Parris Afton Bonds (8 page)

Brother Archibald saw Kathryn coming long before she spotted him. He set down on the rocky outcrop the quill he sharpened, along with his knife, and waited for her.

He had been waiting fo
r her, it seemed, forever. Since the day she arrived, at age thirteen, at the baronial castle of Malcolm Afton. He himself had been not much older, a mere laddie at fifteen. The rest of his life was ever after changed. From being the son of a fisherman, he had hoped to become a fisherman of men.

But that was much later. After the dark night of his soul.

He rose, standing tall above her. The wind, warmed by the Gulf Stream, whipped the hem of her concealing cloak around his trousered legs.

The color on her c
heeks was high. Because of the warm afternoon or this meeting?

In his mind
’s eye, she was still a lass of sixteen, her hair spread across the stable straw like a jeweler’s black velvet backdrop.

Her dark blue eyes reflected the sunlight sparkling off the w
ater. Yet, deep in them he saw a storm. "Aye, Kathryn?”

"You got my message then." It was a statement of relief rather than a question.

"A tinker brought it."

She sighed. “
I never know where to find you or when you’ll come."

He took her hand, slender and slightly veined. “
Something is amiss. What is it?"

‘
"Tis Enya.”

His heart seemed to lurch in his chest. "Let
’s walk." He collected his quill and knife—and collected his wits. Taking Kathryn’s elbow, he turned their steps toward the burn below that emptied into the sea. He asked gently, "What has happened?”

Her eyes shimmered, her normally serene voice trembled. "She was abducted on her way to Fort William. Less than twenty-four hours after she left Afton House and her wedding r
eception."

His hand tightened over her entwined ones. "Do you know who did it?"

She shook her head, and wisps of her bound hair, silver-streaked, tumbled from the hood of her cloak. "No. I mean, aye. Some Highland rebel. Simon Murdock was here the day before yesterday. He doesn’t know the full details yet, but says she is apparently being held hostage. He means to go after her."

He turned his face out to the Firth of Clyde. Its salty spray invigorated him. "The odds of defeating the Scottish rebels are on M
urdock’s side."

"Aye, but how long will that take, Arch? And, in the meantime, what will have happened to Enya?"

Seeing Kathryn’s shudder, he didn’t have to imagine what was on her mind. The same was on his. What kind and how much torture might Enya have to endure?  Murdock cared not a whit. Other than to salvage his pride, his main objective was to defeat the remaining Highlanders still in rebellion against British dominion a full five years after the Scottish defeat at the Battle of Culloden.

He squeezed
Kathryn's hands with a reassurance he did not quite feel. He sometimes felt her unswerving faith in him was misplaced. "I have contacts. I’ll return the day after tomorrow with the full story. When we know all there is to know, then we can plan accordingly."

The relief in her fair face was worth all those lonely nights of his adult life. Now the burden had shifted to him; so, after leaving Kathryn at the banks of the sluggish burn, he prepared for another journey. His destination was the trackless wilds of
Midlothian and Rosslyn Chapel, the underground headquarters of the Knights Templar.

A contingent of Knights Templars had allegedly fought on Robert Bruce's side at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314, in which Bruce defeated the English. Because the papal bu
ll dissolving the Templars was never proclaimed in Scotland, the order of warrior-monks was never officially suppressed here.

The order began a clandestine existence, gradually secularizing itself and becoming associated with both the Scottish Rite Freemas
ons and the prevailing clan system. Indirectly, it had worked to support the cause of Bonnie Prince Charlie in '45.

After a hard ride that took all night and part of the next morning, Arch arrived exhausted at Rosslyn Chapel. Visitors to the site were not
uncommon. The chapel was famous for the quality and variety of stone carving inside. Also inside was a secret passage known only to a select few.

In the guise of a wine merchant, Arch entered the chapel, dimly lit by wall sconces and sputtering candles at
the altar. A few pilgrims either sat on the scarred benches or tiptoed around the circumference of the walls to better view the carvings. For a moment he idled, enjoying the coolness the interior afforded a tired and perspiring traveler.

A little-used stai
rcase off one alcove descended to a wine cellar below. Unobtrusively, he went down its narrow, dank steps. Someone moved in the room, damp and chill, with mold growing on its walls.

Wary, he paused. A wayfarer, an artist by his pad and charcoal, wandered a
mong the wine cellar’s empty casks. Arch peered at the pad and ascertained that the young man had, indeed, been sketching. The drawing was of the cellar’s high, vaulted stone roof.

Arch strolled forward. "G
’day. Spooky place, isn’t it?”

