The Laird's Vow

by Heather Grothaus

  “Har…cave,” he whispered, so faint the words were little more than breaths bookended by the clicking of his throat.

  “I’ll be right back,” she reiterated quietly, cupping his face in her hands. Then she stood and fled the chamber as quickly as she could without running.

  Once she was on the stairs, however, she slowed her pace, relishing the cool breeze wafting up the dim spiral, the fresh scent of spring from the greening land beyond the walls, and letting it calm her mind. At a narrow window on the level of her own chamber, Glenna paused and looked out at the fields beyond the moat to the left of the village. The tall tangle of feral plants was gone, revealing long, low swaths of rich brown dotted with the bowing shapes of workers already well set to their tasks.

  There would be food growing in Roscraig’s fields this season. But it would belong to Tavish Cameron.

  When she had thought Iain Douglas to die, her bargain with the Edinburgh merchant mattered little. But if her father lived, neither man would accept the other. And where would that leave her? Presuming she had a choice, which would she choose—staying in the only home she’d ever known as Tavish Cameron’s mistress or being forced out to a destitute and uncertain future with the only family she possessed and the only person who loved her? Her father had spoken of the remote Highland town of his ancestors once long ago, lamenting it as a place of constant war. Would they be welcomed there after so many years?

  And if their ancestry was of a Highland town, what lineage had brought them to Roscraig?

  Glenna pulled herself away from the window and started down the stairs again, intent on putting the matter out of her mind for the time being. She ducked into the kitchen only moments later, finding the now familiar form of Harriet Cameron before an enormous iron cauldron on the hearth, a servant girl at her side. The maid was listening intently to the instruction by the older woman, who gave the contents a final stir and then turned over the long-handled ladle with a smile and an encouraging nod.

  Harriet noticed Glenna right away. “Good day, milady!” At her greeting, the other servants busied about the benches and shelves of the kitchen gave short curtsies or nods in Glenna’s direction. Harriet stepped to the doorway and grasped Glenna’s elbows briefly. “How fares the laird this morn?”

  “He is…improved,” Glenna said, and then added quietly, “He spoke to me as if he knew who I was. Although his questions made no sense.”

  Harriet nodded. “It was the same last night,” she confided and then glanced over her shoulder before hooking her arm through Glenna’s and stepping back out into the busy sunshine of the courtyard where the women could speak with some privacy. “I wasna sure what to make of it myself. At first I thought it only ramblings. It’s when he gave me the brooch—I assumed I was to give it to you, as I had been going on about the feast.”

  “I’ve no idea where he could have been keeping it so close during his illness,” Glenna said. “But it was you he was asking after just now, Harriet.”

  Tavish’s mother’s eyes widened. “Me, milady?”

  “By name. Also something about a cave. The cave on the cliff, it must be.”

  “Och, cave,” Harriet said. “I thought perhaps something else.”

  “I suppose he could have meant anything. Or nothing.” Glenna sighed. “Any matter, I don’t mind telling you alone that I fear what will happen if he continues to recover. God forgive me even speaking aloud any negative should he live, but when he discovers what has happened at Roscraig during his illness…”

  “And the situation his daughter now finds herself in?” Harriet suggested gently. “I wish there were something more I could do to help, milady.”

  “Oh, Harriet, I already don’t know what I would do without you,” Glenna said. “Da would have likely died had you not come. But he’s asked me who sent you; he’ll likely pose the same question to you.”

  “Why, nae one sent me, milady,” Harriet said with a wide-eyed blink. “I came to Roscraig with my son from Edinburgh, where we worked in a shop.” Harriet Cameron gave Glenna’s arm a squeeze and then led her back toward the kitchen doorway, confiding, “’Tis why I prefer to stay in the kitchens, you see—I canna tell what I doona know.”

  * * * *

  Tavish pushed at the heavy trunk until it thudded against the solid rock at the rear of the small alcove and then quickly ducked away as grit and pebbles rained down on him. Dubhán stepped back in the same instant, sputtering and swiping at his face. Tavish joined the monk and peered through the flickering candlelight to regard the hiding place.

