C
h
apter
34
D
uncan stared through the lancet window of the guardroom, a deep frown furrowing his forehead. “This is ridiculous,” he announced as Johnnie finished buckling on his backplate and then began the task of attaching the breastplate waist straps to Duncan’s sides. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Well, it was your idea, my lord.” Johnnie scratched his elbow, looking Duncan over with a critical eye. “What about the loin guard?”
“Leave my loins alone. I’m fighting ghosts, not a tournament.”
“What about the gauntlets then?”
“Yes, give me the gauntlets. I don’t want the annoying ghosts, if there are such things, to notice me.”
“Here’s your helmet, my lord.”
“No, Johnnie. Not that one. The pin is bent and the spring-catch is warped. Even if I could force it on over my head, I’d never get it off.”
A few moments later, Duncan stood fully outfitted in a suit of rusty armor, a lethal m
ace held in his right hand. “Wel
l, how do I look?”
Johnnie stepped back, shaking his grizzled head. “I
suppose some would say ’tis an improvement over the dress.”
“Yes, well, this is what a man does for love, Johnnie.”
“I wouldna know.” Johnnie winced as Duncan wheeled and lurched across the room, creaking with every step. “Do ye need me for anything else, my lord?”
“No. Go back out onto the walkway. If the damned ghosts make an appearance, chase them back inside. I’m not having Bhaltair and Giorsal ruining my wedding night.” That said, Duncan lumbered over to the left side of the unlit fireplace, which he flanked along with another rusty suit of armor on the right. With any luck he would exorcise the damned ghosts and be back in bed with Marsali before dawn. The desire she stirred in him had driven him to these desperate measures.
He closed his eyes. He leaned his shoulders back against the fireplace, heaving a sigh into his helmet.
He was asleep before Johnnie left the room.
D
oublet, leg pieces, skirt. By the time she and Effie got to the breastplate, Marsali could barely breathe.
“I can’t imagine how they fought each other on horseback in these things,” she whispered tiredly.
Effie frowned. “Or used the chamberpot. Ailis, Alan, stop sniffin’ around that fireplace. Oh, look, Marsali, here’s the helmet we couldna find. Bend yer head. I’ll put it on.”
“It’s too loose, Effie.”
“Be patient, Marsali. The pin’s not put in yet. Alan, leave that suit of armor alone. My God, this pin is bent. Hold still. One good whack should force it in place.”
“Ow.
You’ve got my nose stuck in the visor. And tell the twins to stop snoring. If Bhaltair hears that, he’ll suspect something is up.”
“My pigs don’t snore, Marsali. They snort.” Effie stepped back with a nod of satisfaction. “There. When Bhaltair goes to put on his armor tonight, he’ll have quite a surprise. Alan, Ailis, come on. We’ve been assigned sentry duty at the door.”
Marsali straightened, her metal joints groaning, and took the first of several clunking steps toward the fireplace.
“Has that other coat of armor always been standing there, Effie?” she whispered, the words echoing hollowly inside her helmet.
Effie paused at the door with her pigs. “I think it has, Marsali. It looks different, though, doesn’t it?”
“Aye. A knight in rusty armor. There’s something very compelling about him.”
“Look at the size of his breastplate, Marsali. They dinna make men like that nowadays, do they?”
“Except for the chieftain.” Marsali sighed, missing Duncan, wondering if he’d appreciate the sacrifice she was making to ensure a peaceful wedding night. “He reminds me of the chieftain, Effie.”
“That’s daft, Marsali.” Effie’s voice grew fainter as she and the pigs wandered out into the hall. “He doesna look anything like the chieftain. Except for the size of him.”
T
he sound of arguing roused Marsali from her restless catnap. She straightened abruptly and banged her head up against the mantle. A metallic echo resonated inside the helmet.
“Cease yer prattling, woman, and help me on wi’ this doublet,” an unfamiliar male voice demanded.
A coat of chain mail went flying through the air. “Put it on yerself, idiot! I’ll no be a part of yer death.”
Marsali raised her visor, watching the semitransparent figures of a woman in a yellow silk robe and a stocky figure in a leather tunic engaged in a passionate fight before the fireplace.
“Stop quarreling this instant, the pair of you!” she scolded in a sharp voice. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, squabbling into eternity. What a waste of the afterlife.”
Bhaltair turned his head toward her in bewilderment. Giorsal gave her a look of curious resentment. “And who, pray tell, are ye to be givin’ me orders in my own castle?”
