Parris Afton Bonds (19 page)

From Duncan Enya found that her mother and Brother Archibald had been quartered in rooms just off the gallery in the south wing. "Yer mother is weak but holding fast to life, Enya. Elspeth has been tending to her.”

"What about you, Duncan?” She reached out and touched the red stripe that plowed the skin beneath his left ear. She ached for her childhood friend, they stood beneath an arched window embrasure, talking rapidly, as both had chores awaiting them.

He grinned. “
As well as can be expected. And ye?" These days his usually merry eyes were serious. They searched her face intently. “He did not . . . harm ye, did Ranald?"

The memory of the night before was vivid. She could still smell the heather and fresh rain and wet leather that had scented h
is skin. And the after-scent of their lovemaking. "No, he dinna harm me, Duncan.”

A few minutes later, from a narrow bed, her mother asked nearly the same question of her. “
The reiver did not hurt you, did he, my darling? You are looking wan.”

She sat on t
he edge of the straw-stuff mattress. She tugged the cover up over her mother’s shoulders. The room was cold with drafts, and her mother’s face was unnaturally pale. “As I told you and Brother Archibald last night, I am unharmed.”

But not unhurt. Her thighs
and delicate inner flesh ached. An ache well worth the pleasure she had experienced.

“
This was dangerous, Mother. Traveling to the—”

“
The wolf’s lair?” Her mother’s smile was weak.

“
Aye, the wolf’s lair, in weather like this."

Her mother
’s hand crept out to take hers. Gone was the fever of the night before. Elspeth’s remedies had worked cures before. Hopefully, this time, also. "We were hoping to arrange for . . . your ransom."

She sighed. "Mother, he
’ll not release me until the day Simon Murdock is dead. I don’t think all the coffers of the Lowlands would set me free.”

Her mother
’s grip tightened. "There must be a way to escape.”

"Not now. Not until the thaw is over.”
And by then she might be large with child! Gently, encouragingly, she squeezed her mother’s hand. "I think that before then we will have a better knowledge of both the castle and its inhabitants. Escape will be much easier."

Her mother managed a feeble smile. "Arch
—Brother Archibald is already seeing to that. You know him, how easily he makes friends. He has gone below to mingle.”

Her mother
’s sudden flush pleased her.

“
He will succeed, Enya. These stubborn Highlanders are staunchly behind a priest.”

“
Mother, I am needed in the kitchen, but I will return at the end of the day.”

She did not go directly to the kitchen, but went in search of Brother Archibald. She felt an affinity for the irascible priest. When she saw his red hair some of the tension ebbed from her shoulders, which always hurt
these days, what with carrying the cast-iron kettles of water and the heavy armloads of firewood.

Brother Archibald stood before the enormous fireplace. Warming his hands, he was holding forth with several early risers in a lively discussion of the triump
hant biblical King Ahasuerus. “So, the warrior king, after going on a wild party spree, went looking for a queen. His search brought him in close contact with the most beautiful virgins in the land.”

"What makes that so unusual?" asked the bearded Robert,
who had lost his eye in battle. His good eye fell on her. “The Highlands had the most beautiful virgins in all of Scotland 'til Murdock and his Lobsterbacks arrived.”

She knew Ranald
’s men were all wondering if she, a Lowlander, also was still a virgin.

Se
eing she was the focus of disgruntled attention, her mother’s old friend said smoothly, “What makes that so unusual is that a Persian king would even consider marriage to a woman of unknown lineage." He held out a welcoming hand to her. "Ah, Enya, I am glad to see you looking so winsome this morning." His words were spoken with the ease of a guest, rather than a captive, who was merely visiting the abode of a hospitable host.

In keeping with his light tone, she said, “‘
Tis the crisp mountain air, Brother Archibald.”

“
I looked in on your mother this morning. She seemed to be resting well.”

She wanted to evade the prying eyes of the men. "Mother is asking for you now."

Excusing himself, he joined her. She waited until they were well away from the others. "We may have an ally in the castle, Brother Archibald."

He flashed her a rewarding grin. "You have always been resourceful, Enya.”

She spoke in a whisper. "I found a scribbled message in Ranald’s desk giving the destination and date of a raid Ranald was going to make. The handwriting wasn’t Ranald’s. Only the council members could have known."

“
Or someone within earshot." Voice low, he climbed the stairs with her. “Mayhap one of them let slip the message to a wife or companion-in-arms.”

"True enough."

"Does Ranald know you know?”

"Aye. I tried to use the message to buy the safety of Duncan and myself and the others, but Ranald would have none of it."

"You realize whoever wants Ranald out of the way may care less about our fate?”

"I thought if you were aware of th
is note, you could keep a watchful eye."

“
Do you have any idea who may have written the note, lass?"

She considered. "Ranald has usurped Jamie's rightful claim as the chief
’s heir. But Jamie doesn’t want the position."

“
Or so the young man says.”

“
And the old chief, his father, canna ride.” She reflected on the game of backgammon she had played with Ian. “The man is sharp, though. He plays aggressively. Nearly beat me.” He was also taciturn and said little that was of a revealing nature, however much she tried to engage him in conversation.

“
From what I’ve learned, Ian was a brave and fearless leader of his clan. Harsh in victory and unyielding even in defeat."

"Ranald is the natural choice."

Brother Archibald gave her an inquisitive glance. "The way you say his name—this Ranald—is it feelings you have for this man?”

"Aye," she said with a grimace. "Mixed feelings. Fury for being treated like a
—a piece of barter. And hurt. But I give him credit, Brother Archibald. He is a natural-born leader—unyielding, ruthless, heartless.”

