Flame (9 page)

Suddenly, she was out from under the roof of
cave, and above her the stars sparkled with a brilliance like no
time she could ever recall. The ability to breathe, to feel the
cool breezes pulling gently at her clothes, at her hair--these were
sensations Joanna thought she would never experience again. Like a
prisoner chained in a deep pit, she had sentenced herself to
confinement inside this castle. For more than six months, she had
buried herself in what was--for her--the labyrinthine tomb beneath
Ironcross. And it was a tomb from which there could be no escape.
Her death could be the only end to this sentence.

She raised her hands high in the air,
allowing the soft night air to wrap about her, to caress her
body.

A low whistle, and then the sound of a horse
floated upward to her, jerking her abruptly out of her reverie.
Joanna peered down over the ledge.

It was he. The laird.

She was close enough to him to hear the man
grunt with pain as he swung up onto the charger.

As she watched him ride off toward the
castle, Joanna glanced back into the gloom of the tunnel, and then
looked over the edge again at the trail below. As accustomed as her
eyes were to the darkness, she could see clearly enough to realize
what had happened. There was a boulder in the center of the path.
Whoever had passed by the crypt had pushed the rock from this
ledge.

Joanna gazed at the new laird as he
disappeared into the night. He had once again escaped death.

But how much longer could he survive the evil
of this keep? Joanna asked herself. Till the next full moon? If the
man’s luck could only last until then, she would set things
right.

She would watch over him until then, she
vowed. She had to.

The laird’s face was grim enough when he
entered his chamber, but there was cold fury etched in it when he
stormed out.

The two warriors had walked with their
chieftain to his chamber, but they had barely even turned away from
the door when he reappeared. The angry glare darkening Gavin Kerr’s
expression made Edmund and Peter both jump aside and follow him as
he marched in the direction of the south wing.

“We were talking, m’lord,” Peter puffed,
trotting to keep up. “Edmund and I were, that is. And we were
thinking that traveling around these Highlands unattended might not
be the very best policy for such a man as yourself.”

“Aye. For instance, that gash on the side of
your head,” Edmund put in. “If you had been knocked unconscious in
those hills...”

“Riding by yourself, m’lord, as you were,”
Peter added.

“Aye. Well, we were thinking that, by now,
you would have been prey to just about any wild four-legged
creature that might be roaming about in the night.”

“Not that gnawing on your tough old carcass
would be any real treat for a beast, m’lord, but...” Peter
swallowed his words at the threatening glare from his leader.

As the two exchanged smirking side glances,
Gavin took a lit candle from a wall sconce and led them on in
silence until they reached the corridors outside of the South Hall.
A great deal of debris had been piled in the courtyard, but more of
it lay in piles within the south wing itself.

“What the devil!” Peter exclaimed, as they
stepped into the nearly gutted hall.

Gavin preceded the other two into the center
of the room and looked up at Joanna’s picture hanging in the second
level, above the hearth. The same three warriors who had slept
there the night before leaped up in alarm.

“Bring it down,” he ordered sharply,
gesturing to Edmund.

“M’lord, you saw me put it in your room this
morning. By ‘sblood, the men were working in here until nearly
dark! ‘Tis just that...how could...”

“Bring it down and take it back to my
chamber,” Gavin commanded, turning sharply on his two men.

Peter took a step back until his burly
shoulders were flat against the door jam. “I swear on my mother’s
soul, m’lord. I never touched this...thing. ‘Tis bewitched. It...it
must be! I swear, m’lord, I was never once out of...out of Edmund’s
shadow while you were gone.”

A frown still darkening his face, the laird
pushed the candle into the sputtering warrior’s hand and
disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

The two men left behind looked at each other
in disbelief before raising their eyes in unison to the
portrait.

“The first time, I admit, I found it to be
humorous,” Peter said quietly.

“Aye, we all did,” Edmund replied. “Not any
more, though! Did you see the look in his eyes?”

“Aye.”