Marsali shoved off the wall to approach them, clanking and groaning rustily with every step. As she reached Bhaltair, her knee piece popped off and rattled to the floor. “I’m the chieftain’s bride. At least I will be in the morning
if I don’t pass out from exhaustion at the altar, and if you don’t ruin my wedding night with your endless fighting.”
Bhaltair looked her up and down. “She’s no like the others, Giorsal,” he said in an excited voice. “There’s something different about her.”
“Are ye a ghostie too?” Giorsal asked, trying to peer into Marsali’s visor.
Bhaltair floated toward the fireplace. “Be careful, Giorsal. She might be the castle boggle who cursed us. She might be the reason why we’ve spent the last two centuries fightin’.”
“I’m not a mischievous spirit,” Marsali explained patiently. “I’m only a witch, a reluctant one at that, and I want to help you find your way back to the other side. It can’t be much fun repeating the worst night of your lives for two hundred years.”
Giorsal’s transparent face grew tragic. “God bless her. She wants to help us.”
“Don’t go to war, Bhaltair,” Marsali said. “You’ll
only get yourself cleaved in t
wo with a battle-ax, Giorsal will jump to her death from the window, everyone will go mad hearing the piper’s lament for the next six months, and I won’t have a happy wedding night.”
Bhaltair sat down
on the edge of the hearthstone, hanging his head in dejection. “Giorsal, jumping out of the window over me? I never realized she cared that much.”
“A battle-ax.” Giorsal folded down beside him. “I told you, Bhaltair. I warned you.”
Marsali said, “Yes, you must stop arguing, or I can’t break the curse.”
“She’s a kindhearted lass,” Giorsal said reflectively, glancing at Marsali. “Do you think we should tell her about the hidden treasure as a reward?”
Bhaltair frowned. “What hidden treasure?”
“The fortune that the old man hid before he went off to the last rebellion.”
“Never mind the hidden treasure,” Marsali said. “I’d rather have a proper wedding night. Now, the two of you hold hands and imagine a white light moving—”
She turned awkwardly, gasping in alarm, as the other suit of armor that had flanked the fireplace began to swear and creak to life. Giorsal stared in disbelief.
“Why, I’d recognize that swearing anywhere,” Marsali exclaimed. “It’s the chieftain. What in the world is he doing here?”
Duncan rattled up before her, his voice incredulous. “Is that you in there, Marsali?”
She grabbed his arm in excitement, their gauntlets clashing together like cymbals. “They’re real, Duncan. Real ghosts, and they’re right here. Help us undo the curse. Tell them who you are.”
He lurched past her. “Talk to who, Marsali?”
She turned, banging up against his backplate. He had flipped up his visor, and skeptical amusement flickered in his dark blue eyes. Marsali stared at the vacant hearthstone in dismay. She had wanted to share the supernatural moment with him. Dare she hope that she’d finally broken the curse and the poor souls could rest?
At any rate, the ghosts had disappeared. And even though they hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye, she decided not to hold it against them.
“
Y
ou’re pulling my head off! Are you laughing at me? Duncan, that
really
hurts.”
“I can’t believe you did this,” he said, grunting. “Anybody with two eyes could have seen the pin was bent.”
“I only meant to help you.” Marsali’s face turned peevish inside the helmet as he paused from trying to tug it off her head. “I think you’re actually enjoying this.”
“Get down on the floor, Marsali. Now put your head between my knees. Of course I’m not enjoying this. There are quite a few other things I would prefer to be doing in this position. Removing a rusty helmet isn’t one of them.” Marsali lowered herself, one stiff-jointed leg at a time, before him. Then just as Duncan removed his own helmet to give the matter serious attention, she raised her head and looked at the door.
A telltale tingling crept up her nerve endings into the nape of her neck. “Oh, no,” she gasped in dismay. “Not again.”
Duncan glanced around the room. “Are the ghosts back?”
“Worse. Uncle Colum is
coming. What are we going to do?”
“Hell.” Duncan placed his hands on either side of her helmet, tugging with all his might. “Come on,” he said through his teeth. “Get this damned thing off before he blames me again.”
The door creaked open. The wizard slowly entered, bringing a
whoosh
of cool herb-scented air into the musty guardroom. Duncan jumped to his feet, dragging Marsali up alongside him.
“I am here to exorcise the spirits of Bhaltair and Giorsal from the castle,” Colum announced with an impatient wave of his wand. “I assume that you two are the aforementioned spirits and are ready to receive the peaceful rewards of the afterlife?”
He stepped toward them, alternately sprinkling salt from a black satin pouch onto the floor and water from a crucible until he had formed a circle around them. He raised his wand of polished yew adorned with owl feathers.
