His frown deepened as he left the bleak structure and moved back toward the shadow of the tower.
He lowered and secured the portcullis as silently as he’d raised it and moved to the bottom of the stairs of the east tower, his foot resting on the bottom tread for several moments. It was possible that he would encounter a servant, or even Lady Glenna or Laird Douglas themselves were Tavish to breach the sanctity of the family quarters.
But he didn’t think he would meet with anyone.
In fact, the idea that Tower Roscraig was all but empty began to grow bigger in his mind with each step Tavish ascended. And when he came to what could only be Tower Roscraig’s great hall—its empty length and breadth punctuated by the long, open windows flanking another enormous hearth at the far end—Tavish felt certain his instincts were correct. He crossed the bare floorboards to the gaping hearth and held forth the hand not gripping the sputtering torch.
The stones were blackened, but icy cold—as though the grand opening hadn’t seen a hearty blaze in years. Tavish turned to the left, then to the right—the ragged cloths meant to cover the two openings to either side of the stone chimney flapped in long strips into the frigid room along with the wind and the misty rain—the shutters were also missing. He turned once more to look back toward the entrance; no trestle dominated the wide-planked floor, no rich tapestries warmed the walls. Instead, water ran down the stones and dripped from the corners.
No villagers. No servants. No soldiers.
There is sickness here…
From the evidence before Tavish’s eyes—even in the shadows of night that were perhaps kinder than the harsh light of day, even before the mysterious illness that supposedly beset the town—it was obvious that Roscraig had not prospered in years.
Tavish turned back to the window and looked out over the lashing black waves roiling beneath the high lightning beyond the shore and realized that, for all the lady’s dire threats upon his arrival, there was nothing to prevent Tavish’s acquisition of Tower Roscraig, after all.
He’d had to fight all his life to gain and keep everything he had ever called his own, and so when he’d set out from Edinburgh, he’d been prepared to do battle. But in reality, all that would likely be required to take possession of his home was to set the woman and her father—if there was indeed such a person—on the road beyond the moat.
His moat.
Perhaps Glenna Douglas was nothing more than a very convincing imposter. Perhaps she was even quite mad, fancying herself the lady of Roscraig. She had, after all, readily taken the pittance he’d offered her. Tavish’s mind went to the other chambers in the west tower, and he wondered in his eagerness who currently occupied his rooms. Perhaps even now, Glenna Douglas was resting her wild blond curls upon his pillow, her willowy body atop his bed.
He recalled the sensual tilt of her eyes, her long, slender waist encircled by a fine chain, and he wondered if she would refuse him if he sought her in the dark…
He shook himself from the fantasy. Let her have her last night of false nobility in peace. Tavish was full of his mother’s warm cooking, a nightcap of decent wine, and on the brink of launching his own dynasty.
Or was he merely continuing Thomas Annesley’s?
The intrusive thought gave him pause, and his eyes went instinctively to the stones of the chimney. In the torch’s dying glow, Tavish fancied he could see a faint outline where perhaps a portrait had once hung.
Chapter 4
Glenna came awake with a start, raising her head from her folded arms and blinking in the pale gray light of dawn. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her wrist and sat up fully in the chair, her stiff, shaking hands moving instinctively up the thick furs and stopping over the slight hump. She held her breath, felt nothing; closed her eyes and concentrated.
There it was, at last—the slight rise of an inhalation.
Glenna opened her eyes and finally dared look upon the face of her father. He was so pale, his skin so translucent, that Glenna could see the network of thin, twisty veins in sharp, blue-green relief. His eyelids were deep lilac, his nostrils and mouth gaping holes. The last of his white hair had fallen out. He’d not eaten in five days. He’d not woken in four.
And still, he lived.
Glenna stood with a hiss as her stiff muscles protested her uncomfortable vigil. She moved to the head of the bed and picked up the rag folded near the wooden bowl, dunking it in the icy water she’d brought last night and mixed with half of the remaining wine in all of Roscraig. She wrung it lightly and then gently wiped the insides of Iain Douglas’s lips and cheeks, the roof of his mouth. The liquid seemed to disappear at once, and his throat made no motion of swallowing. She’d hoped to try once more squeezing a few drops of the mixture into his parched mouth, but when she’d done that two days ago, he’d wheezed so weakly and for so long that she thought she had likely killed him.
She folded the rag in half and replaced it near the bowl once more and then leaned over the bed to place a soft kiss on her father’s forehead.
“I’ll return in a bit, Da,” she whispered. “Seeing our guests off.”
Glenna left her father’s chamber, closing the door silently after her. Once she was free of the room, her stride was swift, her icy feet inside her worn slippers flitting over the familiar depressions of the stairs. She came to her own chamber and quickly washed her face and combed and twisted her hair into tight confinement and then looked down at her dress. Her sense of pride—what little she felt she had left—protested the idea of the strangers seeing her in the same worn gown as they had at their arrival.
Especially Tavish Cameron. She would not have a common merchant looking down upon her so.
