Authors: Heartstorm
She
tried ruthlessly to crush the hope that surged to life in her breast, telling
herself firmly that it would only lead to further disappointment. Yet the
thought would not die.
She
closed her eyes wearily. Things would be better in the morning.
***
The
journey to Ranleigh lasted four days, time Anne spent well in getting
reacquainted with Charles. During all that time Anne did not see her father.
The earl had sent word that he was riding for home and would meet them there.
The tedious pace of an army on the move was not to his liking.
Anne,
too, chafed at their slow movement, yet at her first sight of Ranleigh, she
foolishly wished herself back on the trail. Reining in sharply, she gazed down
on the pale stone of the harled walls and the slender arching towers of the
twin keeps.
"Tis
a lovely sight, Ranleigh. I'm sure you're glad to be home."
She
turned. Nigel Douglas had drawn rein beside her, his warm brown eyes regarding
her curiously. Anne forced herself to smile. "I'm so weary of this saddle
any rude hut would be heaven."
She
stared down at the glistening blue waters of a small loch curving around two
sides of the castle, remembering another expanse of sparkling water she had so
recently enjoyed. But that had been another day, another lifetime— and that
happiness had existed only in her own foolish head.
She
must have sighed aloud, for Douglas leaned toward her with an encouraging
smile. "Don't despair. You're home now, my lady."
Home—he
had used the word again, yet there was no such place for her, she thought
bitterly. She put her heels to Cassie's sides, following Douglas down the hill
and over the wooden bridge after the soldiers.
The
hooves of her mount sounded hollowly on the planks in echo of the hollow
pounding of her heart. In the next few minutes, she would meet her father—and
he would be furious with her for causing the loss of his hostages. In spite of
the warmth of the midday sun, a numbing cold crept over her.
Dismounting
in the courtyard, Anne followed Charles into the imposing double-doored entrance
to Ranleigh. Servants swarmed forward to meet them, taking cloaks and gloves
and offering silver tankards of ale and wine. She took wine gratefully,
steadied by its sharp bite.
Moving
into the hall with her brother, she gazed about in awe. The oak-paneled room
easily could have held two hundred men. Its floor was not of stone but of a
highly polished wood, which reflected the shine of silver from numerous sconces
set into the walls. Cavernous fireplaces at either end of the room could have
taken small trees in their gaping mouths, but no cheery fire burned to chase
the chill from the room. Trestle tables stood along the walls, separated some
distance from the raised marble dais and imposing table of the earl. And behind
the earl's chair, the likeness of James Stuart, king of England and Scotland,
gazed down in royal boredom from the wall.
Preoccupied
by the study of her magnificent surroundings, Anne failed to notice the sudden
hush as servants sprang to attention and the buzz of a dozen excited voices quieted.
Charles glanced over his shoulder and stiffened. "It's Blake," he
hissed into her ear.
Anne
turned, following Charles's hostile stare. A thin, slightly stooped man with
lifeless, straw-colored hair was making his way toward them. Dressed in a suit
of somber brown cloth, he wore no hint of lace or jewels to relieve the
monotony of his attire.
Blake
halted before Anne, his transparent gray eyes looking out shrewdly from a pale,
bloodless face. "I see you've brought her home at last, Charles." His
voice was soft and caressing as a woman's.
Charles
nodded stiffly. "Anne, this is Edmund Blake, Father's steward."
Anne
forced herself to smile and murmur an acknowledgment, though she did not extend
her hand. Somehow, she did not like the thought of this man touching her.
Blake
studied her as if reading her mind. His narrow mouth curled upward at one
corner into a crooked, mirthless smile. "You must be tired,
mistress," he said softly. "If you'll follow me, I'll see you to the
room we've prepared."
"Where's
Father?" Charles asked. "I'd like to tell him we've arrived."
"Your
father is fully aware of your arrival. He's in his office at the moment, but
he's asked not to be disturbed. He'll see you presently, I'm sure."
