting this moment, dreading it actually. She’d known Aila would interrogate her about Maximus sooner or later. Thinking about him made her chest ache. Yearning rose up within her. She couldn’t let Iain ruin things between them. She just couldn’t.
“There’s not much to tell,” she lied. “I needed an escort to Dunnottar, and Maximus provided it.”
“The way he looks at ye though,” Aila replied, her expression turning dreamy. “No man has ever looked at me like that.”
Heat spread across Heather’s chest at her sister’s observation. “How exactly does he look at me?” she asked, feigning a lack of interest even as her pulse quickened.
A grin flowered across Aila’s face, and an uncharacteristically wicked gleam lit her eyes. “Like he wants to devour ye.”
XXXIII
LONGING
“OUCH!” HEATHER DROPPED the needle and raised her hand, frowning as blood beaded on her finger. Lucifer take this embroidery. She didn’t have the patience for it.
Seated at the window seat in her parents solar, she was currently alone with her sewing—and her errant thoughts. Aila was attending Lady Gavina, her father was out overseeing things with the laird, and her mother was taking a walk in the upper ward with Lady Elizabeth.
It was a rare moment of solitude.
The window was open, letting in a warm morning breeze. Fluffy white clouds chased each other over a wide pastel-blue sky, and the air smelled of the sea and sunshine. It was a glorious day, yet a shadow lay across Heather.
Five long days had passed since she’d last seen Maximus.
Granted, she hadn’t gone looking for him, even if the urge to do so grew stronger with each passing day.
The incident with Iain had left her shaken, and so she stayed within the walls of the keep, not even venturing out into the upper or lower wards for a stroll as she’d have liked. Instead, she either spent time with her parents in their solar, helping her mother with needlework while her father worked, or she visited Lady Gavina.
Heather’s mouth compressed then.
Each visit to Lady Gavina made her increasingly nervous. She wondered if the lady had heard she wasn’t actually a widow, and had an estranged husband inside the keep. But Lady Gavina hadn’t said a word. Instead, the two women continued to spend companionable afternoons in each other’s company.
With a sigh, Heather picked up her needle and resumed work on the pillowcase she was embroidering. Despite the sunlight that bathed her face and the peace here, high in the tower, her mood was low. A dull, permanent ache had lodged itself under her breastbone, and her usually robust appetite had faded.
I miss him.
Why didn’t Maximus seek her out? Was he deliberately avoiding her?
Part of her understood why he might do so, yet another part grieved.
Melancholy wasn’t an emotion that Heather understood well. Lady Gavina’s gaze was often shadowed by a sadness she never voiced, yet Heather told herself she was too practical, too focused on her daily life to succumb to such feelings. As such, she’d tried to ignore the creeping sense of loss at first. Instead, she kept herself busy and worked on rebuilding her still fragile rapport with her parents.
Heather stared down at the rose she was embroidering, her vision blurring as tears welled.
The longing was growing unbearable. It was no good. She would have to seek Maximus out. It wasn’t wise. Indeed, it was foolish and rash; yet the more she tried to squash the desire, the stronger it became.
She knew he’d be busy with Cassian and Draco, but surely he had time for her too?
Heather was mulling over this, and trying to think about the best way to approach Maximus without drawing too much attention to herself, when the door to the solar burst open.
Her mother rushed in. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with excitement. “We’ve been invited to join the laird at his table for supper tonight!” she announced.
Heather straightened up, surprised. As a rule, Heather and her kin sat apart from the De Keith in the hall. It was rare to break bread with the laird at his own table.
Heather swallowed down the nervous sensation that fluttered in her belly. Truth be told, she didn’t want to sup with the laird at all. She’d been successful in avoiding David De Keith since her arrival, and she’d hoped to keep it that way. The memory of how he’d cornered her that day on the stairwell years earlier had never faded.
“This is wonderful news,” Iona stopped in the middle of the solar and clasped her hands together. However, the excitement dimmed in her eyes when her gaze settled upon Heather.
Her mouth flattened into a hard line as she took in her daughter’s simple green kirtle. “This is the third day in a row ye have worn that,” she chided. “Don’t ye have any other kirtles?”
Heather shook her head. “I’m hoping to buy cloth for some at Stonehaven market next week.”
Iona De Keith started to twist the wedding band on her left hand, her gaze narrowing. “Next week is no good. What will ye wear tonight?”