  From where Tavish stood in the narrow, steeply domed cave, the alcove where the chest rested appeared to be nothing more than another cleft in rock, or perhaps only a streak of the black and green mosses that grew along the fissures in natural striations. Although Dubhán said that few pilgrims came the way of the cave now, the cavern could be full of people and Tavish doubted any of them would notice the secret niche.

  Still, he felt he must ask. “Nae one else knows, Dubhán, you’re certain?”

  “Those remaining in the village know of the cave, of course, laird,” the dark monk replied in his usual calm tone, although his words were deeper and eerie here in this subterranean hole, supposedly once a refuge for an ancient mystic. “The few who knew aught of its alcoves are dead now. All save Frang Roy and Laird Douglas, that is.”

  “Frang Roy has been exiled,” Tavish reminded the monk. “And Iain Douglas…poses little threat to me.”

  “You seem very confident that the laird will die,” Dubhán mused. “His passing would certainly remove many objections the king might have to you holding Roscraig.”

  Tavish wondered if the monk was investigating his conscience with such leading remarks. “By the time Iain Douglas would ever discover I’ve made use of the cave, either I will be laird in the king’s eyes or I will have left Roscraig.”

  “I see.” The robed man took hold of the stubby, mottled candle and held it up, looking around the walls and ceiling of the cave, and the shadows fled behind some stones, rose up tall from others, and seemed to chase each other malevolently. “You take a risk yourself, though; what if something should happen to you and you should die? An accident? Sickness, like that which befell Roscraig? You have made a firm enemy of Frang Roy.”

  Tavish looked Dubhán in the eyes. “I’ve had worse enemies. Captain Muir knows of my plans. He would come for the trunk if I could not.”

  “I see. What of Lady Glenna?”

  “What of her? Naught I do is any concern of Miss Douglas’s.” But the mention of the woman pricked again at Tavish’s conscience, and so he sought to turn the conversation away from her. “But you understand that I am placing a great deal of trust in you, Dubhán.”

  Now it was the monk’s turn to meet Tavish’s gaze squarely. “Come now, laird. I am a man of the lord above all else. I shall speak of it to no one save him.”

  Tavish held out his hand. Dubhán looked down at it for a moment, a slight crease in his usually smooth forehead, as if he was temporarily perplexed at the offer of cooperation being extended to him. Then he moved the candle to his left hand and grasped Tavish’s hand firmly, the monk’s grip a strange combination of smooth skin and strong, sinewy grasp.

  After the agreement was sealed, Dubhán blew out the flame and replaced the candle on the makeshift shelf, and Tavish stooped to followed Dubhán into the narrowing throat that led from the cave. The two men paused a moment on the stone ledge that fronted the small opening, taking grateful breaths of fresh air. From this vantage point, Tavish could see naught but the sparkling waters of the firth until he looked down at the sheer cliff beneath the overhang and the boulders submerged in the shallows of the Forth. And although Tavish Cameron had taken his own turns climbing the Stygian’s mast, he did not care for the way his body felt as though it were tipping forward against his will when he looked over the edge.
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  Dubhán’s sandals scraping on stone drew Tavish’s attention back to the firm land beneath his feet, and he set his mind to the task of not slipping to his death along the sheer precipice as he followed the monk up the treacherous path.

  Tavish continued to follow Dubhán through the moss-covered monuments toward the small cottage crouched at the edge of the wood, the stone structure nearly overtaken with ropy, arm-like vines. Some of the markers in the clearing were in the shape of crosses; some small, square slabs; others tapering fingers. Many were inscribed with words in the old tongue, but most only bore a symbol or two meant to identify the departed.

  Now, Tavish wondered that anyone at all knew the names of all the dead that populated this quiet cliffside burial ground. Some were his ancestors, no doubt, and the idea of it brought a pleasant wash of gooseflesh to his arms. He belonged to this land, just as surely as Roscraig belonged to him.

