The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5)

by Rebecca Ruger

  This effectively broke the spell. Iain swung his gaze forward and Maggie released a rush of breath.

  Primly, she shifted and straightened, sending her gaze out ahead of the cart, now clear of the entire flock, the shepherd and the smallest sheep having just reached the other side of the path, disappearing down the hill.

  Iain adjusted the reins in his hands but did not engage the palfrey to move. Maggie held herself very still, knowing his regard was once more returned to her.

  Please just drive. She closed her eyes briefly, unwilling to say what her response might have been to his kiss, which had clearly been his intent.

  It was a long time until her heart stopped racing, until her belly settled.

  This made for a very awkward return trip. Maggie was quite sure he was as disturbed as she by the near-occurrence of a kiss, as he made only small efforts toward conversation. Like her, he seemed to hold himself rather stiffly now, making sure his thigh did not at all brush against hers as they drove.

  Maggie stared straight ahead, so very happy when Berriedale came into view almost an hour later.

  Inside the yard, Iain exited the seat with some haste. She knew she did not mistake the great breath he drew in before he helped her alight, but she couldn’t decide if it were the beginning of a large sigh or a buoying inhale.

  But then he did not release her hands when she was standing on the ground next to him, even though Archie and Duncan were crossing the yard to them, possibly intent on helping unload the cart.

  “Dinna be uneasy now, lass,” Ian told her. “That’s just more unfinished business between us.”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say to that, so she only nodded abruptly and pulled her hands from his.

  As she walked toward the keep, she knew some apprehension, expecting that Iain watched her. This was nearly confirmed when she heard Archie say to his chief, “What’s got you grinning like that kind of idiot?”

  She tamped the smile that wanted to come, and ignored the frolicking butterflies in her belly.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Maggie found Artair in the hall and asked him if she might be of some assistance to him. She had already spent some small time in his company, mostly by way of Glenna’s meetings with him, and found that his serenity was constant; the man was the height and breadth of all that was calm and reassuring.

  He was surprised by the query, she sensed. Seated at the family’s table, he lifted his nearly bald head from the parchment upon which he’d been writing and showed a bit of startled pleasure in his placid gaze.

  “You do not like to be idle, do you, lass?”

  Maggie scrunched her face and shook her head. “The day is just too long then.”

  “And leaves the mind with too much temptation?”

  Maggie nodded. “I’d much rather not be left to my own devices, and my own thoughts.”

  He didn’t question this, didn’t ask what troubles might harass her, but asked, “Do you know how to read and write, lass?”

  “I do, a bit, and wouldn’t mind improving the skill.” At Artair’s further surprise, she explained, “At my home in Torish, my friend Marta was taught, as her mam had been very well educated.” With a shrug, she said, “I was curious, and Marta was willing to share what she’d been taught.”

  Artair held up his hand and showed what was normally hidden in his sleeves, that his fingers were bent awkwardly and severely into his palms. “Getting more and more difficult for me to write, lass.”

  “Then my timing might be auspicious?” Maggie wondered, with some small bit of hope.

  The steward smiled kindly. “Aye, it is at that.”

  “I thought I had heard Glenna make some mention that you had your own office, Artair,” Maggie said as she walked around the table to sit next to him, which put her in the same chair she normally occupied at supper each evening. “Yet, you sit here in the hall.”

  Artair moved the small ink well closer to Maggie and laid the quill in front of her on the uncovered table. “Aye, lass, my chamber and my wee office sit there between the larder and the scullery. Truth be told, it’s dark and dank at that end of the keep. I enjoy the better light and fresher air of the hall.”

  “Artair, I think the same thing sometimes when I’m in the solar above stairs. Mayhap I’ll do as you have when next there is mending to attend, bring my work down here.” Maggie picked up the quill and was quick to add, “If that would be all right?”

  “I decree that it will be,” he allowed, “and I would enjoy the company.”