“Actually, we’re Duncan and Marsali,” Duncan said after a long hesitation. “And this isn’t what it looks like.” Colum went dead still, his sharp gaze moving from one animated suit of armor to the other.
“It’s me, Uncle Colum.” Marsali raised her gauntleted hand in a wan little wave. “My helmet is stuck, and Duncan was trying to get it off. That’s why I was on the floor, and he was pulling my head.”
Duncan forced a chuckle. “You probably thought we were up to no good. It probably reminded you of the night you found us on the beach, and I got my hair caught in Marsali’s cross.”
Colum did not move a muscle. He did not say a word. Marsali gave a hollow-sounding laugh. “Wouldn’t it be funny if there really were an ancient Celtic courtship ritual that included pulling at your lover’s head as a sign of affection?”
“Ahem.” Duncan smile’s cracked under the wizard’s basilisk scrutiny. “Well, I think I’d better see about fetching that locksmith now.”
“Don’t leave me here in this helmet, Duncan.” Marsali’s voice was a thin wail of misery. “Uncle Colum, help me.”
Colum’s voice was crisp with exasperation. “Marsali, I can draw down the moon. I can command the wind. I have
even managed to confer invisibility on the random petitioner. But as long as you insist on getting yourself into these human entanglements, I am helpless to intervene.”
Duncan went to pull her into his arms, but they were like two tortoises trying to embrace, their armor preventing intimacy. “There, there, Marsali. I’ll take care of you.”
The wizard swept past them, a tingling current of cool air in his wake. “I must say, my lord, that this isn’t exactly what I had in mind the night I commended my niece to your care.”
“It isn’t what I had in mind either,” Duncan said bleakly as he stared down at the suit of armor he had hoped to marry in the morning. “Wait here, Marsali. I’m going to fetch that locksmith.”
“At least the ghosts are gone, my lord,” she called after him, her spirits rallying.
He paused at the door, smiling despite himself. Trust her to put the problem into perspective. The ghosts, all of them, were gone, and he wished them peace.
Chapter
35
A
poignant silence swelled within the tiny castle chapel, broken by the occasional sniffle of emotion from the clansmen standing witness in the pews. Marsali, in white lace, looked the picture of maidenly purity as she knelt with Duncan on a rush mat at the altar slab, their heads bent for the priest’s blessing.
“Father Patrick looks a bit out of sorts,” Johnnie commented under his breath.
“Aye,” Cook whispered, “and wasn’t the man pushed into the moat the last time he performed a wedding Mass in this chapel?”
“
’Twas an accident, as I recall,” Johnnie murmured. “The bride was chasing after the groom and got the wrong man.”
Effie wiped away a tear with her apron string. “Marsali makes a beautiful bride, bless her wee heart.”
“Thank heaven that locksmith got here in time,” Owen said behind them.
Lachlan shook his head. “She’d have had a hell of a time managin’ to take Communion through that visor.”
The priest had begun the Mass; he stumbled over the long-unspoken Latin phrases. After all, most of the clan’s married men had either abducted their wives and said to
hell with formality, or they had followed the ancient custom of handfasting and a hasty wedding on the bridal stone beside the loch.
Then, at last, the chieftain and wee Marsali Hay rose to exchange their vows. Duncan towered over her like a mountain; his deep voice resonated to the rafters where not long ago Abercrombie had hung his plucked chickens.
“I, Duncan James MacElgin, take thee, Marsali—” There was a catch of emotion in his voice; it was the most beautiful moment of his life, but he had to stop, distracted not so much by the sobs, the sighs, the nose-blowing, but by his own beloved Marsali, interrupting in wide-eyed surprise, “Duncan
James.
I never knew your middle name was
James
.
”
To which Owen added, “Aye, ’tis a fine name, James. I’ve five cousins and an uncle in Inverness named James.”
“Dinna forget the exiled king in Rome,” Johnnie said, which set off another surge of conversation in the pews.
It didn’t matter. Nothing could mar Duncan’s mood, and when the ceremony was over and he took Marsali in his arms, when her soft red mouth touched his in a kiss of eager acceptance, they were the only two people in the chapel, the castle, the world.
He swept her up in his arms, grinning at the good-natured cheers that assaulted him as he ran down the nave. “Where are we going?” Marsali shouted, snuggled comfortably and waving at Effie over his shoulder.
“Where do you think, lass?”
“They’re following us, Duncan.”
“I’m faster.”