Glenna quickly untied her shawl and chain, then slipped out of the striped kirtle, replacing it with the dark gray wool she pulled from the tall wardrobe. It was coarse; a bit too short for her at the hem, much too loose at the waist and bust. But it would have to do. She shook the creases from her shawl before draping and retying it about her shoulders and chest so as best to hide the widening holes in the weave. She once more donned the fine chain.
She had done all that she could with her appearance now, having lost her veil the day before and so, after a quick glance at the brightening window, she quit her room and once more gained the stairwell, feeling as she went for the keys at her waist.
Glenna was passing the wide opening of the great hall when a tawny shape within the high-ceilinged room caught her eye. She stopped, swaying on her feet, and stepped backward.
There was a man in the hall, standing to the left of the chimney and looking out the window, his boots braced wide on the still-damp floor. Her stomach leaped before she realized that it was not Frang Roy who trespassed. She blinked.
It was that blasted Edinburgh merchant.
“What are you doing in here?” she blurted. And then she strode through the doorway even as he turned his head lazily to glance at her over his shoulder, seeming entirely unconcerned at her arrival or the discovery of his escape. “How did you get out of the chamber?”
“That lock is rubbish,” he said mildly, looking once more out the window at the firth, its waters beginning to sparkle gloriously in the dawn. “I’m not accustomed to being held prisoner when I’ve paid for accommodation. In fact, I’ve a mind to ask for the return of my coin when I complain to the proprietor. Wait a moment—would that be you?”
“I didn’t wish to give you accommodation,” Glenna clarified through gritted teeth. Her heart began pounding in her chest again at his casual threat to recoup his pathetic payment. “Roscraig isn’t an inn, and I am no proprietor.”
He looked at her at last, one eyebrow quirked. “Ah. That explains the absence of biscuits when the maid didn’t come in to bank the fire.”
Glenna felt her face heat to the tips of her ears.
But the man wasn’t finished. “Lest
you be too very embarrassed—I did find the last of some wine in that hovel that might have once been a kitchen.”
Glenna’s heart plummeted into her stomach. “You drank my wine?”
“I’d complain at the grittiness, but that can’t be helped when ’tis not properly decanted.”
Glenna felt her shoulders shaking with rage and humiliation. “’Tis time you were on your way. Even were I not offended at your trespass through my private quarters, the sun has risen, and you gave your word that you would leave at the dawn.”
“Actually,” he drawled, “I didn’t give my word. ’Twas my knightly companion who made that vow and, true to his promise, he has already gone. Ridiculously honorable, that one.”
“Well, you’re certainly not staying any longer, vow or nay.”
“Actually,” he repeated, and if Glenna had had her father’s sword at hand, she would have run the bastard through, “I am staying. Quite a bit longer.”
“I’ll have you thrown out,” she threatened, but her fear was growing with each crash of her frantic heart. She was completely alone in all of the Tower with this man.
“Aye? By whom?” It was as though she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. “The young man in the village? Or the crusty old farmer? Who I’ll be speaking strongly to about stealing eggs from the doocot, by the by. In case he happens to be a relative of yours.”
Glenna could feel her nostrils flaring. “I don’t require assistance disciplining my villagers. I—”
“My villagers,” he interrupted.
“—know exactly—” She broke off. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘my villagers.’” He reached into his vest and withdrew the rolled parchment he’d tried to show her yesterday. “Perhaps you will better understand that I was taken aback yesterday at your denial of a guardian of Tower Roscraig, and by your mention of your father as laird. For, you see,” he was unrolling the creamy page now, “although I don’t know who you truly are or why you’re here, I have indeed come at the behest of Lord Annesley, the rightful laird of this place, whether you know his name or nay.” He held the parchment open. “Lord Thomas Annesley was my father, and he has bequeathed Roscraig to me.”
There was a loud ringing in Glenna’s ears. She glanced at the scrawled black writing on the page and then back into the blue eyes of the man watching her closely.
“So, aye, they are my villagers. And I believe you are the one trespassing.”
“You told me you were a merchant,” she accused, and was alarmed at the wild trembling of her words. “A merchant from Edinburgh.”
“Aye, I am,” he acquiesced.
“And yet your father was noble?” she taunted incredulously, but her words held little force. “Were you some gutter bastard of his? A last resort as an heir?”
His lips quirked then, although his eyes fell steely, and Glenna knew she’d at last hit a sensitive area. “Guilty,” he said lightly. “But we only have to consider the history of our own ruling families to know that the circumstances surrounding one’s birth actually mean very little. Tower Roscraig is rightfully mine.”
“You’re a liar. Get out of my house,” Glenna demanded.
“Read it yourself,” the man invited. “Och, but you probably can’t.”
Glenna reached out and snatched the page from his hand and scanned it quickly. From what she could make out with her throbbing eyesight, the decree looked authentic. She thrust it back to him without finishing it.
“My father has been laird here since before I was born.”
The man shook his head. “He never was.”
“He is!” She resisted the urge to stomp her foot. “I’ll send a plea to the king. You’ll be hanged.”
“No need for all that,” he said mildly. “I’ve already sent word to him. James shall be my guest over the warmer months.” He looked around the hall pointedly. “Once I see the Tower outfitted properly for guests. Or residence. Goats even, really.”