  The tallest monument seemed youngest, a large cross standing crisp and straight and strong behind a wide mound of new grass. Dubhán stopped and turned back as Tavish paused there. A smaller obelisk was to the right, older than the cross monument, and with an English engraving: Margaret Douglas.

  Glenna’s mother, Iain Douglas’s wife.

  “What killed Margaret Douglas?” Tavish asked suddenly. He looked up in time to catch the surprised expression on Dubhán’s normally placid face.

  “’Twas thirty years ago, laird. Lady Glenna was only a few days old.”

  Tavish huffed a breath through his nose, wondering why he cared. He looked back at the stone. Thirty years ago—he and Glenna were nearly the same age, then. “Childbed fever, likely.”

  “It takes many a young mother.” Dubhán glanced at the sky. “If you will excuse me, laird; it is nearly midday.” He paused, and his expression brightened as he gestured with his palm to the quietly decomposing cottage behind him. “You are welcome to join me.”

  “I must decline, Dubhán. It seems the Tower is to play host to a growing tide of visitors leading up to the king’s arrival, and there is yet much to be done.”

  Dubhán gave a gracious nod and then turned toward the cottage. A moment later he had disappeared inside the heap of timber and stone and ivy.

  Tavish looked back to the small obelisk. Thirty years ago…

  Thomas Annesley had definitely been in Scotland at that time, having left a young Harriet Payne with a bastard son. Margaret Douglas had died at Tower Roscraig, leaving an infant daughter and husband behind in the home rightfully entitled to Tavish’s father but that he had never claimed.

  Could Margaret Douglas and Thomas Annesley somehow be connected? It seemed impossible.

  And yet, here were both Tavish and Glenna, in situations both would have at one time described as incredible.

  Tavish shook his head, treating the disturbing thoughts as little more than accidental annoyances. The past didn’t matter now—there was nothing about it he could change. He was laird of Roscraig, and the future was his for the building. He walked out of the graveyard and down the woodland path toward the village.

  He could almost feel eyes on him, though, watching his passing. The cry of a dove diving swiftly into the doocot below had the brief, eerie similarity of a quiet sob, and for one fantastic moment, Tavish had the morbid fancy that it was the ghost of Margaret Douglas, perhaps weeping for the babe she had left behind.

  Chapter 11

  The tower was alive with music and laughter again, the great hall full to bursting with a crowd of revelers as it had been for the past week. And yet this night the multitude was made up not only of Edinburgh’s wealthy merchant class, but the nobility within closest proximity to Roscraig lands. Lairds and their ladies, at least two of them barons, adorned the feast and lent it an air of refinement that perhaps was lacking even at the great gatherings on previous nights. The music went on and on, as did the stream of well-dressed servants flowing up and down the stairs from the entry hall below, in and out of the doorway bearing endless trays and baskets and platters of food; pitchers by the score.

  Glenna sat on the stone steps in the shadows above, leaned close into the curving wall so as not to be seen. She watched those invited, those in service, come and go as they pleased, enjoying a freedom in her home that she herself did not possess. Lovers sneaked out singly to rendezvous with giggles or more boldly in pairs as the night grew long, and their fine, glittering dress—each one more enviable that the last—caused Glenna to tuck her old gray skirts more tightly around her calves.

  Tavish Cameron had continued to forbid outright her attendance. And while under other circumstances she would have ignored his wishes and done as she pleased, she had no desire to be humiliated again, her poverty paraded before all the land, including the noble neighbors of Roscraig that she knew by name but had never met.

  The cowards.

  Audrey Keane, too, came and went as she pleased, and in her bright yellow gown Glenna thought she looked like a daffodil turned on its top. The image would have brought her more pleasure had it not been for the fact that Miss Keane’s gown was—like all the gowns Glenna had seen belonging to the woman—truly, achingly beautiful. The only thing that helped soothe the sting was that Audrey Keane was now being forced to show her mettle.

  Many noble young ladies—perhaps the daughters of Roscraig’s neighbors—were in attendance, and it was clear that their attentions were meant for the handsome man who had claimed the Tower. The stress of competition could be seen clearly on the redhead’s face when Tavish Cameron had left her what must have been a half hour ago and headed down the stairs toward the entry corridor. The woman’s obvious distress had brought a small measure of satisfaction to Glenna even if she had been curious as to why Tavish Cameron would suddenly abandon the feast.