  Artair then explained to Maggie what he’d been doing, keeping a log of all the household expenses. There was a pile of little notes, some in Artair’s own script, which matched the words and numbers in the ledger. “These are either receipts for goods purchased or monies spent, or notes I’ve made of any expenditures that I then log into the ledger. And this stack here,” he said, indicating another pile, “are income notes, if we’ve sold sheep or collected rents or the tithes. See how there are several columns? Incoming and outgoing.” He further explained, “And next month, when harvest begins, there’s a separate journal for that, year by year, where all is recorded.”

  “So where shall I begin? Your last entry is for two yokes at four shillings and then one augur, three pence.”

  Artair nodded and consulted the notes, moving aside the corresponding notes from those entered. “So, here we are,” he said, lifting the next receipt. “Draught horse, twenty shillings.”

  Maggie dipped the quill carefully into the ink and began to record all the expenditures from the last week as Artair read them. Tools and implements such as anvils and bellows, and kitchen necessities of pepper and sugar and saffron were listed in groups depending on where they were used, the keep in general, the kitchen specifically, the yard and grounds, or outside the castle.

  “Spinning wheel, ten pence,” Artair said, turning over the last of his own hand-written notes.

  “Is the spinning wheel for the household then?”

  “No, that would be for Alice down in the village.”

  “And the castle pays for this?”

  “Aye. Alice needs the device to maintain a living, so we provide it. And she repays the cost of the wheel by providing thread and yarn to the castle, one tenth of her production per month for the next year.”

  “That’s very reasonable, I should imagine.” Maggie recorded this, pleased that she’d kept her script as small and as neat as Artair’s.

  Artair nodded. “She wouldn’t be able to purchase the wheel outright by herself, and we cannot have any person of Berriedale in need or wanting. And, of course, we are paid with the threads and yarns, which are very useful as you know.”

  “A satisfactory arrangement for all parties, then,” Maggie concluded. “But how did you know she needed a spinning wheel?”

  “We have several gatherings in the hall each month,” Artair explained. “Once a month, the chief sits as judge over a court to hear cases of small crimes and grievances. And then once a month, he receives requests for benefice. So last month Alice made the petition for the spinning wheel and it was determined that the need was worthy, and the arrangements were made.”

  “Can anyone ask for anything?” Maggie wondered.

  “Nae, lass. We do not entertain frivolous requests and we only hear petitions from wards, family, or inhabitants of Berriedale. They must live and work within our borders and they must demonstrate a genuine need.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Artair’s brows lifted slowly. “But, Maggie, might you be interested in attending the next court? My sorry fingers would be thankful if you would be so kind as to take the notes from the meeting.”

  Maggie had no idea what all that might entail, but she was eager to be of service to Artair as she was rather enamored with his soft-spoken manner and very kind eyes.

  “I would be very pleased to do so,” she agreed. “But Artair, you’ve seen how slowly I make all the letters and numbers. I feel I might get lost, or
not be efficient enough.”

  Artair waved this off. “I can show you those journals, where I record all that is argued and said, and all determinations made. It’s all very succinct. I do not put to paper every word said, just a summary.”

  “Very well, I would be delighted to help you while I am here.”

  Artair turned curious gray eyes onto her. “Are you going somewhere, lass?”

  Realizing what she’d said, what she’d admitted, Maggie scrambled for a reply, explaining disjointedly, “I haven’t any plans—that is, I’d be pleased to remain at...but of course I know that my...my—”

  Artair covered her hand with his, which effectively silenced her. “You are safe, Maggie Bryce.” Those few words were given with more vigor than any others she’d heard yet from the steward.

  Nodding, trying to smile for his wish to see her composed and unafraid, she lied to him. “Aye, I know.”

  ON SATURDAY, WHEN IAIN entered the hall for the court of law hearings, he was surprised to find Maggie sitting again at the table next to Artair.

