Bride for a Knight (16 page)

He pulled away to look at her and she drew a shaky breath, the taste of him still heady and sweet on her lips.

“I did not mean—”

“I ken what you meant.” He smoothed his knuckles down her cheek. “But you’re worrying for naught. Duncan MacKenzie’s daughters are like sisters to me. I could ne’er think of them otherwise. Though I’ll admit they make fair gazing!”

Aveline glanced aside.

He caught hold of her chin, tilting her head for another kiss. A slow, soft one this time, with just a hint of tongue. “See you,” he went on, ending the kiss, “those girls have been spoken for since birth.”

He slid his arms around her, drawing her closer. “Leastways, it stands clear that they’ll wed highborn husbands. If their father doesn’t stop hiding them away behind his stout castle walls.”

Aveline blinked. “I thought they were traveling north to seek possible matches?”

“Och, nay, sweetness. They came here for a different reason.” Jamie splayed his hands across her back, rubbing her gently. Soothing her. “A reason that has little to do with their weddings, whene’er their da allows the like.”

“You know the reason?”

Jamie looked aside, his gaze on the windows and the darkness beyond. “I have guessed, aye.”

“And will you tell me?”

He was silent, but a muscle jerked in his jaw and Aveline would’ve sworn she felt him stiffen.

Och, aye, she could feel the ill ease thrumming all through him. A taut wariness she could almost taste, and troubling enough to make her own heart skitter.

So she circled her arms around his neck and twined her fingers in his hair, determined to hold fast until he told her what she wanted to know.

Needed to know.

“Can the reason have anything to do with the way Lady Gelis was looking at you in the hall?” She peered up at him. “When she ran up to us as we were leaving?”

“So that was the look you meant?” Jamie reached to caress her hair. “You were not jealous? Only concerned about her warning?”

“So it was a warning?”

He shrugged. “I can only guess, but I would say aye. Those three women came here for one reason. To warn me away from the Rough Waters.”

Aveline shivered.

He disentangled himself from her grasp and began pacing about the room, peering into corners, eyeing the locked and bolted door.

The air around them seemed to darken, the very shadows drawing near. Until, watching him stride past a window, Aveline caught a glimpse of the moon sailing from behind a cloud and its silvery glow returned, once more filling the room with soft, shimmering light.

A cold light, for even the fine-burning log fire seemed to have lost its warmth.

Biting her lip, she rubbed her arms against the room’s sudden chill. “Surely they cannot think something bad might happen to you, too?”

Jamie turned to face her. “Sweet lass, I’ll own they
know
something unpleasant will happen,” he said, not wanting to frighten her, but thinking it best she hear the truth. “The lassies’ mother has the
taibhsearachd
. Her gift is unfailing and so true as I’m standing here. I have seen the proof of her abilities many times.”

Aveline’s heart stopped. “And you think she’s seen something?”

“I can think of no other reason for them to come here.” Jamie rubbed the back of his neck. “Even their excuse about the Black Stag wanting to haggle with my da over a stirk or two rings false.”

“Because he’s always sent his men to do the like?”

“Exactly.”

“Then you must make them tell you what they know.” She hurried over to him, clutching at him. “If they know you’ve guessed, they will not keep it from you.”

Jamie shook his head. “They’ve already revealed more than is wise,” he said, catching one of her hands and bringing it to his lips. “Highland as you are, you ought to know it isn’t wise to poke and prod into what’s revealed to those with second sight. They’ve given me a warning and I’m accepting it gladly.”

Aveline frowned. “But—”

“It is enough. And more help than many receive.”

He turned her hand and dropped a kiss into her palm, folding her fingers over it. “You keep that kiss to yourself and let it soothe you when you worry,” he said, smiling at her. “And keep whate’er we discuss between us.”

Her eyes flew wide. “You fear treachery?”

Jamie put his hands on her shoulders. “After seeing the sky darken with English cloth-yards at Neville’s Cross, there is not much left to fear,” he said, meaning it. “Least of all anyone cowardly enough to drape themselves in a wet plaid and try to frighten an old man.”

But I do fear what such a miscreant might do to you
.

