“Forgive me, Harriet,” Glenna said quietly. “Please. I…I’m tired. And frightened.” She looked up at Harriet, who was tidying the bedside table, piling the bowl and used cloths in the center of the tray. Glenna couldn’t help but ask stiffly, “Are you not glad to now have a home such as Roscraig?”
The woman glanced at her with a smile as she leaned over Iain Douglas and slid her palm along his forehead, the sides of his face. “Aye. But I was glad of our home in Edinburgh, too. I will be happy anywhere that Tav is happy. I doona wish you or your da ill from it.” She straightened but still regarded Iain with a slight frown. “It wasna plague, then?”
Glenna sighed. “I don’t know what else it could have been. He fell ill a week ago, after everyone else in the village who’d been stricken had already died. He took to his bed and slept heavily that night. The next day he was weaker. The day after he didn’t wake at all.”
“Nae boils? Nae spasms of breath?” Harriet pressed her, reaching beneath the furs as if feeling along Iain Douglas’s arm.
Glenna shook her head. “None I was witness to. Why do you ask?”
“’Tis rare that the Death doesna show on the skin or in the lungs. It’s been known to happen of the verra old or young—the sickness shuts their insides down before the sign can show.” Harriet looked to Glenna. “How many did it take in the village?”
“Forty-seven.”
“Mercy,” Harriet breathed. “Took all your help, apparently. The signs on the road looked old.”
Glenna blinked; her pride wouldn’t allow her to admit to Harriet Cameron that there’d been warning signs on the Tower Road for as long as she could remember. And there had been no full staff in years.
The woman shook her head when Glenna failed to answer, but then turned back toward the table and went on briskly. “I’m going to fetch my bags for some freshening herbs and give the laird a good wash, with your permission, milady.”
Glenna shook herself. “You needn’t do that. It’s not your responsibility.”
“I know it’s nae. I wish to.” Harriet picked up the tray and bobbed in Iain Douglas’s direction. Then she gave Glenna a quick smile and made to quit the room, but paused, looking back with a wince. “But perhaps milady wouldna mention it to Master Cameron if she should happen to speak with him.”
Glenna huffed. “I intend to avoid the man completely. You’ve my word I shall not speak of whatever kindness you wish to bestow upon us, lest the mighty Tavish Cameron rain hell down upon us all.”
Harriet’s smile returned. “Just so, milady.”
It seemed very quiet after the woman’s departure; quiet and darker and colder, with the sound of the steady, heavy rain outside the keep. Glenna looked at her sleeping father and wondered what he would do if he were well enough to deal with Tavish Cameron’s invasion of Roscraig.
Perhaps she should be glad of the king’s visit. James would have found out the sorry state of the village sooner or later any matter. If she was going to be evicted from her home eventually, it would give her more than a little satisfaction to hope that the arrogant bastard from Edinburgh might never call the Tower his own.
But where would that leave her?
She rubbed absentmindedly at her arm where he’d bruised her; then her eyes went to the bodice of her ugly gray kirtle, where the tiny speck of brown reminded her how she’d lashed out at him as if he were naught but a common criminal.
Wasn’t he? Hadn’t he invaded her home? Laid hand to her?
For now, you have the privilege of choosing which battle you fight. Tavish never did.
Glenna didn’t entirely understand what Harriet Cameron meant, but for now she thought the woman’s advice was sound: She would stay by her father’s side and fight for him for as long as he lived.
And for as long as the rain held out.
* * * *
Tavish was soaked through to his skin as he came into the entry hall from the courtyard. The echo of the downpour beyond turned the corridor into a roaring cave, but he could still hear his mother’s strident voice above the cacophony as she stood on the bottom step of the west tower with tray in hand, apparently berating the large man before her.
He was tall and wide, with a head that appeared to be quite pointed beneath the shape of his coarse, wet hood. In one pawlike hand, he carried a basket, and Tavish recognized him at once as the figure he’d seen coming from the cliff that morning.