  Dozens of people filled the room, the double doors wide open. Another half dozen soldiers were present also, as was customary for the rare instances that an accused might violently disagree with a ruling or judgment by Iain. The crowd stood, chatting amongst themselves, on the far half of the room, as the space directly before the table was reserved for individuals called to answer for charges laid against them.

  He strode up onto the platform, waiting for either Maggie or Artair to realize his presence, which neither did immediately as they had their heads together over one of Artair’s various ledgers. Only when he moved his chair did they lift their heads.

  While Artair displayed his perennial tranquility, Maggie glanced up at him with some agitation, but he thought it had been already present and not caused solely by his appearance.

  “Our dear Maggie has kindly agreed to record the proceedings, saving my fingers the task,” Artair said by way of explanation.

  Maggie seemed to hold her breath, as if she expected he might deny her presence at the proceedings, or her assistance to the steward. While she looked as she always did, so damn bonny, Iain thought she appeared paler than normal, her eyes dull.

  One leather-bound sheaf of parchment sat directly before her, opened to a blank page, and in her hand, she held a quill, while she waited for his response.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Iain said and sat down next to Maggie, with Artair on her other side. While he gave no indication, he knew some surprise that she had been taught to write.

  The room quieted then, with Iain taking his seat. He glanced up at the crowd, not surprised to see some familiar faces, who appeared with infuriating regularity in this court.

  He heard Artair say to Maggie, “Make sure you include today’s date, lass, at the top of the page,” before consulting his own papers to call out the first name. “Randolph Dowis.”

  There was a shuffling in the crowd as a man threaded his way to the fore, and then continued until he stood only ten feet before the table, twisting his felt hat in his hands. He looked between Maggie and Artair but would not meet Iain’s gaze. He was nearly Iain’s age, slight of build with nervous eyes that rarely sat still.

  Artair announced the claim, “It is charged, Randolph Dowis, that you have—once again—taken that which was not yours, on this occasion a barrel of herring belonging to Soerlie McEchrine.” To Iain, Artair added, “Soerlie states that he hadn’t yet salted it so that when it was found, in Randolph’s possession, the herring was turned, and of no use to him. He seeks recompense for the entire barrel, two pence.”

  “This is the third occasion?” Iain asked of his steward, without removing his gaze from Randolph.

  “The fourth, I believe,” Artair answered.

  This drew Maggie’s attention, which had been so studious upon her writing, to the man.

  Iain could not decipher the accused man’s reaction to Maggie giving him consideration. He seemed at once fretful, as he normally was, and then cowed under the weight of her curious gaze, his shoulders and chin seeming to fall with some apology to her, as if the crime were against her personally.

  Artair queried the man, “What say you?”

  The man only shrugged, giving no defense, that Iain rolled his eyes.

  “Randolph, you will pay Soerlie the sum of four pence for the herring, work it off if needs be, and pay to the court the sum of two pence, for the annoyance of seeing your face at each of the last three sessions,” Iain announced, and added, “And understand me, Randolph, if I see you here again next month, I will have to consider expulsion from Berriedale, as we dinna tolerate thievery from our own.”

  The man nodded, but his gaze was on Maggie, who was in the process of recording Iain’s judgment that she was not conscious of his scrutiny. So engrossed with his perusal of Maggie, Randolph seemed not at all alarmed at Iain’s significant threat to expel him from the territory.

  Iain, too, was acutely aware of her proximity, of her very presence at his side. As he sat back in his chair, his forearms on the arms, he was afforded a clear view of her profile as she bent her head over her task. Her hair was held by only a thin ribbon, the length of her red-gold tresses falling in curls and waves down her back. He couldn’t recall if he had ever touched her hair, if he knew for sure that it was as soft and silky as it appeared. She smelled deliciously of that sandalwood perfume he’d bought her, and honest to God, he had all he could do not to close the distance between them and press his nose to her neck, giving himself even more to fight against.

