"It was against my father's wishes, to say the least. He was a Royalist, through and through." When Trick wandered to one of the deep-set windows, his voice echoed back out from it. "My mother talked him into leaving."
"Did she, really?" Squeezing into the niche, Kendra joined him at the window. In the small space he felt warm and near, yet cold and distant, too. By moonlight, she could barely make out the village below, surrounded by acres of wild pasture and tended fields. "This was her family's ancestral home, wasn't it? Why would she willingly surrender it?"
"She was a Covenanter," he said shortly, stepping back into the room. "Come, our chamber is this way."
He ducked through an arch in the wall and pushed open a thick oak door. On her way inside, she shot one last look at the empty vaulted chamber. The garrison. She wondered if it was haunted by ghosts of dead soldiers.
Not that she believed in anything like that.
The bedchamber was enormous. A four-poster bed in its center looked dwarfed, and after the din of the wake below, the room seemed deathly quiet.
She moved to set the candle on a bedside table, the dull wooden floor sounding gritty beneath her shoes. A fire burned on the hearth, and she wondered who had built it. Jane or Cavanaugh? One of Duncraven's servants? "Are we the only ones up here?"
"Aye. The towers are mirror images. One great room and one bedchamber on each top level." With a rueful smile, he locked the door behind them. "As a child, I was terrified to come up here alone."
"I'm rather terrified now," Kendra admitted. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. "After you left the place to Cromwell, how long was it before you returned?"
"Until now." Trick shrugged out of his surcoat, folding it over the back of a chair that sat before an immense carved oak desk. "My father settled my mother with relations and spirited me away to France. I was ten." Abruptly he dropped to the chair. "I never saw my mother again." His voice cracked. "And now I never will."
Kendra rose to wind her arms around his neck from behind. "Surely she knows that you cared, that you came for her."
"Maybe." Sighing, he absently slid open the top desk drawer and riffled through some papers. Dust flew out, tickling her nose. She felt him stiffen. "Sweet Mary, would you look at this."
She straightened. "What is it?"
"A letter. From Oliver Cromwell himself."
A chill ran up her spine. "We were just talking about him. How odd." Irrationally afraid to touch the evil man's writings, she kept her distance while Trick scanned the page. "When was it written?"
"Eighteenth November, 1650."
"So long ago. Almost eighteen years."
"Other than my father, I rarely remember anyone coming up here." His gaze swept the chamber. "Nothing's changed in the interim. The same bed, the same desk. It probably sat here all this time."
"What does it say?"
He looked back down to the yellowed parchment. "'I thought fit to send this trumpet to you, to let you know that, if you please to walk away with your company, and deliver the house to such as I shall send to receive it, you shall have liberty to carry off your arms and goods, and such other necessaries as you have. You have harbored such parties in your house as have basely and inhumanly murdered our men; if you necessitate me to bend my cannon against you, you may expect what I doubt you will not be pleased with. I expect your present answer, and rest your servant, O. Cromwell.'"
"Dear God." Kendra released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Words from the devil himself. Can you blame your mother for wanting to walk away?"
He shrugged uncomfortably. "Father refused at first. He'd fought well and bravely in support of Charles, but when Cromwell opened fire...well, I was inside." He drew a sharp, shuddering breath, obviously remembering.
Kendra was horrified. "He opened fire with a child inside?"
"Aye. The bombardment destroyed the east parapet and tore a large cavity in the stonework—did you not see it as we came in?"
"I wasn't looking."
"At my mother's behest, Father sent word to the Lord Protector that he saw the point, and he walked away, taking me with him and never looking back."
She folded the bed's simple white coverlet back and lowered herself to the plain sheets below. "She wanted to save you."
"She wanted to save her family's castle." He turned in the chair to face her. "If she'd cared for me, she would have come along with us."
"Maybe your father wouldn't allow her."
"Maybe," Trick conceded. "He was certainly mum on the subject." He shoved the paper into the desk and slammed the drawer. "And I wouldn't blame him if he did leave her that coldly. She was no mother or wife to be proud of. Besides being a Covenanter, she was an adulteress, and—"
"You judge her harshly."