Tavish slid the heavy wooden chest from his shoulder and let it drop into the crook of his arm with a huff of exertion as he neared.
“…doona care who ye are, milady isna— Ooh, there you are. Thank the Lord.”
“What is it?” Tavish asked as he came to stand before the pair, swiping the rivulets of water from his forehead.
Mam’s mouth was set in the expression that warned Tavish she had made up her mind about one thing or another. “This man here is demanding entry to the east tower.”
Tavish raised his eyebrows and looked—slightly up, to his chagrin—at the hulking villager. “Who are you?”
“’Oo am I?” the man repeated. “That’s nae yer affair, stranger. I’ve come to see Lady Glenna. I know where she stays.”
“You do, do you?” Tavish said.
“Aye, I’ve brung ’er her eggs.” He gestured with the basket, and Tavish glanced down to see three tiny ovals rolling nestled in a shallow layer of straw. “’Oo are you?”
“Tavish Cameron. Laird of Roscraig.”
“Laird of—wha?” The man snorted a laugh and looked around the hall as if seeking someone to share the joke with. He looked back at Tavish. “You’re nae the laird. Douglas—” The man broke off. “The old man’s dead?”
“He’s nae,” Mam interjected sternly. “Lady Glenna doesna wish to be disturbed.”
“I’ll nae be turned away, old woman,” the brutish man said, offense clear in his gravelly, slow tone. He looked back to Tavish, his small eyes narrowing even further. “I’m Frang Roy, Lady Glenna’s own man. She wants me.”
“Well, now that we’ve introduced ourselves, you may kindly hand the basket to my mother,” Tavish said, “and be on your way until I call for you.”
“Bugger off,” the man snorted again. “I doona take orders from the likes of you, ye bonny laddie. With those long locks, I’d have me dinker in your crack before I kenned you was a bloke.” He broke out into a guffaw that Tavish joined him in readily.
“Oh, that’s…that’s good!” Tavish said. “That’s jolly! One moment while I—” He groaned through his laughter as he set the heavy chest on the stones and then straightened, still chuckling. “Aye, that’s much better.” He smiled.
Tavish punched Frang Roy squarely in the nose, twice, in blurring fast succession.
While the man was still bringing his hand to his battered face, Mam swooped in and snatched the basket with the pitiful offerings in it as she crossed the entry hall and disappeared down the corridor. By the time Frang Roy dropped his hand and charged forward with an enraged yell, Tavish had drawn his short sword.
Frang Roy halted, but Tavish could see that he was searching with those small, watchful eyes, waiting for an opening to catch Tavish unawares. If the man did manage to lay hand to him, he could likely break Tavish in two.
“Have I your full attention now?” Tavish asked. At the giant’s answering nod, he continued. “Good. You and I seem to have made a poor start, and that’s a shame, I say. So here’s what we’re going to do: You’re to turn about and take your smelly, dimwitted self through the door and over yonder bridge. When you’ve quite remembered how to address the laird of the hold, as well as how to mind your language in front of a lady, you may return and request audience…with me.”
“But, Lady Glenna—”
“Lady Glenna no longer has anything to do with the running of Roscraig.”
Frang Roy sto
od there, his shoulders heaving, and Tavish could almost hear the creak of his brains grinding together as he sought to make sense of the situation.
“Who sent—?”
“Nay,” Tavish cut him off. Then he gestured with his sword point. “Go.”
Frang Roy paused a moment longer, staring at Tavish with dull eyes, and then his gaze went pointedly to the money chest at Tavish’s feet.
“Things have a habit of disappearin’ at Roscraig. Coin. People. Mind yerself, Tavish Cameron, that someone doona make you disappear.” Then he turned and opened the door, leaving it swinging wide after he passed through and began to clomp his way across the long, narrow bridge in the pouring rain.
Tavish let out a sigh and closed and barred the door after the man, thinking once more of the gouges on the outside wood, and the way Frang Roy had identified himself as Lady Glenna’s man.