“They’re not going to let us go that easily.” She pressed her face to his chest as he plunged down a covert passageway, immersing them in inky darkness. Her nose twitched in approval at the smell of sandalwood and male musk on his plaid. “I hear them coming!”
Suddenly they were in his room; she gave a squeal of surprise as she landed smac
k in the middle of a vast four-
poster bed, then heard a series of heavy
thunks
as not one but six iron crossbars fell into place across the door.
Fat beeswax candles, strategically placed around the chamber, imparted a warm seductive glow to Duncan’s
austere face as he strode toward her. A peat fire smoldered in the hearth. The sound of approaching footsteps and jovial voices faded into muted clamor.
“I put the locksmith to good use before he left,” Duncan murmured, casually lifting his hand to unbuckle his ceremonial sword belt. “We’re all alone. They can’t get in.”
S
he stood before him, her breathing suspended, as the last of her undergarments slithered to the stone floor. Entranced, Duncan drank in the vision of her naked vulnerability. The raw power of the passion she aroused in him devastated his composure.
Marsali swallowed. It was all she could do to restrain herself from jumping into his arms.
“Duncan,” she whispered. “You remind me of a beggar standing at a banquet.”
“Just let me look at you, lass.” He came up before her, his gaze bold and possessive.
She bit her lip, her lashes demurely lifting to peep at him. “Do you have to look in such detail?”
“You’re so lovely I could stare at you all night.” He gave her a wolfish grin, tilting her shy face up to his. “Fortunately, I have other things in mind.”
He kissed her, long and deep, until she swayed in his arms, and he walked them backward to the bed. Marsali floated on a cloud of happy anticipation. Her husband. The chieftain. She gripped his well-muscled forearms, laughing softly as he lowered her beneath him.
“Take off your clothes, Duncan,” she teased as he forced her deeper into the bed. “Here. I’ll help you with the broach. It’s only fair that I should have a look at what I’ve married too.”
He leaned back against the velvet quilt, vastly amused by her aggression. “As I recall, you had a good look that day you ambushed me.”
“Aye.” She tugged at his broach. “I’d never seen a man like you before.”
He caught her small hands to his chest, his eyes studying her with unabashed enjoyment. “You’ll never see another one again—‘bare as a boulder’—whether he’s like me or not.”
He released her to unravel his rough-woven plaid and remove his long saffron shirt. His heart thundered like a war drum as she pressed her naked body to his, as uninhibited as a young animal, her eager innocence a powerful aphrodisiac.
The thought came again that he did not deserve her. Her delicate grace, her warmth, her humor.
“I’ve wanted you for so long, Marsali.”
She smiled wistfully. “And all the time I was yours for the taking.”
“Aye.” He slipped into a low Scottish brogue, his blue eyes teasing. “I want ye, Marsali Hay. And I’m takin’ ye now.”
The blood bequeathed by generations of Celtic conquerors surged in his veins. His wife. His hand trembled as he touched her sweet uptilted face, the swordsman’s hand that had commanded great armies, the hand that held the power to save or destroy. But now it wielded only a weapon of devastating gentleness.
True to his reputation, he was ruthless in his seduction of the woman he loved. He was a master at making war. And making love.
Every caress was a calculated assault on her senses, every kiss a direct blow, until her mind reeled, her muscles quivered under his tender mastery. Marsali felt more vulnerable, more powerful than she had in her whole life.
His callused fingertips found secret pulse points on her body she had not known could yield such pleasure. He traced the fragile curve of her collarbone, the peaks of her breasts, the contours of her hips. Her blood stirred, pounding through his veins in arousal. Her body arched, flooded with pleasure that pooled in the pit of her belly and spread outward like the ripples in a pond.
“So delicate,” he murmured roughly. “So small. I feel like a beast. Ah, Marsali, I love you so much. I can’t imagine my life without you.”
She shivered as his fingers slipped between her thighs, at the sensations his touch evoked. She flexed against him, desire misting her mind.
The deep guttural tones of his voice rasped in the silence. “Now you will be mine. It was meant to be—sooner or later, I would have taken you as my own.”
She smiled into his eyes, enticing, inviting. She ran her fingers down the flat plane of his stomach. Shock waves of sexual excitement rolled over him, and his muscles clenched in anticipation. She felt like wet silk in his hand.
“Tonight,” she whispered, her smile fading, “the end of a sweet magical summer. I love you, Duncan.”
He shook his head. “No endings for us, lass.”
He moved over her, firelight burnishing the harsh beauty of his face. The muscles of his powerful shoulders and torso tightened as he bracketed her between his arms. His eyes burned like blue flames, branding her, touching her with fire. Marsali felt a shimmering heat ignite deep inside her. Body, heart, soul. She belonged to him.
