Samantha James (5 page)

“Who do ye be, then?” he gasped.

Egan stepped back, his expression distasteful. Even mounted atop Druscilla, Glenda could smell his sour breath.

“Your name, sir,” came Egan’s terse demand.

“I-I am Milburn. Who the devil are ye?”

“I am Egan. This is your mistress Glenda.”

“Glenda,” the man repeated dumbly. “But Glenda is the daughter of Royce.” His gaze moved slowly to Glenda. “Are ye Glenda then?”

“Aye,” Glenda said gently.

“But…what do ye here? Ye live in the Highlands now!”

“She is here because she is the mistress of Blackstone Tower!” Egan looked ready to explode. “Is there anyone in authority here?”

Milburn scratched his head. “I suppose ’twould be Bernard ye want.”

“Fetch him for me then.”

Milburn rose to his feet, grabbing at Egan’s arm as he stumbled. Once upright, he swayed dizzily.

Egan’s face was as black as a thundercloud. “When you’re done fetching Bernard, go wash yourself of the stink of ale. And if you report to this post again when you are sotted, I vow you’ll regret it most assuredly!”

Milburn thrust a wet lip out. “All right, then,” he grumbled. “Have patience, man, have patience.” He ambled toward the keep.

Egan’s patience was clearly not in evidence just now. He helped Glenda down from Druscilla’s back.
Together they advanced several steps into the bailey.

An old man descended the stairs of the keep, stooped nearly double with age. His pate was bald but for a few gray hairs standing on end.

“That is Bernard,” Glenda said, “one of my father’s men-at-arms. I did not know he was still alive.”

When at last he stood before them, he looked Glenda up and down. “Saints!” he said loudly, “but ye look just like Glenda!”

“She
is
Glenda!”

The old man turned toward Egan. “What’s that, laddie?”

Laddie
. Never in her life had she heard anyone refer to Egan as
laddie
. Glenda laid a hand on his arm and spoke then. “Be tolerant, Egan. Methinks he cannot hear.” She stepped close to Bernard and cupped her hand around his ear.

“You are right, Bernard. ’Tis I, Glenda.”

“Glenda!” His eyes filled with tears. “Och, Glenda, but yer father died,” he said mournfully. “And then yer Uncle Rowan. Now there is no one left.”

“Oh, but there is, Bernard. I am here now.” Her tone overly loud, she smiled at the old man, whose features were still awash in amazement. “Is Nessa still here?”

“Oh, aye, she is still here. She is there, within the hall.” A bony finger pointed toward the keep.

Glenda squeezed his hands. “Thank you, Bernard.” She nodded toward Egan. As they crossed the bailey and mounted the stairs into the keep, Glenda explained that Nessa had been nurse to her and her sister when they were children.

The inside of the hall was dimly lit by only a few
high, narrow windows set into the walls. The rushes on the floor smelled stale and moldy. Glenda did not hesitate, but stepped within.

“Nessa?” she called.

In the midst of throwing a handful of twigs onto the fire in the hearth, a figure stopped cold. Slowly the woman’s head turned to view the newcomers. She straightened, yet even then she was nearly as stoop-shouldered as the old man Bernard.

She hobbled closer, assisted by the staff clutched in her other hand. As a beam of sunlight lanced through the window, the twigs dropped from her grasp, scattering upon the floor. “Mother Mary,” came the rasping whisper, “never say ’tis you!”

Glenda smiled and held out her hands. “I am here, Nessa. I am here and—and this time I’ve returned for good!”

In but a heartbeat, the two were embracing. Egan stood awkwardly, feeling rather out of place. The old woman wiped tears from her eyes and finally drew back.

“And who have we here?” Egan could have sworn though a hundred lines scored her cheeks, her eyes and voice were surprisingly keen.

“This is Egan MacBain, Nessa. He escorted me from Dunthorpe.”

Was it his imagination, or had Glenda’s manner grown a trifle stiff? The old woman, Nessa, fixed her gaze upon him. Hair that had no doubt once been a bright red was now a wiry gray and covered with a wimple. Her frame was gaunt, skin stretched taut over bones. Yet though she gave the presence of frailty, her voice cracked like a whip.

“Safely, I presume?”

Glenda smiled slightly. “We are here, are we not?”

Egan had the feeling he’d just been weighed and measured—and judged decidedly lacking. The feeling was mutual, he decided darkly. Thus far, he’d yet to be impressed by anything he’d encountered here at Blackstone Tower.