Leaving that concern unspoken, he went to stand before the hearth, trying hard not think about what burned so merrily on its grate.

“I do not doubt what you’ve told me, lass.” He raked a hand through his hair and hoped she’d believe him. “I am sure you did see Neill and Kendrick at the cairns, dancing with Hughie Mac. And down at the Garbh Uisge, too. Even so—”

“I did see them. I swear it,” she insisted. “And they had to have been bogles. They vanished right before my eyes. Even as I was staring right at them.”

She came to him then and he gathered her close. “Leastways that was the way of it in the churchyard. At the cataracts, they just sort of drifted off into the trees.”

“Ah, well.” Jamie stroked her hair. “’Tis not my brothers’ spirits that concern me. ’Tis the bastard masquerading as a ghost that’s plaguing me.”

She looked doubtful. “You truly think someone is?”

Jamie cocked a brow at her. “Can you truly think someone isn’t? After what we found in the chapel and then discovered upon returning here?”

And to his relief, she shook her head.

“But what do you mean to do about it?”

Jamie grinned. “What I do best when the need arises,” he said, flipping back his plaid to reveal the many-notched haft of his Norseman’s ax and the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. “Assure the safety of those I care about.”

“And what about those I care about?” she returned, touching his cheek. “Those I know your father cares about. You are the one who received Lady Linnet’s warning.”

Jamie captured her hand, kissing her fingertips. “Och, I shall be careful, ne’er you worry.”

He smiled again, pleased with the precautions he’d arranged.

“Even as we speak, Beardie and another cousin should be taking up position outside this chamber’s door. And” —he winked— “Beardie wields an even deadlier Viking ax than I do. If you haven’t yet noticed, he’s rather proud of his Norse granddaddies. And he doesn’t take kindly to anyone even glancing cross-eyed at a woman.”

She peered up at him through her gold-tipped lashes, looking more confused than reassured. “You’ve set two guardsmen to protect me? Just like the two you ordered to see to your da?”

Jamie grinned again. “I’ve set two trusted men to guard the door. I shall protect you.”

“Oh!” Her gaze flew to the large, fur-covered bed. “So you will be sleeping here?”

Jamie followed her gaze and immediately began to harden.

The very reason he would not spend the night in the same room with her. Especially not in his brother’s sumptuous love nest of a bed.

Not just yet, anyway.

Clearing his throat he stepped to the side of the hearth, glad for a means to distract himself before the tightening at his loins overrode his good sense.

“I shall sleep in my da’s chamber, as he wished,” he told her, whipping aside a heavy tapestry to reveal an oaken door. “This room was once my mother’s, see you. That is the true reason for its opulence. And you will be safe here, I promise.”

She blinked, her jaw slipping when he opened the door to reveal a small anteroom. And, clearly visible on the other side of the wee chamber, a second closed door.

“The bedchambers are connected,” he said, taking a wall torch from its bracket and ducking into the little room. “We’ll leave the doors open and the torches burning.”

“To scare away the bogles?”

Jamie cocked a brow but said nothing. He knew enough of lasses to let her think what she would if doing so soothed her womanly mind.

Truth be told, he was the one in need of soothing.

She’d followed him to the open doorway, her beguiling violet scent and the proximity of her soft feminine warmth almost making him regret he’d mentioned the connecting doors.

He could easily have stayed with her in Kendrick’s chamber. If only wrapped in his plaid before the fire. The saints knew he’d slept in more uncomfortable places than on his late brother’s fur-strewn floor.

Hovering on the threshold of the anteroom, she watched him with great, luminous eyes.

“And you will know if something stirs?”

Jamie jerked as if she’d reached out and curled her fingers around him. If she knew the kind of stirrings her mere presence was causing him, she’d wish him back belowstairs—no matter how passionately she kissed.

She was yet a maid and he meant to go gently with her.

“Lass,” he said, his voice thick, “I will know if the night wind shifts a raindrop on your window ledge.”

His most courtly reassurance spoken, he touched the smoking torch to the anteroom’s two wall sconces, satisfied when they caught flame and the little room filled with the same golden light as Kendrick’s chamber.

In a matter of moments, his da’s room would be awash with light as well.