“This kirtle will do me fine,” Heather replied with a shrug. “I’ll do something with my hai
r and wear a shawl, if ye like?”
“No,” her mother snapped. Irritation flared in her eyes. “That won’t do at all. Really, Heather, yer father and I have a position to uphold. Now ye’ve returned, we need to see about getting ye accepted at Dunnottar once more. One of mine or Aila’s gowns will have to suffice.”
Iona fussed all afternoon, taking care to choose the right kirtle to wear, and insisting that her daughters made a similar effort. Heather was forced to borrow another of Aila’s kirtles. However, her sister was slightly shorter than her and had a smaller bust. As such, the gown revealed a little too much of the lèine she wore underneath, at the hem, and certainly more cleavage than she’d have liked.
Heather really didn’t want to see the laird with her breasts on display like this—she remembered David’s lecherous glances well. Unfortunately though, there were no other suitable formal kirtles, and so Heather was forced to don this ill-fitting one.
The hall was busy when the steward and his family entered: men and women were taking their seats at the long tables that lined the room. Outdoors, it was a mild evening, and the huge shuttered windows on the long side of the hall had been opened wide, giving splendid views in each direction over the rocky coastline and the sea. The days drew out this time of year, and so dusk was still some way off—as such, the sun sparkled off the North Sea.
Heather’s step slowed as she admired the view. Nothing compared to the panorama from these windows. She felt like an eagle perched high in its mountain eyrie, surveying the world from above.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop to gaze upon the view, for her mother pushed her forward, propelling her toward the far end of the long chamber.
The seating at the laird’s table had been rearranged this evening, so that the steward and his family flanked David’s left, and his wife and retainers sat to his right. Heather took a seat between her mother and sister, opposite Lady Elizabeth, the former mistress of Dunnottar.
William Wallace had also joined them this eve. Heather’s pulse quickened at the sight of the freedom fighter. The keep had been abuzz ever since his arrival. Lady Gavina had confided in Heather that he’d chosen the stronghold as a place to lie low for the time being.
Shifting her attention from the Wallace, Heather favored Lady Elizabeth with a smile. She noted the strained expression on the woman’s face. She was still young, yet her face had a sternness to it that Heather didn’t recall from years earlier. Dressed in a charcoal-grey kirtle, her golden hair pulled back into a severe style, she appeared a widow in mourning. But as far as Heather understood, Robert—the rightful laird of this castle—was an English prisoner, not dead.
To the laird’s right, Lady Gavina sat as silent and poised as always. Dressed in a high-necked blue gown, the Lady of Dunnottar was a vision of loveliness. Still, her husband didn’t spare his bonny wife a glance. Instead, he launched into a discussion with Heather’s father—quizzing him over the accounts.
Such conversation wasn’t of the slightest interest to Heather, and so she let her gaze travel across the table again. Captain Gaius sat next to Lady Elizabeth, and on sensing Heather’s attention upon him, his gaze flicked up from where he was cutting himself some venison.
Their gazes held for a moment before Cassian’s mouth curved into a polite smile. “You must be Heather?”
Like Maximus, Cassian spoke Gaelic with a light, lilting accent. Maximus had told her Cassian was a Spaniard. His looks weren’t as swarthy as Maximus’s, and he had a taller, broader build that was more similar to her countrymen.
“Aye,” she replied with an answering smile. Hope flowered in her breast then. Maybe this man would help her. He’d know where Maximus was this evening. “And ye are Captain Gaius … my father speaks highly of ye.”
His smile widened. “That’s pleasing to hear.” His gaze flicked to where Aila sat next to Heather, unusually silent. “I can tell you two are sisters … the similarity between you is remarkable.”
Heather grinned. “Aye … although folk have always said that Aila’s the prettier of the two of us.” She nudged her sister with her elbow as she spoke, noting how Aila’s cheeks grew pink. It was cruel to tease her when she plainly turned tongue-tied in this man’s presence. However, Heather couldn’t help herself.
Cassian’s smile softened, his attention resting on Aila for a moment longer. Heather noted that he didn’t contradict her.
Farther down the table, William Wallace was talking to his captain. From what Maximus had told her, this was Draco Vulcan, the last of the cursed trio. Listening to his leader, the soldier wore an intense, almost fierce expression. Something about him made Heather uneasy—the man exuded a leashed aggression, his lean body coiled like a hawk about to dive for prey.
She wasn’t sure she’d trust him.
Shifting her attention back to Cassian, Heather noted that he was observing her with a shuttered expression—almost as if he was taking her measure.
