Authors: Heather McCollum
“You’re not.”
“I don’t.”
Ewan smiled and bent over Meg’s hand. “Milady, ye are radiant.”
Meg twisted her hair over one shoulder. “Thank you, though this Highland wind is fierce. Thank goodness the festival is inside tomorrow, or everything would blow away.”
Her gaze rested on Caden. She tilted her head just slightly off center. “Is something amiss?”
Caden relaxed his fists that had clenched at his sides. He’d inadvertently taken a battle stance. “Nay,” he said, though the lie tasted bitter. At some point the lies would have to be told, sometime soon. He frowned more.
“He doesn’t smile,” Ewan said.
Meg stepped forward and laid her hand on Caden’s arm. He tensed as the soft touch coursed through his body. She frowned. “Does your head ache? Your neck, perhaps? Your muscles are very…tense.”
“Ye can tell that by a touch?” Ewan asked.
Meg continued to study Caden’s face, his eyes. She was close enough for him to smell the flower scent she preferred, close enough to pull her into his arms and kiss her like the other night. “His stance, his solid arm. I sense unease in people easily.”
Caden stared into her eyes, mesmerized by the golden flecks within the greenish orbs. “My arm is always solid.”
A twinkle in her eyes washed away the crease in her brow. “Of course,” she murmured. “I can help the ache in your head.”
“I didn’t mention an ache.”
Meg stared up at him, and he noticed a small leaf stuck in her tussled waves. She paused for a moment. “No, you didn’t. If you get one, I have something to help.”
“Probably tastes foul,” Angus said with a laugh as he took a drink of ale.
Her eyes opened wider as Caden reached for her hair and leaned near her ear. “I’ve never met a lass so in need of plucking.”
He captured a little leaf, pulling it free. He held it so she could see it before letting it float to the rushes.
Sparkle came to Meg’s eye with a healthy shade of rose staining her cheeks.
“Angus, where’s yer cough?” Ewan asked.
Angus patted Meg’s shoulder. “The lass gave me some brew to drink. Terrible stuff but,” he paused and took a full breath in, “I breathe better than I have in years.”
“Miraculous,” Ewan said.
Caden studied Meg. The lass had been up to more healing. Hugh told Caden he’d seen a blue light coming from Meg’s hands when she healed Elizabeth’s sadness. The incident had scared the hell out of his most seasoned warrior, but now Hugh was spreading praises. His merry Lizzie was back. And now Angus’s cough was gone. Would he be as accepting if he knew she’d used magic on him? Would his clan welcome a lass with unnatural powers?
Meg was indeed valuable in more ways than one, although fear of unholy magic and superstition was a solid part of the people in this hard land. Caden watched her talk with Ewan and Angus. She could melt the hearts of the crustiest old bastard. And yet Meg Boswell was marked for death as a witch. Evidence and family history pretty much confirmed that she could wield the same powers. He’d yet to find the dragonfly birthmark on her, although he’d love to explore.
Caden picked up the parchment on the mantel. Meg’s nightmare. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the fire. The hungry flames scorched the parchment until it crumbled, the wax seal puddled into a pool of blood. He turned away from the burn to the beauty walking across the hall. Valuable indeed, he thought. So valuable that…he would never let her go.
…
Heavy snow blew down from the gray sky in diagonal sheets the next morning. Meg shivered as she turned from the small glass windowpane. She stepped into the farthingale and stood while Fiona laced her stays.
“Snow already?”
“Aye.” Fiona helped Meg into a green velvet gown that she’d chosen from several that Aunt Rachel had sent over. Her aunt had time to find her gowns but still hadn’t sent word inviting her to Munro Castle. Did her uncle not want her to come? Did he know that her father might be searching for her? Meg sighed and tamped down her suspicions.
She focused on the image in the polished glass. The cut of the gown accented her waist and full bosom. After her encounter with Caden, she chose the softly flowing dress with the low bodice for the festival. Gwenyth would surely dress with seduction in mind. In this gown Meg should be able to keep Caden’s attention. The brief thought of him following the lovely widow home again pinched Meg’s stomach.
Fiona tied the bell-shaped sleeves at the shoulders. “The festival is late this year.”