  Even so, Glenna propped her chin on her fist and leaned her temple against the stones and wondered what it would be like to be in her own hall, enjoying such a marvelous event.

  Audrey Keane reappeared through the doorway of the hall just then, glancing over her shoulder at the revelry she left behind. But she remained on the landing between the flights of stairs, peering into the shadows seemingly right at Glenna so that when the redhead turned to look the other way, Glenna crept upward several treads without making a sound. She would not be found lurking in her own corridor and made a fool.

  A bulky shadow seemed to shudder free from the darkness of the descending flight, and Glenna thought Tavish Cameron had at last returned. But it was Captain John Muir who appeared in the light spilling from the hall, his arms full of a fine leather trunk. The two people stood on the landing, seemingly at odds at having discovered each other.

  “Captain Muir,” Miss Keane said, surprise clear in her voice. “I didn’t expect you back at Roscraig so soon.”

  “Good evening, Miss Keane. The laird wished my immediate return with the items he needed.”

  “I see. That must be why he so suddenly disappeared.”

  “He’ll be along in a moment, I reckon.” The older man paused looked down at the trunk and lifted it slightly. “This is for you, actually.”

  “For me?” Audrey repeated.

  “You didna think I’d return from Edinburgh empty-handed, did you? When he worries so for your happiness here at Roscraig?”

  Glenna’s stomach clenched.

  Captain Muir continued quickly. “I didna wish to intrude upon your private chambers without your…I intended to hail a servant…” he stammered, obviously ill at ease in the woman’s presence.

  “Nay, nay—I can’t wait,” Audrey said, backing into the shadows at the foot of the stairs below where Glenna sat and motioning for Muir to follow her. Glenna froze and held her breath, afraid to even blink lest she give away her location. There was no escape now. “Do you mind very much, Captain? ’Tis childish, I know.”

  “Nay,” Muir said mildly as he set the trunk on the bottom
step. “I thought you’d be too busied at the feast to—”

  “But here I am, at just the right moment, anticipating the laird’s return,” Audrey rushed on.

  Muir did not reply, but only disengaged the clasps and then stepped back from the trunk, giving Audrey Keane room to move forward and lift the domed lid. The redhead gasped and reached in with both hands, and Glenna had to restrain herself from leaning forward in an effort to see what Tavish had bought for the woman.

  Miss Keane raised her arms, a sparkling, layered fabric creation draping from the ends of her hands. “Oh, Captain Muir—’tis the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen.”

  “He had it commissioned some time ago,” the man said, rather gruffly. “It was ready only yester morn.” Captain Muir paused as if considering his next words carefully. “He was sure to tell me that he hopes you will wear it as your wedding costume.”

  Audrey Keane’s motions in admiring the fine dress stilled and she half glanced over her shoulder at the captain. Then she carefully let the gown fold on itself inside the trunk and closed the lid, letting her fingertips rest atop it for a moment while her red head was bowed.

  “It would make a fine wedding costume, indeed,” she murmured, almost sadly.

  “What is it, Audrey?” Captain Muir asked. “You put on as though you’re not happy at Roscraig. I ken that you and Tav are both above my station now, but am I nae longer a friend to be confided in?”

  Audrey turned to face him, and Glenna slowly let out a silent breath through her lips, relieved that the woman was no longer turned in her direction.

  “These people—these neighbors of Roscraig,” Audrey began in a whisper. “They hate me, John. They’re…they’re so cold.”

  “Give it time. They will soon be as fond of you as Tav and I.”

  “It’s not like Edinburgh,” she protested. “I feel as though I’ve been banished to the very ends of the earth! We’re awaiting the king’s arrival. The king, John! And these people—these country lords…they don’t think I’m worthy of him. Me, not worthy of Tavish, whom I’ve known since I couldn’t so much as see over the shop bench! And I’m the one who invited them!”