Turning
in abrupt dismissal, Blake moved toward the door without a backward glance.
Anne stared in surprise at his retreating back, then hurried after him into the
maze of passageways and stairs.
Moments
later, he ushered her into a large, comfortably appointed bedchamber. The room
was pleasant enough with the midday sun streaming brightly through an open
window. One of her gowns, a blue velvet that matched her eyes, lay in readiness
across the bed, and a steaming tub awaited her in a curtained alcove.
The
familiar touch provided by her belongings pleased her. Her silver brushes had
been laid out along with a trinket box and other personal items. Her things
must have been unpacked weeks earlier. She smiled at the thought of her
father's wrath that her trunks had arrived and she had not.
"This
room is not so grand as some about Ranleigh," Blake explained, "but
it's more pleasant due to the light from these large windows. It seemed warm
enough to me without a fire, but I'll light one now if you wish."
"No.
It's fine." She turned back to Blake. Once again, her eyes met his, then
shifted away uneasily. She was aware of his careful scrutiny, and it made her
uncomfortable.
"I've
chosen a girl to tend you," he continued. "She's industrious enough,
by all reports, and about your age. She seems a pleasant sort, but if she
doesn't please, be sure to let me know."
"I'm
sure she'll be fine."
He
nodded. "I'll send her to you then. Your father is waiting in his office,
and I'd suggest you be quick about changing. No more than a half hour."
The narrow smile twisted his face once more. "His lordship doesn't like to
be kept waiting, as I'm sure you remember."
With
a slamming door to punctuate his passage, the strange little man was gone. Anne
sighed with relief. She supposed she would have to grow used to his stooped
figure and watchful eyes.
She
curiously surveyed the cheerful room, noting the fine Turkish carpet of
sunshine gold and the large tester bed with its lovely hangings of ivory and
gold brocade. She opened the door of the massive clothespress. Her dresses hung
there as though they belonged.
Sinking
down into a stiff-backed chair, she considered her strange welcome to Ranleigh.
Blake had assured her comfort, yet the man made her uneasy. His perverse,
colorless appearance reminded her of nothing so much as a blade of grass that
had lain too long beneath a stone.
Anne's
dark musing was interrupted by a light tap on the door. At her word, a slight
girl of about seventeen entered and dropped a bashful curtsy. "Forgive my
tardiness, mistress. The steward set me on an errand this morning and I've only
just returned. I... I hurried as fast as I could," she stated
breathlessly, gazing at Anne in wide-eyed alarm. "Oh," she gasped,
dropping another curtsy, "my name's Bess, mistress, and Edmund Blake set
me to tend you, an it please you."
Anne
studied the girl. Her shining brown hair was clean and neatly combed, her
ruddy-cheeked face set in anxious lines. "I'm sure it will please me,
Bess," Anne said with a reassuring smile. "Tell me, was it you who
unpacked my things and made this room so welcoming?"
An
attractive dimple flashed briefly in the girl's face, and her green eyes
twinkled in response to Anne's smile. "Aye, mistress. I've pressed all
your gowns and put everything where I thought you'd best like it. I... I've
never been a lady's maid before though," she admitted shyly, "so
you'll please to tell me if I forget anything."
Anne
smiled ruefully. "Your first task is a difficult one, Bess. You must get
me presentable and deliver me to my father in half an hour." She looked
down at the dirty, rumpled habit she had lived in the last four days. "I'm
afraid that may be impossible."
Bess
tossed her head determinedly. "Nay, mistress, not with me. Please to stand
up and let me unfasten your habit. We'll have you ready in a trice."
***
In
less time than she had imagined possible, Anne was standing outside the door to
her father's office, watching Bess disappear down the corridor. This was the
moment she had dreaded so long. Unbidden, the wish for Francis's steadying
presence swept over her, but she thrust the thought angrily aside. She would
never wish for him again —nor for anyone else, she vowed. With that rallying
thought, she thrust open the door and swept into the room.