Was it possible the slight blond woman felt kindly toward such a slow beast? Would she have granted him entry into her private quarters with no one else in the hold? He had seemed quite confident in his intentions. The idea of it brought a frown to Tavish’s face.
Tavish picked up the money chest once again with a grunt and hefted it to his shoulder. He paused and looked toward the dark, quiet stairwell to the east tower for a moment. Then he turned and began to climb the western steps.
* * * *
Glenna watched from the shadows as Tavish Cameron’s wide back disappeared across the corridor, her hand pressed to her chest as if it might quiet her galloping heart.
Nothing would change the fact that she hated the Edinburgh merchant.
But for the first time in weeks, she felt temporarily safe from Frang Roy.
Chapter 6
Two miracles occurred in Glenna Douglas’s life following Tavish Cameron’s tyrannical demands; the first was that it rained for the next full fortnight. She watched from her chamber window as, day after day, the gray skies hung rippling sheets of silver rain across the leaden waters of the firth. During that fortnight, Tavish Cameron’s cog ship arrived and departed on four occasions, on the latest trip finally able to send men over the new dock that had been reconstructed even through the deluge.
Much rain on the firth in spring was no wonder, of course; the miracle of it was that the rain would often stop before midnight, allowing Glenna to catch a glimpse of a brilliant black sky. But when she awoke in the morning, the sunrise was smothered by the choking, watery clouds again, the rain once more drowning the fields, the muddy paths, and ditches of the village, the Tower Road.
There was not one dry day in a fortnight for the Edinburgh merchant to enforce his eviction, and indeed, she had not caught sight of the man except from her window in those many days. And so Glenna had had much time to think upon her situation, which had been further complicated by the occurrence of the second miracle.
Iain Douglas had woken the day after Harriet Cameron had assumed his care.
He was not at all well, and indeed, his wakeful periods were marked by slurred, delusional murmurs. He seemed largely unaware of the strange woman who plied him with strong-smelling concoctions, and pressed thick, muddy toweling to his chest and abdomen. Indeed, he didn’t even recognize Glenna herself, once holding out a frail, trembling hand toward her in the still of midnight and croaking, “Meg.”
Neither did Harriet Cameron seem pleased by her success in rousing Glenna’s father. Her usual kind smile was pressed into a grim line when she warned Glenna that even if he lived, he might never completely recover his nimble mind. Harriet guessed that he’d been apoplectic, perhaps during the night early in his illness, for now his face drooped on the right side, his right arm was drawn up against his body, his mouth seemed unable to stiffen and form words out of his shapeless moans, as if he were trapped in a state of perpetual pain or nightmare.
Glenna was left to consider the realities of her future on those long, lonely, clear nights, contemplating the blazing stars washed sparkling clean by the days upon days of cold rain. She had no idea how she would fend for herself if Tavish Cameron turned her out of Roscraig, never mind if she were to be turned out with an invalid father. Even with the hold undoubtedly in deep debt, Glenna felt she had no other choice but to appeal to the crown. Iain Douglas was still one of Scotland’s lairds—surely the king would have some mercy on them both.
Perhaps he would make a match for Glenna. She tried to ignore the logic that told her any husband the king would find for such an impoverished lady would likely be old and hoary; a widower, perhaps, with children to care for. Or her imagined betrothed would be cruel and wicked, taking on the king’s charity that was Glenna and her father and paying Roscraig’s debts to avoid punishment for some evil.
Without doubt, he would be ugly and harsh; vulgar and foul. There was no dearth of well-off women willing to marry a handsome and landed man, young or old, after all.
The idea quickly brought the image of Tavish Cameron to Glenna’s mind. He was certainly not ugly, even if he had been unkind to her. She frowned as she admitted that there would be plenty of maidens eager to come to Roscraig as the wife of such a young, virile laird and take Glenna’s place as lady of the Tower.
Then she went very still.