“Mmmm,” Meg murmured, her thoughts on the healthy muscles sculpting Caden’s chest the other night she’d seen him practicing in the hall, the night of the kiss. Laird Caden Macbain epitomized everything she could desire in a man. He’d escorted her north to safety without ever making her beholden to him. He even knew about her magic yet didn’t seem to despise her for it or even seem to fear it, although Meg couldn’t imagine him fearing anything.
She sighed. And she had told him that she wanted to leave.
Fool,
she thought, pulling her thoughts back to Fiona as she covered the ties of her sleeves with rolled satin braids that brought out the golden green color of her eyes.
“Snow’s about on time,” Fiona continued.
“It’s barely into autumn.” Meg selected a warm shawl lined in fur.
“This is the Highlands, milady. We have a day or two of autumn and then charge right into winter.”
“Quite a ways north of England,” Meg said, her heart thumping.
Dear Lord, please let the foul weather slow my father down
.
“Yer blood will thicken in time,” Fiona said knowingly.
In time. Where would she be in time? Life right now was so uncertain she barely dared to think about the future.
“Ye are lovely,” Fiona said as she tucked one of the ribbons back into the delicate weave down Meg’s back. “Queen of the festival, ye are.”
Meg laughed. “Thanks to your handiwork.”
“If only Rachel were here to see ye.”
“Have you heard from her? News of when I can visit?”
Fiona’s eyes focused on Meg’s hair as she tucked and twirled the cascading curls. “They’ve been so busy over there getting that old, drafty castle in order for yer stay. I’m sure that’s why she’s been delayed in sending for ye. She knows ye’re safe with me here.”
Fiona did meet her eyes then. “If ye are in any need to go to her, I can get ye there.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Meg said.
Fiona squeezed her hand. “Rachel loves ye dearly, like she did her sister. Ye would be no intrusion. Rachel just wants ye to be comfortable up here in the Highlands. Right now this is the safest, most comfortable place for ye to be.”
“Thank you, Fiona.”
“No fretting now. Go enjoy yerself.”
Meg’s smile spread into a genuine one as she stepped forward.
…
Garlands of braided grasses and dried flowers decked the doorways, mantel, and tables of the great hall. The rushes had been swept from the floor for easier dancing. Large tallow candles glowed at intervals on long tables. Several women from the village hurried about with platters of meat and trenchers of bread. The Davidson’s gift of grain for the festival had arrived two days ago, just in time for baking.
Meg stepped down the stairs and into the excitement. Villagers shook their boots and cloaks in the entryway and carried in more treats to share. Roast goose, venison, and wild hares in aromatic herbs were displayed on platters. Bowls of nuts and sweet suckets sat at intervals. Brown bread lay with bowls of churned butter. Wild onions and sliced beets coated with herbs steamed from other bowls.
Ewan walked in with Ann on his arm. She spotted Meg across the hall and raised her hand. Meg waved back. Jonet and Gwyneth came in, quick on their heels.
Three musicians began a lively tune and several couples formed a line. The flute played a quick song accompanied by the harp, and pairs began to weave in a familiar reel. Meg tapped her foot with the tabor drum. She’d danced this pattern with Uncle Harold at the festival near her home.
Ewan escorted Jonet out to the floor while Kieven took Ann.
“Would ye care to dance, lass?” Kenneth asked.
Meg gasped, her hand to her pounding heart. “I do like to dance.”
Kenneth tugged her along. “Come then.”
They caught up to the end of the increasing line. The steps came back to Meg easily and she laughed as she twirled, her skirts soaring outward. No longer chilled, she was glad she’d left the shawl at the table. Soon she and Kenneth had worked their way to the top of the line. They would run down the parallel rows, weaving and twirling between other couples until they reached the end.
Kenneth stood with her at the top. “Ready?” he huffed.
“Yes,” Meg said, and they turned away from one another to bow and bend beneath the raised arms of opposite dancers. As she rounded the next lady to meet her partner in the center she caught sight of Kenneth grinning from the end of the row.
Warm fingers encircled her own. Caden squeezed her hand gently and then they parted to weave back among two more pairs before meeting again in the middle.
“Did you yank Kenneth out of the dance?” Meg asked Caden breathlessly. His dark hair was captured in a leather strap, revealing the cut line of his smooth jaw and sensuous lips.
“Would you prefer the grizzled warrior to the chief, then?” he asked with a slanted grin and released her hand as they wove down between two more pairs.
When they rejoined Caden glanced at her gown and frowned. “I will find ye a shawl.”
