“Roscraig’s fields have been mismanaged for years, just as everything else in the hold. Gather your things, and get out,” Tavish Cameron repeated. “I care not if you go on to Dunfermline, but you’ll not stay here.”
“I’m nae going anywhere,” Frang scoffed. “You’ve nae right to—”
The laird drew his sword. “This afternoon. The next time I see you on my lands you’re a dead man.”
“My gracious, all this fuss over an ugly old chair?” a melodic voice called out, and Miss Keane entered the room from the corridor. “What did he do, set it on the bedstead? He didn’t seem very clever, I admit. I wondered to myself if he would get lost on the way.”
Frang wove his way through the crowd, jostling both Tavish Cameron and Friar Dubhán on his way out. “You’ll get what’s comin’ to you,” he growled.
The chamber was filled with awkward silence for a moment, and then Audrey Keane broke in. “I hope it wasn’t something I said.”
John Muir gave the woman a short bow. “‘He may answer, and say this and that; I care not, for I speak right as I mean.’ I’m certain your words held naught but the truth, Miss Keane.”
She gave the sea captain a grateful smile. “You flatter me with Chaucer, Captain Muir.” Her face held a pretty flush when she looked back to Tavish Cameron. “Laird, the guests are beginning to arrive.”
Tavish sheathed his sword. “Thank you, Miss Keane.”
She stood there a moment longer, her eyes darting to the blond woman whose head drooped, and then she fastened a bright smile to her face. “Shall I help you ready?”
“Nay,” Tavish said. “I have assistance, should I require it.”
Her smile faltered a bit. “I shall meet you in the hall, then. Good day, Captain. I do very much hope your schedule allows you to join us. ‘You’re so merry and jocund, that at a revel when I see you dance, it is a salve for my every wound.’”
She curtsied to Muir’s bow, then left the room.
“Miss Douglas,” Tavish began. “Were you harmed?”
“Nay.”
“Very good. You shall attend the feast, as well.”
She raised her head and looked at him, and her eyes were wild even as her chin lifted proudly. “Am I to serve you?”
“You are to entertain. I excuse you to ready yourself elsewhere. I have need to conduct some business in my chamber.”
“Does this business involve Roscraig?”
“That is none of your concern.”
They stared at each other for a moment and then Glenna lifted her chin and turned from him. “Good day, Dubhán; Captain Muir, I must apologize that we have not yet been properly introduced. I wish you farewell until we meet again.”
The two men murmured courtesies to her but would not meet her gaze as Tavish held the door open. As soon as Glenna had passed into the corridor, the merchant closed the door firmly behind her.
She heard the bolt slide home.
Chapter 9
After Tavish Cameron had evicted her from her own chamber while he conducted his secret business, Glenna had ascended to her father’s chamber, where she had managed to find a faded blue kirtle she’d not worn since she was ten and two in the bottom of a trunk. She’d grabbed up her sewing basket with its few precious supplies, but found no place inside the keep with good enough light where she felt she would not be stared at or be in danger of encountering Audrey Keane. So Glenna spent the afternoon in the courtyard behind the stone kitchen, sitting on a low, splintery stool with an old gown on her lap and a needle in her hand.
The garment was shorter than she’d guessed it would be; the bodice and hips too narrow. It was stained near the waist and frayed at the yoke, evidence of a frock worn by a more carefree and rambunctious girl. Glenna spent the next several hours carefully separating sections of seam and undoing the hem, painstakingly rejoining them at the very limits of their boundaries. She embroidered tiny crosses over the frayed edges, scrubbed at the stain with salt. When she was finished, it looked little better than a large rag, the expanded seams clearly showing a darker stripe of color where it had been protected for so many years.
But, like everything else in her life now, Glenna had little choice but to wear it.