A momentary look of self-doubt crossed his face, then disappeared so fast, she wondered if she'd imagined it. "I've told you how I feel about infidelity."
She'd told him how she felt about infidelity as well, but she knew better than to bring that up. Living with three brothers had taught her how to deal with men's moods. Gingerly. "Do you remember her as being that terrible?"
"Nay, but I was only a child."
Kendra glanced down and smoothed her cranberry-colored skirts, then lifted her head to meet his gaze. "If your father and she were at odds, why do you believe everything he told you about her?"
"For the longest time, I didn't want to," he admitted. "But then so much time passed and she never, ever came for me..."
"There are two sides to every story, Trick."
If his sudden silence wasn't agreement, at least he was man enough to consider she had a point. The only sound in the chamber was that of the flames that danced in the fireplace, until at last he said, "But I'll never hear her side of it, will I?"
The pain radiated off him in waves, but she knew that now was not the time to talk about that. It was too fresh. "What is a Covenanter?" she asked instead. "I know English history by rote, and Greek and Roman, but I'm afraid I was never taught much of Scotland's past."
"I cannot say that I'm surprised," Trick said dryly, but the remark didn't sound at all disparaging, merely resigned. He leaned back in the chair and began untying his cravat. "Many men, including my mother's father, signed a document known as the National Covenant. When the Civil War broke out, the Covenanters sided with the English Parliament against the king, in return for Cromwell's promise of a religious reformation in England and Ireland, based on the Scottish Kirk."
"And Cromwell never followed through."
"Nay, he did not. But it took a long time for the Scots to realize they'd been duped."
"They'd thrown their lot in with the devil."
Nodding, he slowly drew off the cravat. "I'm afraid this castle was instrumental in Cromwell's victory. My father never forgave my mother for that."
With a flick of his wrist, the cravat landed on the desk in a flurry of frothy white. She stared at it. He was undressing. Whether or not he'd spent the whole day thinking about it, she was sure he expected to make love with her tonight.
A little ball of anxiety lodged in her middle.
She tore her gaze from the lace-trimmed linen. "My father fought with King Charles, too. And died, along with my mother. He would have sympathized with your father's stance."
His expression hardened. "Father was no saint, believe me. I liked him no more than I did my mother. I'm well rid of them both."
"Trick—" She bit her tongue. Disparaging her husband's feelings was no way to fortify their shaky relationship. She forced a gentle smile. "How does it feel having a brother?"
He smiled in return—perhaps the first smile she'd seen from him that wasn't tainted with a touch of cynicism. "He's quite nice, isn't he?" His eyes softened as his fingers worked to loosen the laces on his shirt. "I find it hard to believe he came from my mother, and—and that man."
She wasn't surprised to find he didn't care for Hamish, either. "Niall looks just like you."
"I know. It's bloody amazing." Leaning forward, he pulled off a boot. "I wish I could stay longer and get to know him. Maybe he'll come visit us at Amberley."
"That would be nice." The more of Trick's clothes that came off, the more her stomach quaked at the thought of what she'd promised last night. Too nervous to just sit there and watch, she stood and wandered over to a small arched door. "Where does this lead?"
"To another staircase, if I remember right." In stockinged feet, he padded over and unlatched the iron bar that secured the door, poking his head into the darkness beyond. His voice echoed back. "Aye, another winding stairwell. To the roof above. Prisoner's Leap."
"Prisoner's what?"
"Prisoner's Leap." He turned to her, the stairwell gaping blackly behind him. "In the old days, prisoners were brought up from the dungeons once a year and allowed a chance to gain their freedom by successfully jumping from one tower to the other. Twelve feet, with their hands tied behind their backs and a hundred-foot drop to the bottom. And no running start."
"My God. Did any of them make it?"
"I expect not." His lips turned up in a half-smile. "Maybe that's why the villagers were practicing their long jumps today."
A little shiver ran through her. "I'm not sure I like this place, Trick."