Why should any other young woman need come to Roscraig to take her place? Why should the king have to marry Glenna off to some distasteful stranger? Glenna was already Lady of Roscraig; Tavish Cameron was already sufficiently distasteful to her. It wouldn’t take much for her distaste to blossom into full loathing. The bastard would need some credibility to lend to his newfound class status, and Glenna knew more than anyone left at Roscraig, save Frang Roy, about the village and its resources.
Perhaps a rich, bastard Edinburgh merchant was just what Roscraig needed. Perhaps Glenna was what Tavish Cameron needed.
And so, by the time the fourteenth day of her captivity arrived, sunny and clear, Glenna at last had a plan.
* * * *
Tavish sat back in his chair with a contented sigh as the servant took away his dish. He looked down the length of the trestle table, gleaming in the candlelight of the hall, the dry stones flickering with the cheery glow of the hearth mingled with the red wash of sunset coming through the windows behind him. At the other end of the table, Mam picked up her dish and handed it to the girl with unintelligible words of encouragement.
It had taken him four days of pleading to convince her not to clear the table herself.
But now his mother looked very fine, sitting in her embroidered kirtle, wearing the blue stone earrings he’d purchased for her. Even if she was glaring at him once more now that they were alone in the hall again.
“You’re still set on it, then?” she asked without preamble. She had done little else but harangue him over the matter of Glenna and Iain Douglas in the time Tavish was not tending to the revitalization of Tower Roscraig.
He sighed. “Mam, please.”
“The laird’s unwell, Tav.”
“I beg to differ,” he said, lifting his cup to salute her. “I’ve never felt better.” He took a drink.
“What if you’re wrong?” she pressed, leaning forward. “What if the king doesna side with you?”
“He’d be going against a legal inheritance,” Tavish reminded her. “You saw the state Roscraig was in at our arrival. James would have to be mad to deny an experienced merchant such a location on the firth. From both military and trade standpoints, my inheritance of the Tower will be an answered prayer for our monarch. And I’ll more than welcome his experiments in artillery.”
“Perhaps he’ll want Roscraig for himself,” she sniffed.
Tavish took another sip of wine and then shook his head as he swallowed. “He won’t want the tending of it.”
“You doona know that,” Harriet insisted.
“I reckon I will once he comes now, won’t I?” Tavish rolled he eyes as his mother looked t
oward the window with a hurt expression. “I ken you’ve grown fond of her, Mam. I feared that very thing. ’Tis why I wanted them out at once.”
She still refused to look at him. “’Tis nae right, what’s happened to them.”
“Perhaps it isn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that Roscraig doesn’t belong to them.” He sighed and pushed back from the table with a screech of chair legs and, carrying his cup, walked to the end of the table to crouch down at his mother’s chair. “This is our home now, Mam. The home that Thomas Annesley wanted us to have. Would you let the woman play on your sympathies so as to take the very bed from beneath you?”
Harriet’s head whipped back around to pin him with a scolding frown. “Lady Glenna wouldna do such a thing.”
“You don’t know that,” Tavish said, using her own phrase against her. “And you would do well to stop referring to her as ‘lady’; I’ve already commanded that none of the servants refer to Glenna Douglas as such, lest they be immediately dismissed. You’re only encouraging confusion.”
“I’ll refer to Lady Glenna however I choose, and I’ll thank you to remember who ’tis you’re speaking to, son.”
Tavish sighed again. “You are too kindhearted for your own good, Mam. Glenna is not some ill, orphan child in Edinburgh’s poorhouse.”
Harriet pursed her lips. “She may as well be.”
“She is a stranger to you, and a desperate one at that. She has been spared by the rain this past interminable fortnight—more time than she was owed. She should have by now resigned herself to reality.”
Tavish would have rather perished on the spot than admit that he’d spent many of those interminable nights lying in his own bed, his mind filled with images of the haughty, hostile woman.
Mam looked into his eyes, and Tavish plainly saw the depth of emotion she was holding back. “I think Laird Douglas was poisoned.”
Tavish drew his head back in surprise and then huffed a laugh. “Poisoned? When nearly the entire village just died from illness? Did Glenna fill your head with such an idea?”
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