Nervousness rippled down Heather’s spine. Has Maximus told him that I know their secret? She hoped he hadn’t, yet the captain’s look contradicted that hope. What if Cassian and Draco perceived her as a threat?
Clearing her throat, she forced another smile. “How is Maximus faring? I haven’t seen him since our first evening here.” She wanted to ask a more direct question than that but knew she had to ease into it.
Cassian inclined his head. “He’s fitted into the Guard well.”
“Didn’t ye say he worked as a trapper before, Heather?” Aila asked, seeming to have found her tongue for the first time since sitting down at the table. Heather wished she hadn’t.
“Aye … but he was a soldier before that,” Heather assured her. She knew what her sister was getting at; it was indeed odd that a complete stranger would turn up at Dunnottar and be accepted so easily into the Guard.
“Maximus is an able fighter,” Cassian agreed, his expression giving nothing away. “He’s an asset to the Guard.”
Ask him where Maximus is this eve. Now’s yer chance!
Soon Cassian’s attention would be drawn elsewhere and the opportunity would be lost. She had to ask him before that happened. Heather’s lips parted as the words rose within her—but another man’s voice echoed down the table, interrupting their conversation.
“Heather … what a delight it is to have ye back at Dunnottar.”
Tensing, Heather turned to find David De Keith watching her. She’d thought he’d been occupied with her father, yet he focused on her now, his brown eyes gleaming. His lean, bearded face was composed in a charming expression.
Heather dipped her chin respectfully. “Good eve, Laird De Keith.”
“What a fair sight ye are,” he continued, his voice booming down the table. He held his silver goblet up for a passing servant to refill, “although can I say, ye are even bonnier than I recall.”
Heather’s skin prickled. She didn’t want the laird’s compliments, not when she knew what he was really like. His words had caused the conversation around them to die away. Heather could feel Lady Gavina and Lady Elizabeth’s gazes upon her, and when she glanced down the table, she saw that Cassian, the Wallace, and Draco were now all observing the exchange between her and the laird too.
Heather plastered a pleasant smile to her face, yet didn’t answer. The sooner De Keith resumed his conversation with her father, the better.
But he wasn’t finished with her yet.
“I’m sorry to hear ye have lost yer husband,” he said smoothly.
Heather’s belly clenched. Obviously, news of Iain Galbraith coming back from the dead hadn’t reached him. She dropped her gaze to the table, resisting the urge to glance across at the two ladies opposite. Surely, they both knew that she wasn’t a widow. Would one of them say something?
“Hopefully, we can find a role for ye in the castle now ye have returned,” De Keith continued, his voice lowering in a sensual way that made Heather’s throat close.
Heart pounding, she stared down at the plat
ter of food before her that she no longer had any appetite for. She wished the odious man would stop talking.
“Heather has been a companion to me since her return.” A cool female voice interjected then. “I value her company and wish her to remain at my side.”
Lady Gavina’s interruption soured the laird’s mood. Heather glanced up to see that his charming smile had dissolved, replaced by a scowl. He then shifted his attention to his wife, for the first time since the meal had begun. “Ye already have a lady’s maid,” he muttered.
“But I also require a companion,” she replied calmly, holding his eye. “Since my husband spends very little time with me.”
David De Keith stared at his wife, open dislike in his eyes, before his expression shuttered. “As ye wish,” he said with an airy wave of his hand. “I care not.”
He looked as if he was about to say something else, when something beyond their table drew his eye.
A guard had entered the hall and was striding toward the laird’s table, a scroll clutched in his right hand. Twisting in her seat, Heather watched the man approach.
“What’s this?” De Keith greeted the guard. “Can’t ye see I’m in the midst of supper, man?”
The guard’s rugged face tensed. “A rider has just brought this from Drum Castle. He said the matter was urgent.”
The laird’s mouth pursed, and he cast his wife a sharp look. “What does yer brother want?”
Lady Gavina frowned. “I wouldn’t know, David. I haven’t heard from him since our father died.”
Heather stilled at this news. She hadn’t realized the Irvine laird had passed away. Lady Gavina hadn’t said. That wouldn’t help relations between the two clans; it was rumored that Shaw Irvine, Gavina’s elder brother, had never wanted to make peace with the De Keiths.
Dismissing his wife’s comment, De Keith snatched the scroll, broke the wax seal, and scanned the missive’s contents.
XXXIV