She sat with the finished kirtle in her lap, resting her aching back against the warm stones of the kitchen while the breeze off the firth lifted her hair from her neck. She closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the ghostly sounds of laughter and conversation coming from the mouth of the entry hall. So many voices and sounds—animals and servants; the muffled rattles and chopping from the building that hid her. It seemed over loud to her now, after so many years of tight-spiraling quiet.
Glenna stood up with a sigh and folded the kirtle into a tidy package. She spent only a moment in the kitchen, ducking in to retrieve the slickstone from a shelf and place it in the lined basket to carry with her. She kept her head down and walked swiftly through the entry hall and up the stairs, flattening herself against the stones as strangers came and went through her home, heedless to the fact that they passed the lady of Roscraig. The great hall was already milling with people—guests, she reminded herself—their raucous conversations spilling out and assaulting her as she dashed past.
Glenna paused at the head of the corridor when she saw the man standing before her chamber door. Alec, she reminded herself, in charge of the many sailors Tavish Cameron now employed in the village. She began walking once more, wondering with a growing knot in her stomach if he would refuse her entry, but upon seeing her, he immediately stepped to the side of the doorway.
“Miss,” he said, fixing his gaze on the stone wall across from him. “The laird wished me to tell you that he will expect you in the great hall.”
Her step faltered only a bit, and Glenna didn’t think he’d noticed. “Thank you.” She went inside as quickly as she could without throwing herself through the door.
She leaned against the wood with a sigh. Her chamber was again blessedly empty of people, although it had been taken over by several new pieces of furniture. Glenna set the bundled gown and basket on the bed as she looked around, noticing the wide table pushed against a wall and paired with the old, tall chair; four large trunks held closed with great bandings and hasps; a wide, low shelf of sorts, populated like a beehive with a score or more of little square cells, most housing rolls of tied parchment and vellum. A fire had been laid some time ago, it would seem, and the typically cool chamber was warm and quiet.
It smelled different too from when she’d left it only hours ago—before, she’d never thought the chamber possessed a distinctive scent, but now the air seemed imbued with the heady fragrances of leather oil and clove, and even something sweet and floral. Glenna tried to ignore it, but she found herself drawing deep breaths of it, savoring the sensuous atmosphere.
Tavish Cameron had not only taken over her home, but the very air she breathed.
Glenna laid a cloth on the floor before the fire and set to carefully pressing the years-old creases from the blue kirtle with the slickstone until her shoulder ached. When that was done, she quickly disrobed down to her skin then pulled the scratchy woolen work gown back on to cover herself while she pressed her yellowed and frayed underdress. It did little to improve the garment, but it was her only one, and it did look a little better to her eyes after the attention.
The same dented pitcher and bowl and her wooden comb still stood on her own small table, but now there was also a fresh cake of soap and a stack of snowy cloths resting on the wood, and a short, carved cup holding a clutch of sweet violets. Glenna washed thoroughly, relishing the clean feeling of her skin and the scent of the tiny blooms on her wash table. She soaped her hair, scrubbing at her scalp and rinsing it repeatedly until half of the water from the bowl was soaking into the floorboards and the woolen gown was thoroughly wet.
Glenna didn’t care. Gaining
confidence in her privacy, she removed the old gray kirtle and used it to press the moisture from her hair, and then sat upon the wool before the hearth while her skin dried and she pulled the wooden comb through her curls until they glistened like gilded flourishes. Then she carefully tightened the brittle cords on her old slippers and brushed at the thinning leather with the rough, damp wool.
She stood and pulled on her ensemble, feeling more and more like that younger, more carefree girl who had once worn this same blue gown. Clean of body, with tidy clothing and freshened shoes; her hair shone and bounced as she gathered it atop her head with a scrap of fabric to cascade in a river of curls down her back. The final touch was a handful of the violet blooms to adorn her hair. She inhaled deeply and was satisfied: She had done her best to represent Roscraig as its rightful lady at the first feast the Tower had known in—
Glenna couldn’t remember.