“I am quite warm,” Meg said with more than a hint of sauciness. They turned once more and the reel ended with a bow and a curtsey. When she stood straight, Caden’s eyes caressed her form, all the way up to her face.
“The color suits ye,” he murmured.
Perhaps it was the exhilaration of the dance, perhaps it was the kiss from the night before, perhaps it was the promise in Caden’s eyes that more could follow. For whatever reason, lightness and cheer filled her. Even though her future was unknown, the present held so much potential that she was going to surrender her worry and embrace simple happiness. At least for today.
The musicians struck up another reel but Caden led her back to the table where they sampled the feast.
“Meg!” Elizabeth Loman sat gingerly on the bench with the baby. “Thank ye so much for the melancholy thistle brew. I am truly so much better.”
Meg squeezed Elizabeth’s hand and peeked at the blue-eyed baby. “I’m so glad.”
“Ah, the fair Meg,” Ewan sang, and stood over Meg’s shoulder. When she greeted him, his gaze plunged down her low neckline. Before she could respond, Caden stood and shoved Ewan aside before he fetched the shawl from the other end of the table. Caden glared at his friend as he draped the warm fur over her shoulders.
Elizabeth laughed and returned to her husband by the fire.
“’Tis good to see you, Ewan,” Meg said.
He bowed and moved further down the table.
She frowned at Caden.
“Ye shivered,” he grumbled and picked up a mug of ale.
Under the table, Caden’s thigh rested against the folds of Meg’s skirts. She sensed the heat there, the strength of his muscles even without using her powers. He reached for the venison platter, brushing her arm and sending chills along her skin. She tried to ignore her increasing heart rate and the pool of heat sprinting through her blood, but it was impossible. She picked at her food and tried to swallow down the creeping blush.
Meg’s gaze roamed the room, anywhere but at Caden. She focused on a little ball of fluff skittering out from the back corridor from the kitchens. It raced under her table. A slight tug on her skirt hem followed. She bent down and pulled the orange tabby kitten into her lap. The soft fur ran through her fingers as she stroked it.
A woman brought around a tray of bowls filled with steaming stew. She set one before Meg and one before Caden. She hovered near him, but her happy expression faltered a bit when she noticed Meg. Her eyes shifted to the tuft of fur in Meg’s lap. “There’s Peter’s kitten. He belongs to my son.”
“He’s adorable,” Meg said and handed the ball of fluff over.
The woman tucked the kitten into a large apron pocket. “Cook heard ye like yer stew a bit salty, so she added some with extra thyme to yer bowl. I make it without much salt.”
Where had the cook heard that? She’d have to clear that up later. “Umm…thank you,” Meg said. “You must be Bess Tammin?”
“Aye, pleased to meet ye,” Bess said with a quick bob. There was definite unease in her eyes. “I better find Peter. He’s supposed to be helping in the kitchens.” She turned to Caden, a soft blush infusing her cheeks. “Good day to you, Caden.”
She called him by his given name. Not chief or laird. They must be close.
“I’ll be by to check on you, Bess, in a few days.” Caden tasted the stew and grinned. “Your best yet.”
Bess beamed as Caden spooned more into his mouth. Meg wondered if he knew the woman cared for him, and her stomach sank. She glanced down at her own bowl. Had Caden visited Bess’s bed also?
The widow walked across the room, a definite sway to her hips. When she turned to go back into the kitchens, the woman passed her hand over her chest in the sign of the cross. She met Meg’s gaze and shuffled back into the darkness of the corridor.
Meg frowned. The woman probably called her a witch. She spooned a mouthful of stew into her mouth. The salty broth pinched her lips, but it was hot and flavorful. She dipped her spoon back in and a small mushroom floated onto it. Meg was about to lift it into her mouth when she noted the reddish color of the cap. She stared. Was that a deadly amanita mushroom? Could Bess have accidentally poisoned the stew? Meg dropped her spoon and grabbed Caden’s arm.
“I think there’s something wrong with the stew.” She churned through her bowl. Two more of the deadly mushrooms surfaced. “Good Lord,” she murmured and peered down the table at all the people enjoying the hot soup.
“What is it?”
“The mushrooms in the stew. They are poisonous. Caden, they’re all eating it.”
“I didn’t taste any mushrooms.” Caden spooned through the rest of his own bowl. He tilted the cup toward Meg. “No mushrooms.”