She’d hoped to bluff him. But what if this man had actually invited the king to Roscraig? The last thing Glenna needed now was James’s personal witness to her and her father’s dire straits.
Her heart was so high in her throat that she feared she would vomit it up were she to open her mouth. But she struggled to swallow, thinking of the thin, motionless figure lying unconscious above their very heads.
“My father is Iain Douglas, the laird of Roscraig. He fell ill when the sickness came to our village a fortnight ago. You can’t possibly think I would simply take your word for such an outrage when he is too weak to defend his home and his honor. An accusation such as this would surely kill him.”
The man rolled the parchment neatly while she spoke and glanced out the window repeatedly, as if only half listening to her begrudged plea.
Now he nodded at her. “I am truly sorry for your troubles, Miss Douglas.”
“Lady,” Glenna insisted, feeling as though he’d slapped her. She lifted her chin. “I am Lady Glenna Douglas, and you will address me as such.”
“Whatever you say, princess. But Roscraig is mine by rights, and I owe you or your father naught. Collect your things and be gone. I have more important business to be about. In fact”—he turned and pointed a long arm toward the window, where a small, dark shape could be seen on the glistening water of the Forth—“that is my ship, just there. I must greet my captain and be about my duties. My home shall require much attention in the days to come, for it’s been woefully neglected.”
He tucked the parchment back into his vest and seemed to hesitate before he gave her a short, stiff bow. “Good day, Miss Douglas. Och, I beg your pardon; princess. And good journey to you.” He walked away from her swiftly.
Fear seemed to be clawing at her insides now. “I’ll bar the door against you!”
“I’ll break it down!” he shouted at the ceiling, not bothering to look back at her.
In a blink, he was gone from the room.
Glenna backed up into the stones and then looked out the window. Indeed, there was a small, sturdy-looking cog swiftly gaining on the beach, its sails falling down with graceful ripples, its deck alive with a score of tiny figures.
Roscraig was being invaded.
She slid down the wall until she rested on her hip, her knees falling to one side and both hands shooting out to brace herself against the damp floorboards while her head dropped forward. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she felt the blood leave her face.
My father has been laird here since before I was born.
He never was.
She raised her head as sounds of footsteps echoed in the large room.
Harriet Cameron had entered the hall and stopped abruptly, her hands going to her bosom with a gasp as she seemed quite surprised to see Glenna.
“Good heavens!” She crossed the floor with flapping skirts—sturdy, woolen garments, but they were bright and colorful and well made, with a crisp, double-bodiced apron covering them. She immediately knelt at Glenna’s side and laid a gentle hand upon her back.
Glenna flinched away. “Leave me.”
“Tav’s never been one for gentleness, I fear,” she said softly, and her hand did not move. “Why do ye nae come with me, and let’s have a bite to eat, shall we? You’re naught but skin and bones, my lady.”
Glenna’s breath caught on her inhale. “There’s nae food,” she admitted inanely, unable to think of her pride in this moment. “There’s naught.”
The old woman’s hand moved in a gentle circles on Glenna’s back, and she could feel the prominent ripples of her own spine against the woman’s plump palm.
“Och, there’s plenty of food,” she said. “And there will be more to come.”
“’Tis nae mine,” she said on a reedy whisper. “Please, leave me. My father lies above, dying, and your son has just told me that the only home I’ve k
nown isn’t mine. And never was. Either he is a liar, or my father is. I know not what I’m to do.”
“Come,” the woman insisted, gaining her feet and tugging Glenna to stand, taking much of her weight against her bosom. “We’ll worry about all that later. Nae matter what happens, you’ll need your strength to care for your da now, will ye nae? Who else does he have?”
Glenna glanced at the woman in fear, but there was no maliciousness in Harriet Cameron’s face.
“No one,” Glenna admitted in a whisper.
Harriet nodded. “That’s right.” She shook Glenna’s arm lightly. “Come on then.”
* * * *
The bright morning sunlight sparkled over the still-wet stones and grass as if the whole of Roscraig had been crusted in diamonds; the firth was a gray-green shimmer like the rippling robe of fae royalty, and Tavish stopped at the top of the steep, switchback stone steps that led down the side of the cliff of the rear courtyard to the beach, reveling in his triumph. His eyes prickled and he swallowed, closing them for a moment and taking a deep breath in through his nose of the gusting wind, so cool and fresh and free.
He’d won. At last.
He opened his eyes, ignoring the tickle of thought that hinted it had been too easy; his conscience that wanted to remind him of Glenna Douglas’s fine features, stricken pale, her thin form standing defiant before him in her rough gown.
You drank my wine?
She was not his problem. He started down the mossy, neglected stairs, not even the tall bank of dark clouds roiling in from the west able to shadow his conquest.
But he was forced to make allowances for the dire state of the prize he’d won and the immensity of the tasks that lay before him by the time he reached the wet, brown beach and saw Captain John Muir slogging through the shallows toward him. The end of Roscraig’s dock—mayhap more than half of it—was completely gone, the black tops of ancient, rotted pilings gasping at the surface between waves. Two ships hands were turning the dinghy back toward the Stygian when Muir and Tavish met with a clasp of hands.
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