The young man nodde
d. "That it is.”

"Anything left for our refreshment?”

"Not a drop,” the artist said. "The English swigged it all.” Soon thereafter, he took his leave.

Arch had to smile. The artist
’s eye was not that observant or he would have noted that the cellar’s cobwebs did not adorn all the oak casks. At the back of the catacomb-like cellar, one large vat in particular showed no trace of dust.

By simply pulling on what appeared to be a spigot, he swung open the vat
’s end to reveal a tunnel, lit by a sconce at the far end. Pins in well-greased hinges turned noiselessly as he closed the portal behind him. The cellar’s stone floor ended here, and the tunnel’s hard-packed dirt softened his footsteps. Just beyond the sconce, the tunnel veered and terminated with another door. Without knocking, he entered.

A bearded man wearing the Knights Templars
’ white robe with splayed red cross was perched on a stool before a counter. On it, the vials, flasks, mortars, and pestals indicated this anteroom also served as an alchemical laboratory. The man turned, head canted, and asked, "Archibald Armstrong?”

“
You remember. Tis been almost fourteen years.”

The owl-like eyes twinkled. “
How could I forget someone who not only bested me at claymores but made me look like a laddie in the bargain?"

Arch smiled. He, too, remembered. Remembered not only Bernard, but the man
’s eccentric uncle, Isaac Newton, who had performed some of his clandestine research in this very laboratory. “I need help, Bernard. Information.”

The Knight Templar nodded. “
About Lady Enya?”

"Then word is already out?" He took a seat on another stool, which the Knight indicated. "Aye. Do you know who is holding her hostage?
”

The Templar laid aside the beaker he held and wiped his hands on a cloth. "Reivers, no less. The fiercest of the raiders, in this case
— Ranald’s Reivers."

"Where can I find these reivers?"

“Their leader, Ranald Kincairn, is of the Clan Cameron. Red Castle near Ballengarno used to be the power base of the Camerons. The Earls of Atholl of the Cameron branch could trace their clan back to the sacred origins of St. Columba and the royal house of Fife.

"These days, Ranald Kincairn abandons one base for another
. He had the English troops quartered at Fort William chasing their tails. Murdock’s arrival has changed all that."

Arch rubbed his chin. "Does anyone know where their present base is?"

"Some say the Trossack area. That is Gaelic for bristly country. Which should hint at how difficult your search will be.” The Templar’s owlish eyes hooded over in a secretive look. "Seek out first the keeper of the Templar graveyard in Argyll.”

Arch knew he could learn no more. He thanked Bernard and left. He still had a ret
urn journey of fourteen hours of hard riding before him. Kathryn would want to know the news as soon as possible.

He reached Afton House just after four o
’clock the following morning. The sky was still dark, without a hint of moon. His horse’s flanks were steaming, his own labored breath frosty in the crisp early-morning air. Kathryn was still up. Her light shone in her bedroom on the second floor.

She could wait
’til sun-up, he reasoned. Nothing could be accomplished before then anyway. He cantered on to the stables. After unsaddling his weary horse he sought out a bed of straw, which was better than he often got.

When he awoke Kathryn was kneeling over him. For a moment he thought he was back again twenty-five years. His arms raised to embrace her. Then he
recollected where he was, who he was. Instead, he pushed himself upright. “What time is it?”

"Just before matins. One of the stable boys found you. What news have you?”

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. God, he ached all over. He was too old to be chasing around the countryside. He should have taken his vows to his order long ago, changed his vocation from brother to priest, and then taken his carcass out of Scotland for good.

“
Enya is being held by Ranald Kincairn, acting chief of the Camerons.”

“
Do you ken where?”

He shook his head. “
No."

Kathryn rose and began pacing before him. The hem of her skirts swished the dirt and straw. Dust particles filtered up in the shafts of early-morning sunlight. The odor of horse manure was powerful, and he realized he h
ad fallen asleep with one elbow in a pile of it. "God’s blood, but I smell rank!”

"I can be ready to ride by dawn tomorrow.”

"What?" He bolted to his feet and hit his head on the stall’s low lintel.

She halted, stared at him, and wrinkled her nose. "A bath
wouldn’t hurt you either before we leave.”

Rubbing her palms together, she resumed pacing. “
Malcolm mustn’t ken of this. I’ll tell him I am going to Edinburgh. That’s it. I’ll tell him Allan Ramsay wants to paint my portrait, and I’ll need to stay a fortnight. Alistair is capable enough to run Afton House and care for Malcolm until I return.”

"You
’re not going with me, Kathryn.”