"Why? Because I had barbaric ancestors?" Although reserved, his grin did seem to lighten the room somewhat. "There's no one in the dungeons today, so far as I know."
"So far as—"
"I'm jesting." He shut the door to the stairwell, and she relaxed a little. "Come here."
"Not until you bar that door."
With a strangled laugh, he did so. "There, we're safe. Come here, Kendra. I need you tonight."
No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and they were certainly words to melt a woman's heart. Frightened as she was, she walked into his arms.
When his mouth met hers, her reservations faded away. If her head didn't remember what had made her decide she wanted him last night, her body certainly did. She knew what he could make her feel now, and she wanted that again, and more. Much more. The tinge of fear in her stomach transformed to a rush of anticipation.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and threaded her fingers in his short, silky hair. Her mouth opened beneath his, and his tongue swept inside, soft and sweet, flavored with the faintest trace of the whisky he'd sipped downstairs.
He eased back to plant little kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, and finally the sensitive hollow of her neck. He lingered there, suckling gently while his hands went to work on the front of her gown. Her own hands streaked between their bodies to tug the bottom of his shirt from his breeches.
Her stomacher dropped to the floor as she worked the shirt up his torso, his bare flesh warm against her questing palms. She yanked the shirt over his head, and he gave a frustrated laugh when his arms tangled in the full-blown sleeves.
Soon their clothes were gone, and she plastered herself against him. Ah, the give and the take, the heat and the scent, the pure pleasure of his skin touching hers. He bent his head to take her mouth, running his hands down her sides and around to cup her bottom and pull her closer still.
At the intimate contact, she felt a jolt, a flood of excitement that at the same time made her feel heavy and lethargic. Her body trembled. He smelled of soap and sandalwood, and she couldn't tell where he stopped and she started. If he wasn't holding her up, surely she'd melt to the floor in a puddle of sensation.
Slowly he backed her up and eased her onto the bed, coming down beside her. He hesitated, levering up on an elbow, his head hovering above hers. Beneath his shining gold hair, his eyes caught and held her gaze. The faint blond stubble on his chin glistened in the candlelight.
Her heart pounded, and her breath came ragged and uneven. Every fiber of her being ached for his touch, screamed for release. She turned, reaching to pull him close.
The air was rent by a strangled groan.
"I cannot do this," he gritted out and rolled away. "I cannot do this. I cannot do this with my mother lying in a box downstairs."
She felt an instant of stunned disappointment before her head cleared and her arms went around him anyway. She squeezed tight. "It's all right. I understand."
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just cannot—"
"Hush," she said. Slowly she drew air into her lungs, giving herself time to adjust, time for her body to recover. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
She sat and pulled the coverlet over them both, then lay back down. With a regretful sigh, he turned to face her and gathered her close, his hand warm against her bare back, his head heavy against her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered once more.
And long minutes later, when her heart had calmed, for the second night in a row she fell asleep in his arms.
Still wide awake an hour later, Trick eased away from Kendra and slid from the bed. Quietly he drew on his breeches and pulled his shirt back over his head, then lit a candle and slipped from the bedchamber, closing the door softly behind him.
The stone steps felt cold and rough beneath his bare feet as he trod carefully down them. A low murmur of voices drifted up the stairwell. Arriving on the ground floor, he stopped and stared.
Annag and Niall sat before his mother's coffin. Behind it, Duncan hid, manipulating a clever arrangement of twine and twigs. A deep, unearthly "Oooooooooh" issued from his throat as he twisted his hands. Elspeth's body jumped and twitched, and Annag jumped and screeched. Rising to his feet, Duncan burst into laughter and lifted a glass of whisky in a clearly drunken toast.
Trick couldn't believe his eyes.
Niall caught his gaze and offered a small smile. He rose and came to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. "Couldn't you sleep?"
"I kept thinking of her lying down here. Cold, in a box." Trick ran a shaky hand back through his hair. "It seems so unreal. I thought I could just sneak down here and...convince myself, maybe. Sit here a while."