His breathing quickened. Her response was driving him wild. He raised her bottom in his large hands, kissing her and murmuring soft words of reassurance against her mouth. He nudged her thighs apart, positioning himself above her.
“There,” he whispered, passion roughing his voice. And slowly he penetrated her, filled her, stretched the delicate tissue until she tensed, then relaxed, until he began to move and her body pulsed, absorbing his size and power, and he possessed her.
The pressure, the pleasure, built and built. She clutched his arms, straining into him, soft cries breaking in her throat. “I love you,” she whispered, her heart soaring. “I’ve loved you forever.”
Their bodies melded in a wild joyous mating. The perfume of smoke, beeswax, and sea mist mingled with the musk of their lovemaking. Magic embraced them. Their souls touched, soaring to the stars.
From the deep within the castle rose the sounds of celebration. The wailing of bagpipes wafted into the darkened chambers from the great hall. A lament of losses suffered, a plea for hopes renewed. Grief and love, pain and triumph. The poignant refrain of the human heart echoing out over eternity. Ghosts of the past, dreams of the future.
In his young wife’s arms, the chieftain was home. In her body, his restless yearning found a respite and renewal.
D
uncan led the small procession on horseback to the forgotten house at the edge of the woods. It was the house where Duncan and Cecelia had made adulterous love so many years ago, where Cecelia and her doctor-husband had lived until the day of Hannah’s birth. It was the last place in the world Duncan had planned to visit. He wished he’d brought Marsali along to counteract his grim mood.
“I don’t see the point in this, Hannah,” he said. “It’s better to put the past behind us.”
Hannah slid to the ground from her horse. “I
just want to see where I was born
. I want to know where my mother lived. Will you come inside with me, Papa?”
“No.” Duncan’s face was resolute. “I will not.”
Johnnie dismounted beside her, his voice gentle. “Your papa has more of a stomach for bloodshed than for shame, lass. I’ll go with ye.”
Hannah looked up appealingly at her father, but he pretended to stare into the woods until she turned away. His heart felt heavy as she disappeared with Johnnie into the house. The reminder of his adolescent wildness embarrassed him. Still, out of it had come this beautiful girl, and he was astonished at the capacity of his love for her.
Still, love brought a fresh crop of concerns with it. Hannah was sweet, headstrong, and naive. She didn’t see life with the cynical vision of experience. Somehow she had grown up untainted by her sad beginnings and abandonment. Duncan could only pray that one day she would find a strong man to protect her. She had been sheltered all her life in that convent, and her innocence made her vulnerable. She was also a little wild, as he had been. That worried him.
He drew a breath of relief as she emerged from the house, her angular face so fragile and yet like his. “Are you all right?” he said roughly.
“Yes, Papa.” She remounted her horse. Her voice was wistful. “I wish I had known my mother. I wonder if she ever regretted giving me away.”
Duncan didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t known Hannah’s mother well. Hell, he’d only been seventeen at the
time. He spurred his horse down the hill. He listened absently to Hannah and Johnnie talking quietly as they followed. Then when they reached the graveyard, he realized that he could no longer hear them.
“What are you doing?” he called over his shoulder.
“I just want to see my grave, Papa,” she called back.
He wheeled his horse around. “Dear God, Hannah. Not the grave.”
But Hannah was already running over the hill to the tiny stone cross that Johnnie had pointed out. Duncan dismounted and started after her, swearing under his breath. The girl had his stubborn ways, God help her.
“I reckon a body has a right to see his own resting place, my lord,” Johnnie said behind him.
Duncan stiffened, not taking another step. He could see Hannah on her knees, studying the unmarked grave for a sign that she had meant something more to her mother than this crude anonymous memorial. The sight broke his heart.
Had
she meant anything to Cecelia?
“Her husband probably made her pretend you had died to preserve his pride,” Duncan said reluctantly, aching to ease her hurt.
“Look, Papa,” Hannah murmured, not hearing him. “Someone has put some heather on the grave. Dried heather.”
Duncan stared down over her shoulder. There was a sprig of dried white heather on the grave, so delicate he knew it would crumble if he touched it. Was it the heather he’d noticed before?
“Cook probably left it,” he said in a subdued voice.
“White heather doesna grow in these hills,” Johnnie said, frowning.
“Then it was a clansman.” Duncan didn’t want his daughter to harbor any illusions that might cause her more pain. “Forget about the past, Hannah. You have friends and family who will take care of you now. What your mother did is unforgivable, and I was little better.”