She whirled on him. "Enya is me daughter, too.”

He took her hands in his. "Not only would you slow me down, but I would accomplish more without you. People don’t question a scribe traveling on the back roads. A fine lady they would." "I don’t have to go as a fine lady.”

His lips curled in a scoff. "You
wouldn’t know how to go as anything else. A life of nobility is all you’ve ever known. You’d slip up and betray us in less than an hour. We can’t afford to alert this Ranald. He’s expecting Murdock. But not me.”

She put her hands on her hips, still slender
even after childbirth and middle age. His mind’s eye saw her again in that pose—a fetching lass who had often challenged him. "I can go places and get information that even a man can’t, Arch.”

“
Like where?"

She raised a brow. "Think about it."

He could feel his big ears turning red with heat. "You’d go to the Highlands even if I said I wouldn’t take you, wouldn’t you?”

Her smile was gentle, guileless, serene, and noble. "A repentant prostitute on pilgrimage is an excellent disguise, don
’t you agree?"

Chapter Five

T
he reivers were eating haggis and neeps, jesting and quarreling and enjoying the comradely pleasures of the great hall. They conversed in that strange Gaelic language. Although there had to be more than fifty men tonight, more than usual, Enya knew at once which one was Ranald Kincairn before he even took up the bagpipe.

Her mother would claim she was daft, but Enya didn
’t know how else to explain her knowledge of the man, other than to describe it as second sight, like dreams or visions that Elspeth said some of the auld folk had.

From that distance, Enya could not really say the man was handsome. Rather ordinary, in fact, if she discounted his size.

The tall, brawny man left his place at the head table to play the pipes for Ian Cameron. A collie that had been moping in the castle now perked up and padded behind the big man, who had taken up a hide-bound chair a short distance from her place at the end of the table. Unlike his kilted uncle and cousin, the appointed laird of the Cameron clan wore a hunting shirt and trousers of deerskin so worn and stained that the leather shined.

In the five days she had been held captive at Lochaber Castle, she had learned through questioning Jamie that Ranald Kincairn had come and gone and come
again, like a will-o’-the-wisp. Clearly, he was in no hurry to carry out his expressed intentions in regard to her.

'"Tis a
ceilidh
tonight," Jamie said at her side.

"A what?" The wild-sounding, hard-to-pronounce Gaelic words spoken by Highlanders confound
ed her. Like
Eidiann
for Edinburgh and
Glaschu
for Glasgow. Gaelic was a completely separate tongue, with its own unique vocabulary and grammar, as different from English as were Greek or Polish.

"A
ceilidh
is a Highland-style evening of music, dance, and drinking. The villagers will find any excuse for a
ceilidh
."

"What is the celebration?”
In all the time she had been at Lochaber, the days and evenings had passed in monotonous isolation. Tonight was the first time she had been allowed to leave her room, although she had been permitted the services of Elspeth and Mary Laurie.

She realized she had taken for granted the dancing classes, literary correspondences, debates, and flirtations that had enlivened her life at Afton House.

Jamie’s dancing blue eyes didn't meet her own. "We are celebrating a victory of sorts. Ranald’s men trounced a small English search party.”

Her pewter tankard of ale stopped midway to her mouth, but the sudden wail of the bagpipe postponed her obvious question.

There was a quality to this music unlike any of her Lowland childhood experience. Until the English banned the bagpipe as a weapon of war because it had led the clans to battle at Culloden, many Lowland towns had employed a town piper. An honored citizen with a special uniform, the town piper’s duty had been to pipe the town awake in the morning and pipe it to sleep at night.

This was no simple tune. It opened with a theme that de
veloped over a sequence of variations into an eerie musical scheme of soulful depth. This music, once heard, was not to be forgotten. The instrument’s piercing, haunting tone emerged from the sound of the drones like a needle sewing silver thread through coarse linen.

She shivered. Her gaze scrutinized with aroused interest the man responsible
—for both the music and her captivity.

His head was slightly tilted and lowered so that she got a glimpse of his queue, tied at his muscular nape by a leather thong. H
is hair was the color of hot tea marbled with cream.

He took a momentary breath, releasing the blow-pipe, and lifted his head. In that instant, she saw that, while not handsome, his face was arresting.

She couldn’t take her eyes from it. The brow was broad, the light-colored eyes impassioned. High, craggy cheekbones created steep, bronzed walls into which a pleat had been carved at either side of a mouth etched with purpose.

There was nothing soft about his countenance. Shrewdness, determination, and a cert
ain recklessness glinted there.