  Maggie turned and whispered something to Artair, who spoke softly at her side, and then she wrote the word, annoyance. Her script was neat and small, but he sensed she was not greatly accustomed to putting words to parchment that it was rather laborious. When she was done, she glanced up, found Randolph’s gaze upon her, and looked to Iain with some question, as if she supposed they were all waiting for her. Her paleness escaped then, just for a moment while her cheeks pinkened.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Iain shook his head, losing his own fixation, and dismissed Randolph with a stern glower that Artair might call the next case.

  “Gifford Norrie, come forth.”

  Iain sighed as a stocky, unkempt man of middle years stepped forward, not at all shocked by the charges read.

  Artair read, “Amalie Norrie has charged that you twice have struck her, on two separate occasions, that last of which removed two of her teeth.”

  This brought Maggie’s gaze up sharply to the man, her lips parting while she regarded him, as if she were now directly offended by his alleged crime and at the same time wary of such a man, who would strike a woman.

  “What say you?” Prodded Artair.

  Gifford Norrie made a face that aptly said to the three at the table that he considered the charges nonsense. “She dinna listen to a thing I say,” he defended, “she dinna show no respect for my authority as her husband.” Warming to his defense, as none had challenged it thus far, the man began to point an angry finger in the general direction of the table. “And it is not her place to deny my right to relations. But how’s a man to perform if she’s bawling the whole bluidy time?”

  The hall erupted in laughter, while someone called out, “I’d be wailing, too, Giff, if you were on top of me!” More laughter followed this.

  Iain’s regard was solely for Maggie. She was seething, her fury focused entirely on the unsuspecting Gifford Norrie. Iain did not have to employ any great feats to wonder why this particular crime should have risen Maggie’s ire. It had something to do with her marriage to Kenneth Sutherland, he imagined, and the demise of self and power and a voice that might be heard, which likely had been so miserably lost to her husband.

  Artair lifted his hands and flapped them up and down, signaling that the congregation should quiet. They did not immediately, not until Archie and Eideard and Duncan stepped forward, Arch’s fist cocked in the general direction of the crowd
, and his lip curled.

  Iain addressed the accused. “I’ve told you—how many times now?—that we dinna strike women. We bring no harm at all to them—”

  “But—” Gifford Norrie began to defend.

  “Dinna interrupt, you bleeding arse!” Archie hollered at the man.

  Iain continued, “Gifford Norrie, you are hereby sentenced to three days in the cells—”

  “Three days?” he repeated with outrage.

  Iain continued as if the man had not spoken. “And you will pay your wife, Amalie Norrie, the sum of ten pence for your abuse of her—”

  “I’ll no’ pay her a single farthing,” Gifford maintained.

  “And you will do this, because I have said that you will and if I hear of—”

  The man dared to sputter yet more, “But ye have no’ even heard all of my de—”

  “There is no defense!” Iain roared, rising to his feet so abruptly as to send his chair onto its back. This effectively stilled and quieted even the faintest murmurings in the hall. He felt many wide-eyed gazes upon him, not least of all Maggie’s and Artair’s. “If I decree it, then it is so,” he shouted at the offender. “And I do. Gifford Norrie, if you strike this woman again, I swear to God I will enjoy tremendously meting out the punishment that will follow—tenfold what you do to her, I myself will bring to you.” Archie stood next to Gifford, his heavy hand upon the man’s upper arm, ready to either lead him away or reprimand him bodily if he persisted with his outburst. “You’ll have no more warnings, only the penalty,” Iain promised. He turned and righted his chair, taking his seat once again while Archie dragged the fuming man from the hall.

  Iain felt her regard still and turned his face to Maggie.

  She was breathing heavily, as if alarmed still by the man’s crime, or mayhap Iain’s overdone reaction to it. He rarely had cause to employ such rage at these hearings.

  At the same time, there was so much faith in her beautiful green gaze just then. Faith in him. For one tiny moment, it was uncomfortable, all that gratefulness. But then this was Maggie Bryce, and he’d sworn to himself she should never be misused again, so that he had essentially already committed himself to be her champion, he supposed.