But not to frighten bogles.

O-o-h, nay, he hoped they’d come.

Leastways the one who favored dripping plaid.

And if the lout did make an appearance, Jamie would be ready for him.

Him, his Norseman’s ax, and his trusty blade—whiche’er death the
ghost
preferred.

Chapter Eight

A
sennight later, Aveline paused on the landing outside Jamie’s former bedchamber, a well-laden dinner tray clutched in her hands. Munro’s dinner tray, for he alone whiled behind the chamber’s closed oaken door.

And judging by the silence from within, Aveline suspected he slept.

But when she shifted the tray onto her hip and eased open the door, she found him sitting up in bed, propped against his pillows and rummaging through a great iron-bound chest.

A scuffed and somewhat rusty strongbox that looked very much like the one her father had sent Munro as her bride price, but that she knew contained only stones.

And sure enough, a scattering of stones were strewn across the bedcovers.

Stones and a few rolls of ancient-looking parchments.

Aveline took a deep breath, debating whether to retreat or stay.

“Sir,” she finally called. “I’ve brought—”

“For mercy!” Munro looked up, jerking as if he’d been stung.

He slammed shut the chest’s lid and grabbed for the parchments, crumpling one in his hand but sending two others fluttering to the floor.

“Saints, lass,” he said, his brow furrowing, “I wasna expecting a meal this e’en.” He eyed the steaming bowl of stewed beef and fresh-baked bannocks, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. “Morag said she’d be away, a-seeing to some ailing glen wife and Jam—er, ah . . .
that one
claimed he had business of his own.”

Aveline forced a smile. “You should have known I wouldn’t let you go without aught to eat,” she said, trying not to look at her father’s damning strongbox.

Embarrassment heating her cheeks, she approached the bed with the tray. “I know Morag or Jamie usually bring your victuals, but I thought you wouldn’t mind if I did in their absence?” she asked, placing the food on a table beside the bed. “I can sit with you while you eat—”

She broke off, a whirl of doubts rushing her.

Her father’s chest sat on the floor opposite the bed, its heavy iron lock undisturbed.

“I thought you were looking in my father’s strongbox,” she said, only now seeing that the chest on the bed appeared much older than the one containing her
bride stones
.

Following her gaze, Munro swore and scrambled to his feet. “This has naught to do with Alan Mor and dinna you tell a soul what you’ve seen,” he said, snatching the fallen parchments off the floor, then trying to scoop up the stones spread across the bedcovers.

Lovely stones.

And as Aveline now recognized, each one was beautifully smooth and rounded, and in an array of striking colors. Some green, some reddish, with a few black ones shot through with sparkling ribbons of quartz.

The kind of stones she and her sisters had collected as children, up on the high moors. Treasures, the pretty little stones had been. And from the way Munro was clutching his, she had a sneaking suspicion he cherished these as highly.

Likewise the tattered-edged scrolls he’d jammed under a pillow.

“Not a word,” he warned again, this time inching up the lid of the chest just enough to drop the stones inside. “I willna have that old she-goat belowstairs laughing at me and young Jamie needn’t ken—”

“Needn’t ken what?” Aveline turned to the table and poured a measure of ale into a cup. “I don’t understand,” she added, handing him the brew.

“No one would understand.” Munro seated himself on the edge of his bed and took a deep swallow. “Not after all these years.”

“All these years?”

Munro
humphed
.

Then he pressed his lips together and glanced aside.

Aveline looked closely at him, seeing not only the stubborn set to his jaw but the over-brightness of his eyes.

She also caught a faint whiff of something she hadn’t noticed until now. Not until he’d reopened the lid of his chest.

It was the pungent tang of heather.

Old heather
.

Puzzled, she sniffed again, certain the distinctive smell came from the old laird’s strongbox.

And then she knew.

Between the scent and the stones, anyone with even a shred of sentimentality would have guessed. Especially anyone from these parts—folk who knew how fond Munro was of walking the high moors.

Especially the heather-grown moor known locally as
Iona’s Heath
.

The rumored trysting place of Munro and his late lady wife, Iona, in the long ago days of their youth.