Nessa turned back to Glenda. “I heard of Niall’s death. And yer babe. I grieved for ye, child, losing both husband and son.”

“Thank you, Nessa.” Glenda’s smile slipped a little.

“Come,” Nessa said. “Sit.” She drew Glenda to a wooden bench against the wall. She lowered her staff across her lap, but still clutched Glenda’s hand. “’Tis a poor welcome we give, I know. Bernard is half-blind and half-deaf. I am half-crippled, and a good many of the servants have fled.” She held out her hands. Her knuckles were bony and misshapen. “I fear these old hands cannot do what they should.”

“’Tis no matter,” Glenda said. “But tell me of Blackstone, Nessa. So much has changed since I was last here! Many of the cottages we passed had been abandoned or burned.”

Nessa shook her head. “Much has changed indeed,” she said sadly. “The Blackstone ye once knew is no more. Nay, this is not the place where ye once knew is no more. Nay, this is not the place where ye grew to womanhood, child. The laughter has fled, along with many of its people.”

“Tell me what happened, Nessa.” This was something Glenda had not anticipated—had not even
begun
to anticipate.

“It began after yer father’s death. All was well for
a time, but then yer Uncle Rowan began to sicken, much the same as your father had done. Little by little the keep has fallen into disrepair. The soldiers began to desert, and many families fled to the north.”

Glenda could not hide her dismay. “Why did no one send word? If I had known—”

“Rowan would not allow it. He would not tell ye, for he would not burden ye with yet more heartache. He did what he could, but he was too ill to do more.” Nessa folded her hands in her lap. “That is not all,” she said after a moment.

“What? Tell me, Nessa.” Glenda was determined that nothing be kept from her.

“This last year—och!—but it has been like a pestilence. A band of men have been terrorizing the countryside—no one knows when they will strike. They have trampled the crops, driven off cattle and oxen, rousted people from their huts. Sometimes weeks go by and nothing happens. Just when all begin to feel safe—that it is over—it begins anew.”

Glenda was numb. “Who would do this? Do you know, Nessa?”

Nessa hesitated. “No one knows for certain, for oft they strike at night, when it’s too dark to see them clearly. Even if they did, they hide their faces with cloth.”

Egan’s eyes narrowed. He had listened intently to all that Nessa related. “Someone must have
some
idea,” he injected.

Nessa’s lips pressed together. At first he thought she would refuse to comment. Then she said finally, “There is talk,” she admitted, “that Simon is responsible.”

Glenda’s brows drew together. “Simon Ruthven?”

“Aye,” Nessa confirmed. “Some call him Simon the Lawless behind his back. Even before his father died, he was always one to do as he pleased with no regard for anyone but himself. Indeed, I know not a man who would dare say such a thing to his face! Nay, no one dares speak out against him, for fear of being retaliated against.”

Egan’s eyes had narrowed. “Who is he, this Simon Ruthven?”

It was Glenda who answered. “He is an English baron with lands across the river.”

“England lies just across the river?”

“Aye. The lands of Blackstone Tower run to the north of it, Simon’s to the south.”

Her use of Simon’s given name was not lost on Egan. “You know him well then?”

“Nay, not well. We are of an age together, and I knew him when we were young, but…that is all.”

“Do you think him capable of such atrocities as Nessa has told of?”

“In truth I could not say either way! I’ve not seen him for many years. He was at the English court when I married Niall.”

Immersed in thought, Egan rubbed a hand against his jaw. “Perhaps ’tis possible he wants more lands.”

Nessa made a sound of disgust. “He already has lands aplenty and wealth aplenty. Far more, I dare-say, than Blackstone has ever had. I know not why he would want more. I know only that while it is mischief that is sowed, ’tis heartache that is reaped.”

“Then perhaps ’tis a case of ill will. Perhaps he bears some malice against your father or your uncle.”

Nessa snorted, a distinctly unladylike sound. “There is no malice against either Royce or Rowan,” she stated flatly. “Whether it is Simon the Lawless or another who preys on the people of Blackstone, ’tis the way of men to covet what is not theirs, to ever covet more! ’Tis their nature, just as it is oft their nature to be evil and mean-spirited toward any and all!”

Egan raised a brow. “Have you a husband, Nessa?” he asked pleasantly.

“Nay!” That single word was as gritty as stone scraping against glass.

“I thought not.”