But tonight she would show Tavish Cameron that she could serve him better as lady of Roscraig than Audrey Keane could ever dream of.
She took a deep breath and opened the chamber door, but stood there for so long before stepping through the doorway that the guard stationed in the corridor finally turned his head.
“All is well, miss?”
“I believe so,” Glenna said with a frown. Then she looked the young man in the face. “Aye. I am well. Thank you, Alec.”
The guard smiled. “You look well, if you don’t take offense at my plain speech.”
Glenna returned his smile.
“Mistress Harriet didn’t wish to disturb you, but she bade me give you this.” When Glenna held out her palm, Alec placed a metal object into it.
Glenna’s eyes widened. It was her father’s shawl brooch, round, silver filigree with a double bar across its center, adorned with a small, polished onyx stone. Glenna wondered where Harriet had found it—Glenna had not seen the piece in years and had all but forgotten about it.
Or perhaps, in the back of her mind, she’d thought Iain Douglas had sold it long ago.
“Thank you,” she repeated, and then turned away slightly to fasten the brooch at the top of the yoke of her kirtle, near the black embroidery. She turned back to Alec, who nodded.
“Just the thing,” he said approvingly.
Glenna inclined her head in thanks and almost laughed as she turned away with a sweep of her old, patched skirts and descended the stairs. This time she did not cower into the stones when another approached her, but looked them in the eye boldly, and it was they who stepped aside for her passing, acknowledging her presence.
“Good evening, mistress.”
“Miss.”
“Beg pardon, miss.”
The roar of conversation and thin strains of music swelled as she neared the great hall, and when she drew close to the doorway, she could feel the heat blasting from it like a forge, carrying the scent of cologne and roasted meat, the hoppy smell of ale. Glenna took another deep breath, lifted her chin and stepped inside the hall.
It was alive with sound and color, so vivid and loud that Glenna was thrown temporarily into a state of wonder—could this lively, bright place be the same haunted, black hall of a month ago, that dripped water onto worn, bare wood, and where the winter winds blasted unchecked through yonder windows, now festooned with billowing draperies and folded-back shutters? The walls rippled with candlelight and colorful woven pictures, the air shimmered with twanging music and the smells of the steaming platters of food coursing along the current of bustling servants.
Glenna’s stomach growled, and she had to swallow the saliva that flooded her mouth. She’d not seen this much food in one place her entire life—perhaps she’d not seen this much food in total in her entire life. And now it was overflowing the long trestle, its considerable length augmented by what appeared to be a half dozen more tables and benches.
A kitchen servant Glenna recognized as one of Harriet’s favorite pupils approached her side with a tray in hand brimming with metal chalices, and she held it toward Glenna with a smile.
Glenna took one with a murmur of thanks and brought it to her lips. The wine was warm and rich and delicious, and as she drank, she glimpsed Tavish Cameron standing beneath the old portrait before the hearth, talking in earnest with a trio of men that included Captain Muir. She held her head high as she weaved her way through the sea of strangers; no one moved aside for her here, and few paid her any more heed than a passing glance.
She did notice a young, finely dressed man appraising her with a pleased expression, and when his gaze at last met Glenna’s she nodded at him.
“Welcome to Tower Roscraig,” she said.
The man’s eyebrows rose for an instant before closing into an offended frown, and he turned away. Glenna’s stomach clenched at the blatant snub, and the tiniest spark of fear began to smolder once more as if to try to warn her.
She ignored it as nothing more than nerves.
At last she came upon the group of men. Tavish Cameron caught her gaze and looked away and then looked back at once, realizing it was her.
But it was Muir who spoke first, and with a short bow. “Good evening, Miss Douglas.”
The other two men followed suit, murmuring their greeting and then turning toward each other in a return to conversation and drifting away from the hearth.
“Captain Muir,” Glenna said. Then she looked up at Tavish Cameron, who—although he had been staring at her the entire time—had yet to speak a word.
Muir cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I see someone I know.”
