Authors: Heartstorm
With
a gasp, Anne flew to Kate's side. "But I've nothing to wear," she
groaned, vowing silently to remain in her room rather than wear any of the
madeover garments before a host of arrogant Scotsmen.
"Dinna
fash yourself, child. I've found just the thing. Tis a lovely gold silk cut to
a pattern for Lady Janet—her that's Sir Francis's sister. It was never finished
though. The lass found the color or some such dinna become her and 'twas put
away to be forgot till this week when I was searching for dresses for yourself.
With a little touch here and there, it'll be perfect."
The
two continued their discussion of the coming evening while Anne consumed a
hearty breakfast of warm milk and fresh oat cakes brought in by a maid. After
dressing in the green wool, she set out down the stairs in search of her uncle
or Donald. Perhaps they could tell her more of Sir Francis's plans. MacLean had
said nothing to her— perhaps she was not to be included.
She
did not find them among the dozen clansmen idly dicing beside the fire in the
great hall. Moving down the corridor to the smaller private hall of the chief,
she paused anxiously outside the door. What if MacLean were alone in the room?
In spite of her earlier brave thoughts, she found herself loath to entertain
him alone. She eased the door open a crack, relieved to find Donald and Ian
arguing good-naturedly over a game of chess. "Am I interrupting
anything?"
"You're
as welcome an interruption as a ray of sunshine on a drear wintry day, lass. Do
come in," Ian invited.
She
flashed him a grateful smile and crossed the room to perch on the arm of his
chair. Studying the chessboard critically, she looked at Ian in pity.
"You're about to be had, Uncle."
He
raised a finger in admonition. "Watch and learn, my girl, watch and
learn." With those words, he moved unexpectedly, seizing a strategic
player in MacLean colors.
Donald
waved a hand unconcernedly. "A temporary setback only, lass. Nothing to
worry about."
The
friendly rivalry went on, with Anne pulling for first one man and then the
other as the fortunes of the game fluctuated. "How could you turn against
blood kin in support of this scoundrel?" Ian asked accusingly when she
cheered as Donald took a man.
"I
owe Donald a debt of gratitude," Anne said, laughing. "He saved me
from Sir Francis's wrath on that ride through the mountains."
"Only
because you wrapped him around your pretty finger."
Anne
glanced up in surprise. MacLean lounged in the open doorway, thumbs hooked in
his belt, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Ah,
Ian... 'tis a sad sight to see an old soldier brought low beneath the foot of a
conniving wench," he added, advancing into the room.
Anne
frowned, wondering how long he had been there and trying to remember exactly
what she had said. "Those who eavesdrop seldom hear good of
themselves," she remarked. "You should announce yourself instead of
creeping up on people."
"I
don't creep in my own house, mistress," he said, throwing himself lazily
into a chair beside Ian. "And hearing people speak unguardedly is a good
way to learn their true feelings. It's an excellent method of determining which
are friend and which are foe, wouldn't you agree?"
She
stared at him silently, wondering if any special meaning lay behind his words.
"Speaking
of true feelings, what think you of Camereigh now you've been freed from the
dungeon?"
"I've
seen very little of it yet, though what I've seen has been impressive,"
she answered cautiously. "I was going to ask Donald to show me about when
I came upon this game."
"So
you wish to be shown about." MacLean raised an eyebrow. "Do you seek
to spy out our weaknesses for Glenkennon?" His indolent smile mocked her,
and she was suddenly unsure of her position. His words and the searching look
that accompanied them made her uncomfortable. They were enemies, after all.
"Why,
of course, my lord. For what other reason?" she said haughtily. "Will
it be back to my room now you've discovered my plot?"
MacLean
laughed at her obvious ire. "I doubt your tale is true, lass. You'd not
know a weakness in this castle's construction if you saw it—and besides,
Camereigh has none. Poke about in every corner that you will. I'm only sorry I
haven't time to show it off myself. Donald must do the honors."
Rising
to leave, he smiled down at her. "Enjoy yourself this morning, and ask
Donald for anything you wish. Think of my house as your own."
The
chess game was put aside as Donald began to tell Anne the history of the house
and of the MacLeans who had built it. The original fortified tower house had
burned long before but there were sections of the stone walls and foundation
that had stood against the ire of man and nature for nearly three hundred
years.
The
oldest part of the castle was the three-storied north tower, its walls ten feet
thick with corners carefully rounded to prevent damage from the dreaded battering
rams of attackers. That structure was joined to the more modern south tower by
a wing of barracks and servants' quarters, while the stables, bakehouse, and
brewhouse made up a fourth side of the quadrangle. The jumble of buildings had
been added to and remodeled numerous times over the years, but the current
living quarters of Sir Francis and his household staff were well kept and
furnished with all the modern conveniences from England and France.
Anne
walked through the castle with Donald, poking about in the original structure,
much of which was closed now in preference to use of the more modern wings.
They avoided the unused dungeon in the stone vault of the north tower, moving
on to view the immense, well-stocked storerooms before returning to the main
keep two hours later.
MacLean,
Ian, and a half-dozen clansmen were drinking and swapping tales about the fire
in the great hall when Anne and Donald returned. As Anne joined the group,
MacLean poured a glass of wine and held it out to her. "To my favorite
spy," he whispered, lifting his flagon in salute. "May a man's
enemies always be so bonny." His eyes rested steadily on her face, but she
could see a teasing light in them.
She
nodded in acknowledgement, a half smile tugging at her lips. "I've taken
careful note of every door and window, but I shall take pains to dissuade
Glenkennon from laying siege. From the look of the storerooms, you could hold
out a twelvemonth or more."
"Oh,
at least," Francis agreed amicably, leading her to a seat beside his own.