Nessa’s dark eyes blazed. “Why, of all the arrogant…I can see ye’re a Highlander to the bone—”

What else she might have said was cut short, for Glenda’s gaze had traversed beyond Egan’s broad shoulders. Glenda rose to her feet. Nessa turned to see what had captured her attention.

The old woman raised a gnarled hand and beckoned the newcomer forward. “Come, Jeannine. Come, girl.”

“Jeannine! Oh, I knew it!” Glenda exclaimed. “The man whose cottage we passed—Peter,” she explained to Egan. “The daughter I spoke of. This is she. This is Jeannine.”

Jeannine had slowly crossed the rushes to stand before them. She was shorter than Glenda but heavier through the hips and shoulders. Golden brown hair was tucked beneath her wimple. Cradled in one elbow was a small bundle.

Glenda would have thrown her arms around the other woman, but something stopped her. At the last
instant she realized there was no flare of recognition in Jeannine’s large dark eyes.

“Hello, Jeannine,” she said quietly. “I am Glenda, daughter of Royce. Do you remember me? My father and I often visited your cottage when you were younger.”

Jeannine shook her head, her manner reticent.

Glenda advanced a step closer. Her gaze dropped to the bundle Jeannine held. The ache in her heart was swiftly banished. “You have a bairn, I see.”

“Aye.” Jeannine brightened. “Would ye like to see him? His name is Thomas. He greatly resembles his da.” With her free hand she parted the swaddling. Glenda stepped close, thinking to admire the babe.

There was no babe.

Puzzled, she lifted her eyes to Jeannine, whose expression told her she awaited her reaction. Glenda gave a tiny shake of her head. “Jeannine,” she began, only to stop short. Her gaze chanced to alight on Nessa, who was shaking her head adamantly and holding a finger to her lips.

Though she did not understand why, Glenda realized she was to say nothing.

“A handsome lad, is he not? Just like his da.”

Glenda smiled. “Just like his da,” she echoed.

Jeannine beamed.

Minutes later, when Jeannine was gone, Nessa explained. “Once the trouble started, Peter and his boys were among the first to leave. Jeannine stayed behind, for she and Colin had just been wed.” Nessa’s tone grew heavy. “Colin and their babe were killed in a raid last harvest. Since that time, Jeannine is…different. She will not speak of their deaths. Once I
tried to speak with her about it, to ask why she will not accept that they are dead. Others have tried as well.” Nessa’s stooped shoulders lifted. “She cried so long and so hard I feared she might well perish herself! And now, should anyone mention it, ’tis like she does not hear…
will
not hear. She carries the swaddling in her elbow always; always she talks to it, sleeps with it close to her side, as if her bairn were still cradled within. There are many who jeer at her and call her daft, but I could never be so cruel.”

Glenda’s eyes were drawn to the corner where Jeannine now sat, crooning to her bundle. She couldn’t help but wonder why Jeannine refused to accept the truth…Was it easier to simply believe that husband and child still lived? Something twisted inside her, for her heart well knew the ache wrought by a pair of empty arms.

Their meal that night was a meager one—boiled turnips, day-old bread, cheese, and watered-down ale. The table was lit by a few stubs of tallow candles. Glenda made a note to check the castle stores the next day.

Under Glenda’s direction, several bedchambers in the east wing had been prepared. One was the chamber Glenda had always occupied; the other was several doors away, the lord’s bedchamber. The bed there was comfortable and large, and would suit Egan’s big frame. Besides, she told herself, it was just for one night.

Egan nodded his satisfaction, and Glenda started toward the door, only to turn back.

Shaggy black brows arose. “Is there something you would like to discuss with me?”

“Aye, there is.” His invitation was just what she needed, yet somehow the words she sought eluded her.

“Then do not be reticent. We’ve known each other for years now. There should be no secrets between us.”

“And indeed ’twould seem there are none.” At last she drew upon some wellspring of courage inside her. “I must know, Egan. That morning at the loch. You—you saw me, didn’t you?”

“The loch? I know not what you mean.” He chose to deliberately misunderstand. Even as he regarded her with a decided gleam in his eyes, she fixed him with a glare.

“I think you do. You saw me”—she floundered—“you saw me…”

“Naked?”

“Oh, God.” She looked away. The breath she drew was deep and ragged. “You did, didn’t you?”

Her dismay made the veriest smile curl his lips. “What if I did? Is that so terrible?”

Her eyes swung back to him. “You said you did not!”