"And a brilliant tactician,”
the priest mused. "At least, that is the talk among the English troops and their leaders. Tell me, can you get a sample of handwriting from the council members?”

"I could try. Of the eight, only four co
uld write. Nob may have been able to, but he was killed the—’’

"Aye, I know. Ranald suspects me.”

"He suspects everyone. One of the council members, Robert—the one-eared man below— has a handwriting that is barely legible. Ranald is, naturally, ruled out. That leaves Jamie and his father. I haven’t had an opportunity to search their belongings. You have to remember that this castle is a layover, a base for the winter only. They keep very little to haul around with them.”

“
Talk to this Jamie. See what you can learn. Don’t discount anything.”

As the priest let himself into her mother
’s room, she eyed him thoughtfully. There were times when she thought he had missed his calling. His bearing, his thought processes, his commanding presence all bespoke a man well capable of leading other men, not leading Latin masses.

Flora and Annie were full of questions about the latest arrivals to the castle. "Ye mean they braved the trowies to come here?" Annie asked, eyes wide.

"The trowies?”

“
The trolls,” Flora explained. She fixed a beady eye on Annie. "Ye talk too much."

"Trolls?" Enya asked. Were they talking about Nob?

"Aye,” Flora said, her thin lips quivering with imaginary fears. “After dark the trolls guard the glens of Buachaille Etive against outsiders. Many a traveler has been found at the bottom of a glen, the body all twisted and broken.”

The kitchen was hot. Enya wiped the sweat from her receding forehead and picked up another leek to dice. “
Annie—Flora, don’t you think that, in the dark, a traveler unaccustomed to the mountain might miss a turn in the road?"

“
Our Shetland ponies don’t miss turns,” fat Annie scoffed.

God, she could use a smoke right now. After breakfast Ranald would be presiding over the Justice Room. A puff from one of his pipes would ease the st
ress of the last few days. Surely she could find an excuse to take her out of the kitchen for an hour or so. Then, too, there was Jamie’s room to search.

Escaping Flora
’s carping presence was not that difficult, after all. An argument arose in the Justice Hall over a trained bear that had bitten off the hand of a spectator. The bear’s bellowing roar summoned the castle servants and other curious eyes into the Justice Hall. Ranald sat in the Justice Chair with a half-amused smile playing at his lips.

"Cruick
shank had been tormenting the bear!” a droopy-nosed man said. He pointed a finger shaking with anger at a balding man whose right arm was heavily bandaged with dark, dried blood discoloring the white, gauze- wrapped stump.

Cruickshank, the owner of Lochabe
r’s jute mill, brandished his stump. “The bear should be killed—before it kills some wee innocent!"

The bear prowled in agitation back and forth between his owner and the Justice Chair. Murmurs for both sides ran through the hall. Enya did not wait for Ran
ald to make a decision. She would know the outcome soon enough. She backed away from the fringe of the crowd. Lifting her skirts, she ran up the staircase, heading for Ranald’s room—and one of his pipes.

Would he miss one of maybe half a dozen pipes? Not l
ikely. She took tobacco from the leather pouch and tapped into the bowl of a porcelain pipe. She lit a reed from the hearth’s fire and held it to her pipe.

With the first intake of the heavenly smoke, she closed her eyes. This was as near ecstasy as a body
could come . . . unless she discounted that too quickly fleeting moment locked with Ranald in passion’s embrace.

Only in reviewing those moments did she recall his reference to Artemis, goddess of the hunt and the moon. He had had an education of sorts, t
hough too often the heathen in him permitted his knowledge to be colored by his superstition.

Lips pursed, she blew away the haze of smoke to better see the open Bible. This morning Ranald had marked another verse. Reading it, she felt her scalp tighten an
d the hair rise on her arms.

Where has your beloved gone,

O most beautiful among women?

Where has your beloved turned,

That we may seek him with you?

The metallic clink of spurs echoing in the hall alerted her. Quickly, she shoved the pipe back into the drawer. The door opened. Ranald stood glowering in the doorway. He closed the door behind him. "Any reason why ye are in my quarters?”

She collected her wits. “Do you not remember granting me protection under your roof?”

He sauntered toward her. “
Under my roof. Not in my private chamber.”

Her smile was derisive. “
You wanted me here last night.”

He stopped only a handbreadth away. "Oh? You have returned to
beg for a repeat of last night?”

"Beg I
’ll never do.”

He took her chin, gently brushing its cleft with his thumb. Then he angled her head and brushed his lips across hers. More than once. "Soft.”
His mouth lingered against hers, unmoving. "Yet firm.”

A qu
eer feeling swirled deep in her belly, just below her navel. A sweet weakness swept over her. She almost swayed against him, collecting herself at the last instant.

He must have sensed her sudden restraint. “
I’ll beg, Enya. Kiss me. Now ye are no longer a cold virgin. Kiss me with the fires of your uncovered passion.”

She moved back as far as the desk allowed and tugged off her mob cap. Her thick red braid tumbled free to swing over her shoulder. She stood on tiptoe, feathered her lips across his, and whisp
ered, “My uncovered passion is symbolized in my uncovered hair, Ranald. Fiery red. Are you afraid?"

He grasped her shoulders and drew her against him. "Aye, I am afraid,
mo cinead
. Of feys and witches and trowies.”

Nervous, she laughed lightly and tugged f
rom his embrace. "Ah, so 'tis a trowie I am now?"

He caught her wrist and towed her over to the bed, where he pulled her down alongside him. Head propped on one hand, he stared down at her. "Trowies are whimsical creatures.”
His free hand toyed with her braid. "To be under the spell of the Highlands’ little people, its elves, is to lose one’s soul."