Robert
Randall, fifth earl of Glenkennon, sat quietly behind his desk, busily writing
among the stacks of paper scattered about. He did not look up as she stepped
inside. Perhaps, Anne thought, he hadn't heard the door.
"Please
come in, my dear; I'll be with you in a moment," he said, abruptly ending
her cowardly thoughts of slipping unnoticed back outside. He continued to
scratch busily, finally sanding and sealing his missive before raising
penetrating eyes to hers.
He
hasn't aged a day in the last three years, Anne thought, studying him
dispassionately. He was just as she remembered. The thick hair was still a dark
auburn; no hint of gray marred its smooth waves. The face was still as cold and
impassive, the eyes as hard and flinty. They flickered over her now, measuring
the changes of her face and figure over the last three years.
He
must have been pleased by what he saw, for his lips turned up in the ghost of a
smile, though the calculating expression in his wintry gray eyes did not
change. "So we meet again at last," he said softly. "I was
beginning to despair of ever welcoming you to Ranleigh."
He
stood up abruptly, taller than her by a full head. "You've changed since I
last saw you, Anne, but I must say it becomes you. Three years ago you were but
a promising bud; now I behold the flower you've become." He scrutinized
her carefully from head to toe. "I didn't think it possible, but you're
even lovelier than your mother was at your age."
"I'm
glad you're pleased with me, sir," she said stiffly. "The years have
been kind to you also."
"Why,
thank you, Anne." He moved across the floor with the peculiar, lithe grace
she remembered so well. Pouring them both a glass of wine from the crystal
decanter on the side table, he turned back to her. "Pray be seated, my
dear. You don't look comfortable standing there in the middle of the
floor."
Anne
glanced about the room, finally selecting a high-backed wooden chair with
carved, curving arms. She sank down obediently, though she could not relax
against the chair's cushioned back.
Glenkennon
crossed the room, pausing to hold out the glass of wine. Nervously, she noticed
that the deep red of the wine matched the crimson velvet of his doublet. The
color reminded her of blood, and she thought fleetingly of his plan to massacre
the MacLeans.
"I'm
relieved to get you safely here at last," he said smoothly. "I sorely
regret the experiences you've had. That my own daughter cannot travel in
safety..." He broke off as if it were an affront he couldn't bear to
contemplate.
"I
took no hurt sir, though I'm sorry I spoiled your plans," Anne said
bluntly. "I'm sure you were wishing me back in England when you heard the
news."
He
looked at her keenly, as if wondering how much she knew. "It's no
matter." He dismissed her statement with a graceful wave of his jeweled
hand. "I shall have those rebels sooner or later—and I can afford to
wait."
He
returned to the chair behind his desk, gazing across its wide length at her.
"You were at Camereigh quite some time, Anne. Charles states you told him
you were well treated—that the MacLeans even gave you your freedom about the
place. Is this true?" The expression in his eyes was unreadable, but some
slight inflection in his soft voice kept Anne on guard.
"It's
true," she said slowly, remembering those long rides with Francis, seeing
his smiling face again in her mind's eye. She had never until then known such
freedom—and doubtless never would again.
"I
should like to question you in detail concerning things you might have
seen—things you might have heard," Glenkennon continued. "You may
think you noticed nothing of importance, but there are details you may have
picked up. Details that could be of great interest to me."
Anne
dropped her eyes, veiling her thoughts from his prying gaze with the sudden
sweep of heavy lashes. There was a tiny pause. "I'll be happy to tell you
everything I can remember, Father, though I doubt there's much to interest you.
If it doesn't displease you, however, I'd postpone our talk until tomorrow.
I've been in the saddle four days now and am so weary even my thoughts are
confused."
Glenkennon
was silent. Her heart fluttered wildly against her ribs, and a tell-tale
dampness began spreading between her clasped hands. How dared she put him off?
Should she not have blurted out all she knew about Camereigh and the MacLeans?
She owed Francis nothing. Nothing!