Glenna didn’t watch the captain depart; she couldn’t take her eyes from the tall man standing before her with chalice in hand, his hair slicked back from his forehead, his fine, light-colored linen tunic adorned with a dark, silken shawl and wide, embossed belt. She could detect his scent—the same fragrance that had taken over her chamber.
He looked her up and down blatantly, and a slight frown creased his forehead as he gave her a confused look.
Glenna let a small smile play over her lips. He was pleased.
“Good evening, Master Cameron,” she said, her confidence letting her grant a bit of leniency to their heretofore tense interactions. She felt good this evening, hoping that perhaps there was yet chance that the misfortune that had haunted not only Glenna but all of Roscraig—crowned by the arrival of the merchant before her—could be concluded happily. “I am ready to play hostess as you requested, although your feast seems to already be a success.”
His frown deepened. “What are you wearing?”
She blinked and glanced down at her dress quickly. “I—what?”
“I said,” he growled through his teeth, “what are you wearing? I instructed you to dress appropriately.”
Glenna swallowed, feeling her cheeks begin to tingle. She opened her mouth—to say what, she didn’t know—but was interrupted by a gay hailing from behind.
“There you are, laird,” a woman’s voice called, and Glenna knew it was Audrey Keane. She reluctantly turned. And gasped under her breath.
The woman was bedecked in such a costume as to seem fantastical. Her gown was purest white, the kirtle so finely woven that it shimmered in the candlelight, the sleeves of her underdress glistened, and Glenna knew in a moment that they must both be silk. Audrey Keane wore two long strands of pearls, one nearly to her waist, and each boasted an oval ruby the size of one of Roscraig’s pigeon eggs. Her red hair had been combed out and plaited into what appeared to be a hundred tiny ropes and then gathered into a swag within a white-corded snood, fastened to her crown with a tiny silver-spiked crest. Her pale skin was translucent in the glow, her lips perfectly shaped and darkened with wine. It was like looking at a field of winter snow where an angel had strewn red rose petals.
Audrey Keane was accompanied by two young women wearing glittering brocades and striped silks, their necks and e
ars dripping with gold and polished gems; their cheeks rouged, their faces powdered white beneath severely plucked eyebrows.
Glenna couldn’t help but glance down at her own gown, nearly a score of years old, made for a girl and patched with her own hand. Glenna thought she could feel her careful seams pulling beneath her arms with every strangled breath, as if the kirtle would fall apart at any moment. She may as well have been a peasant woman, just come into the hall from the fields.
“Why, Miss Douglas,” Audrey Keane said with a sly smile. “How quaint. The quintessential country lass. If only for want of a crook, one might take you for a shepherdess.”
The two companions twittered.
“How rude of me,” Audrey continued, when it was clear that Glenna was not going to respond to her comments. “Allow me to introduce my friends. This is Miss Conner and Miss Haversham, from Edinburgh. Girls, this is Miss Douglas. Her father claimed to be laird of Roscraig, before Laird Cameron rightfully inherited the hold from his father. An English baron,” she emphasized.
Beneath the heat in her face, Glenna felt the rage burning like a hidden oven in her chest.
“What’s she still doing here then?” one of the girls asked as she looked Glenna up and down with a smirk.
“My father is still the laird of Roscraig, until the king says otherwise,” Glenna said, being sure to meet Audrey Keane’s gaze. “And unless that day arrives, you will address me as Lady Glenna, if address me you must.”
Audrey Keane’s two companions gasped and looked to their friend with twin expressions of anticipation, while the pale woman’s powdered cheeks bloomed with pink contempt.
“Her father is still alive?” one of the women whispered salaciously. It was a glorious playing out of outrageous gossip.
Audrey sniffed. “I expect he’ll drop dead of embarrassment as soon as he hears of his daughter’s barbaric behavior. What more can be expected of a recluse girl raised by a fraud?”
The Laird's Vow Page 12