The two men stared up at the painting in
silence for a long moment.

“The poor bastard!” Peter said.

“Aye.” Edmund returned. “Clever, though!”

“The master will catch him.”

“And then...”

“His death won’t come soon enough,” Peter
finished. “The poor bastard.”

***

Just what he needed. Company.

His neighbor, the Earl of Athol, was to
arrive the next day.

Absently rubbing his sore shoulder with one
hand, Gavin watched as Margaret, the mute younger sister of the
steward, poured the last steaming kettle of water into the wooden
tub. Nodding his thanks to the woman, the laird waited until the
door of his chamber was closed before he began to shed his
clothes.

Athol. Now Gavin was feeling the first pangs
of doubt about lairdship in a Highland castle. To be hospitable to
such men as Athol was a bit more of a challenge than he was
accustomed to. And to welcome a damned Highlander into his keep! It
had never been a secret at court that, aside from the Macphersons,
Gavin Kerr despised the whole lot of them.

Fourteen years ago, on that bloody day at
Flodden Field, King Jamie had lost his life in battle to the
English because of these traitors. Admittedly, not all of them had
been at fault. But enough of the Highland lairds had looked
on--turning their heads and hanging back when they were most
needed--that Scotland’s chances had been doomed and her greatest
king since the Bruce was cut down in his prime.

The warrior chief winced slightly as he
pulled his shirt over his head. The sore shoulder was already
stiffening up. Looking about the master’s chambers and seeing what
his fate had brought him, Gavin knew this was no time to dwell on
the wounds of the past. And reason told him that he had enough to
do here without adding a feud with a neighbor to the list of his
troubles. So tomorrow he would put on his best show of manners and
greet the scurvy dog Athol and his monkey faced entourage. He was
certainly capable of that much diplomacy.

As he tossed away the last of his clothes,
Gavin’s eyes rested on the portrait of Joanna MacInnes. Lowering
himself into the tub, the warrior suddenly stopped and, stepping
out of the warm water, crossed the room and returned with his
broadsword. Easing himself in again, he laid the sword across the
staves of the huge tube, and settled in for a comfortable soak. He
had placed the painting above the hearth this time, and he gazed up
at the beautiful features. He was not taking any chances of losing
the picture again. And besides, it was so much more pleasant to
think fanciful thoughts of her than it was to brood over arriving
guests.

Daydreaming in a bath was one thing, but
tomorrow there were so many things to be done. Things like
questioning the priest about the history of the abbey. He needed to
learn more about the past MacInnes lairds and their relationship
with the Earl of Athol.

Gavin’s eyes again studied the enigmatic
smile of Joanna MacInnes. He wanted to find out more about the
young woman and the hidden sorrows Mater had referred to.

And in the meantime, he would catch the
tricky bastard who kept stealing his prize.

***

Honestly, there wasn’t a shred of modesty in
the man.

Frowning at him from across the room, Joanna
decided that he could also probably sleep on a row of spikes. She
stood still and watched as he sighed in his sleep, shifted a bit,
and settled again. The giant
had
to be uncomfortable, his
chin on his massive chest, his muscular arms folded and resting on
the flat of the swordblade lying across the tub. Joanna tried to
ignore the laird’s bare knees and legs sticking out of the water
and, instead, focused on his face. The wet hair smoothed back from
his brow. The eyes closed in a scowling but still extremely
handsome face.

She spotted some fresh droplets of blood on
the side of his head. She wondered if these were from his mishap in
the gorge.

Controlling an urge to move closer and
inspect the wound, she decided that he certainly didn’t seem to be
in pain.

He shifted again, and one long arm moved,
tumbling outward over the staves of the tub as he turned his
shoulders slightly. The Lord forgive her, she thought, she could
make a habit out of coming here every night and watching him sleep.
And she was certain she could get away with it, too. The giant
slept like the dead.