A
cold rain fell outside and a ghostly shroud of white still clung to the trees,
but indoors the warm fire crackled and laughter rang from the rafters as the
men vied for the attention of the lovely, golden-haired lass in their midst.
Dinner
that night was a boisterous affair with cups lifted and jests tossed about. The
golden light of the flickering torches cast a warm glow over the hall, and the
fire in the cavernous hearth snapped and popped cozily. Anne sat quietly
between her uncle and Donald, enjoying a curious sense of belonging as she
watched the servants come and go and listened to the laughter of the men.
Hearing
a burst of familiar laughter ring out above the din, she glanced down the table
in search of MacLean. He was seated informally with his men, his dark head
tilted in close concentration on a tale one fellow was spinning.
Would
he ever listen to her with that rapt look, a small, betraying voice questioned.
Of course not; nor did she wish it. It would be dangerous to take his fancy.
She
firmly banished the memory of the exciting afternoon she had spent with the
man. It was only natural that she should find pleasure with these lighthearted
people after the dismal months just past, she told herself. There was nothing
dangerous in enjoying the company of the engaging MacLean chief—as long as she
kept him at arm's length.
"Are
you looking forward to your first Scottish revel, Anne?" Ian MacDonnell's
words broke abruptly into her thoughts. She turned reluctantly from her study
of Mac-Lean.
"There's
no doubt you'll enjoy yourself," Ian continued. "Camereigh's always
been famous for its hospitality. And Francis makes it a point of honor to keep
up the tradition."
"But
I don't know I'm invited," she said bluntly. "Sir Francis hasn't
spoken of it yet. You forget... I'm no ordinary guest."
At
MacDonnell's exclamation of protest, Anne's eyes flew to his. "In truth,
perhaps it's best I not join the company. It can't be wise for so many to know
of my presence here. There might be some loose tongues. The report could get
back to my father."
"Nonsense!"
Ian cried. "You'll be openly introduced as my niece. It's been put about
you're visiting me with Glenkennon's blessings. The man dare not refute the
story lest he risk your reputation—something he can't do if he wishes to get
you a rich husband. Glenkennon can ill afford scandal now," he added with
a grin.
On
Anne's left, Donald rose and moved away down the room. After a glance in his
direction, she turned her attention to her plate, thinking of the planned
celebration with a longing that surprised her. There had been few chances to
enjoy friends at Rosewood, and she and her mother had always dreaded the state
affairs when Glenkennon forced them to entertain some pompous company.
The
wooden bench shifted suddenly beneath Anne as someone took the empty place at
her side. Glancing up, she found MacLean beside her.
"I
hear you question your welcome tomorrow night, lass," he said, settling
himself backwards on the bench and propping his elbows on the table. "God's
foot, you'd think after the trouble I took to get you here, I'd need say little
else to assure you you're wanted."
She
shrugged and managed a light tone. "I did think a prisoner might not be
welcomed among your friends."
"But
you're the guest of honor, lass," MacLean said solemnly. "Of course
you must come."
She
stared suspiciously into the deep blue of his heavily lashed eyes, noting the
mischievous twinkle in them. Was he serious or making a jest? "I suppose
I'll come for a time, then," she said carefully. "My uncle tells me
his son Eric will be here. I'd like to meet my cousin... and the rest of your
friends, of course."
"Then
I'd best ask you now before Ian's lad steals a march on me. Will you honor me
with the first dance, lass? We'll show 'em all how it's done."
A
smile of quick pleasure lit Anne's face before she could control it. "I'd
be pleased."
MacLean
found his own lips curving upward in response to the girl's winsome smile.
Lord, but she was a lovely thing! He fought the urge to brush a silky tendril
of hair from her face, studying instead the soft curve of her cheek and the way
her long, sooty lashes curled upward toward her brow. Her full lips parted
invitingly as she spoke over her shoulder to Ian. He noted the creamy
perfection of her throat, his warm gaze following that line until it
disappeared beneath the rounded neckline of her gown. He studied the ample
swell of her breasts beneath the cloth, remembering all too well the feel of
her pressed against him on the moor.
Drawing
his eyes reluctantly from their pleasurable study, he took a draught of ale.
The girl was Glenkennon's prize. A lovely lass, yes, but not for him. He would
enjoy her company—as he always did that of beautiful women —but he'd venture no
further. Besides, Anne was the kinswoman of one of his closest friends. He'd
not insult Ian by trifling with the girl.
The
meal was almost over when an unexpected commotion sounded in the courtyard. An
outer door banged shut, and the door of the hall swung wide, sweeping a breath
of wet night into the room.
"Janet!"
MacLean
sprang to his feet and hurried forward to meet a tall, dark-cloaked woman
before she had taken a half-dozen steps into the hall.
As
they stood together in the flickering torchlight, the resemblance between the
two figures was striking. Anne needed no introduction to recognize MacLean's
sister, wife to his ally Jamie Cameron.
The
woman threw off her cloak and walked to the table beside her brother. Even from
that distance, Anne could see that her lovely face was worn with worry and
travel, and her eyes were swollen, as if from the ravages of recent tears. The
woman took a fortifying drink from the silver flagon MacLean held for her and
closed her eyes.
"You
must do something, Francis!" Janet said finally, anger and despair giving
her voice a thrilling urgency in the hushed room. "Glenkennon had them
publicly beaten at the Mercat Cross three days ago!"
At
her words, an angry growl from the men rumbled around the tables. MacLean held
up a commanding hand. "All?" he questioned with deceptive softness.
"Even the boys?"
"Not
Evan," she whispered, her voice breaking from worry and strain, "but
Will was considered a man."
MacLean
took her hand and pushed her down onto a bench. His face was cold and hard, his
voice harsh with fury. "Glenkennon will pay for this!"