For a moment his gaze clashed with hers. Beneath the sharply angled brows, his eyes challenged her. She realized he wanted her to try to escape. He wanted an excuse to make her life more difficult than it already was.

His gaze relinquished hers, and she let out a breath she had not known she had been holding. He replaced his mouth over the blow-pipe. Nearby, his uncle leaned his head back against the great chair and closed his eyes. The tormented expression of his old-prophet’s face eased into repose.

Between Ian and Ranald Kincairn
’s empty chair sat a young woman Enya had not noticed in the great hall the first time. Clad in men’s trews and a too-large cambric shirt, she appeared to be approximately the same age as herself but of a diminutive build. The young woman’s hair, unbound in the style of a maiden, reminded Enya of a lioness’s tawny mane. In the heart-shaped face, her blue eyes had that look of the wild. She was definitely striking, but too gaunt to be considered attractive.

Enya realized the young woman was staring back at her. Such hate filled those ice-blue eyes that Enya had to steel herself against flinching. At last, the woman looked away, but not without first flicking her a smile that promised pain.

"The young woman there," she said to Jamie, “is she the laird’s?”

"Ranald
’s wife? No, he has none. Mhorag is his sister."

Enya could almost have sworn she had heard the young woman snarl at her. Perhaps it was the final drone of the bagpipe.

Ranald Kincairn passed his sheepskin bag to a waiting lackey and resumed his seat at the head table. She watched him prop his high leather boots on the table and light his pipe. Such was her desire to smoke, that for one mad moment she thought about stealing his pipe the next time he deserted the table to play his bagpipe.

A fiddler put an end to the lull in music, if the screeching noise could be called such. Several couples in rustic homespun, most likely from the hamlet of Lochaber, forsook their tankards to dance to a reel. Ente
rtained, she watched while her foot tapped—until she realized the name of the song, "Old Stewart’s Back Again."

The elbow at her ribs recalled her attention. She followed Jamie
’s nod. Ranald Kincairn, pipe stem between his lips, curled a finger in her direction, beckoning her to come to him.

All conversation in the great hall ceased, as did the old fiddler his reel. The dancers eased back onto their benches.

She could feel all eyes upon her. She did not move. Irritation, indignation, and resentment threatened to undermine her attempt at civility, composure, and control. Badly, she wanted to tell the Highland heathen where he could put his pipe.

His expression never changed. He simply waited. The tension in the room was as thick as the steak-and-kidney puddin
g.

Her nerves tingled, but she remained seated. Behind his hand, Ian murmured something to his nephew.

"You had best comply with Ranald,” Jamie said to her. "He is the laird, you know."

She managed a shrug. "And if I don
’t?"

"His patience is not infinite."

"I’ll worry when that time comes.”

"Well, you have a point there. I
’ve only seen him lose it once.”

For all her insouciant facade, she blurted beneath her breath, "What happened?"

“One of the grooms forgot to rub down Ranald’s horse after a particularly hard ride. It was the second time the groom had forgotten. Ranald ordered the armorer to forge a permanent saddle on the back of the groom.”

“
You jest.”

He shook his head solemnly, and his lustrous auburn curls rustled across the tortoiseshell brooch clasping his plaid to one shoulder.

"No.”

"How cruel!"

"If it was just Ranald, the groom’s laxity wouldn’t have required so great a penalty. But the safety of an entire clan was at stake. A chief without a horse canna lead his men effectively.”

The finger curled again. In the light of a wax-sputtering candelabrum, the chief
’s mouth, clamped about his pipe stem, had a hard, relentless cast.

She drew a fortifying
breath and chose her own safety above pride. Rising, she gathered her skirts and sauntered toward Ranald Kincairn. It seemed a collective sigh issued from the room’s occupants.

She stood before him. She was so angry, she could not speak. That close, she s
aw that his eyes were more green than blue. And very light. Like the center of bright-burning fires. His unwavering gaze held none of the friendliness of his collie, which eyed her with curiosity. His gaze was more that of a predatory animal. A wolf, a lynx, a falcon.

He set aside his pipe. “
As you are now residing with the Cameron clan, you will be required to take an oath to me, its laird and chief.”

In the silence of the great hall, she found her voice. “
Even though I reside here not by my own will?”

“
You reside here by my will.”

His eyes had not flashed with fury, his mouth had not compressed in ire, his voice had not changed timbre. Nevertheless, it was obvious that she would be unwise to argue the point now. She shrugged her shoulders. "As you will.”

"Aye, as I will. Tomorrow you swear your oath of allegiance in the Justice Room.”

Justice? If there were such a thing as justice, she thought, you would be drawn and quartered.