Tonight, after peeking into the bedchamber,
Joanna had waited for quite a while in the passageway, assuming
that the man would eventually finish with his bath and retire. When
he hadn’t, she had even gone down into the kitchens and found some
supper. And here he was, still in the tub, fast asleep.

She had made some noises before entering the
chamber--scratching at the woven mat on the floor, tapping on the
wood panel--but to her delight, the Lowlander had continued to
slumber peacefully on in what must be, by now, very cold water. So
she had ventured in.

Laying the painting down carefully, Joanna
kept her eyes glued to his face and slowly knelt beside the tub.
His long arm dangled limply over the side, and she placed his
dagger on the rush mat--a breath away from his knuckles.

He had clearly thought himself smart enough
to outwit her. And he almost had. If it hadn’t been for her
quickness, she would have been caught, for when she had reached up
for the portrait, Joanna was shocked when the dagger, tip down, had
plunged downward toward her face. The villain had propped the
weapon on top of the frame, knowing it would be a hazard, or at
least an alarm.

It had been a miracle that she was able to
catch the dagger in the palm of her hand without dropping the
painting. It was almost ironic to think that the dressings she wore
to hide her hideous scars had kept her hands from being further
damaged. At least they had kept her from capture.

Joanna raised herself to her feet, trying not
to let her gaze dwell on the rest of him. She turned away, knowing
that she was getting far too impetuous. This game of coming back to
his room to take the portrait was far too daring. But she knew it
was something else as well. It was but an excuse she was using to
look in on him. To be close to him. She had to be losing her mind,
she decided.

She started toward the panel. She absolutely
couldn’t allow herself to get attached. She couldn’t. And she
certainly couldn’t afford to be caught. Glancing one last time in
his direction, watching the rise and fall of the drying mat of hair
on his broad chest, a sudden concern swept over Joanna.

The water that he was slumbering in
had
to be ice cold by now. Whatever would happen if he
caught a chill? Who would take care of him if he were to come down
with a fever? He would be a much easier target to destroy then.

With that thought in mind, Joanna stepped
back into the passageway. Holding the painting in her hand, she
slammed the panel shut. As she fled through the darkness, the
sounds of his curses, vividly descriptive and loud, brought a smile
to her lips.

***

The fact that a hush fell over the crowd in
the Great Hall when he entered was no surprise to Gavin Kerr. The
buzz of conversation as warriors and castle workers bent over their
morning meal ceased instantly, and more than a few began to rise
before quickly sitting down again. Many of the gathered throng
likely thought him mad and, as for the rest, he was certain that
they were too afraid to bring any attention to themselves.

He had certainly created a disturbance in the
middle of the night. Dressed in nothing other than his kilt, Gavin
had marched noisily through the Great Hall, out into the courtyard
and into the South Hall. Sure enough, he realized--along with two
dozen followers--the knave had beaten him down there and hung up
his prize. Gavin had hoisted a ladder onto his shoulder, climbed to
the hearth, and brought down the picture himself. Without a word to
the gaping onlookers, he had stalked angrily back to his chamber
with the painting under his arm.

This scoundrel had courage, Gavin had to give
him that. To think that this thief was so bold that he didn’t even
see a need to steal in silence! The scurvy knave had been so brazen
that he had even slammed the damn panel on his way out!

Gavin couldn’t help himself, but he was
starting to like the blackguard!

As he crossed the room, he swore to himself
that he’d catch the bastard next time. He must be a light-footed
creature, though, to be able to steal into a chamber where Gavin
was sleeping. After all, he’d always prided himself on being a very
light sleeper.

The Lowlander’s frown deepened as he reached
the table were Edmund and Peter were hunched over their morning
meal. From the smirks the two rogues wore on their faces, it was
obvious they were in a very good humor. And Gavin knew at whose
expense they were so cheerful. Gavin sat himself down beside
them.

Well, he could fix that, he decided.

“Well met, lads!” the laird growled in
greeting. “A fine morning, I see.”

“Aye, m’lord,” Peter replied, brown bread
stuffed in his cheeks.