Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 02] (19 page)

“And none too soon, it would seem.” The man cast an eloquent glance at Madeline, his words and the look like a knell tolling on her heart.
Iain’s hand encircled her wrist . . . as if he sensed her sudden urge to bolt. “Is the chamber clean? I’ve no great wish to sleep fully clad.”
Ignoring the jibe, the proprietor used his drying cloth to mop at his sweating brow. “’Tis full to the rafters we are, my good sir, but I’ve prepared the room myself and warrant you’ll find it well-appointed and”—he slid another glance at Madeline—“privy enough to serve your needs.”
Her heart racing faster than the rain beating on the window shutters, Madeline looked away, let the moist air pouring through the wooden slats cool her heated cheeks.
A sharp skirl of throaty, female laughter sounded from the sleeping dormitory, and a wash of ill ease spilled down Madeline’s spine.
Iain’s brows lifted, his handsome face darkening with displeasure. He turned a keen eye on the aledraper. “The chamber is not used for . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.
Not a bit nonplussed, the aledraper took a lantern off a shelf and deftly kindled its wick. He gestured to a narrow, dark stairway at the back of the room.
“None save quality climb those steps, I assure you,” he said, his barrel chest swelling a bit. “All others take their pleasure belowstairs. You, my lord, shall pass the night in a blessed haven.”
“Then pray take us there,” Iain put to the man.
The aledraper nodded, clearly pleased. “I bid you follow me,” he said, and raised his lantern.
With surprising agility for such a well-fleshed man, he turned and struck a swift path through the press, making straight for the far wall and the spiral stairwell cut deep into its thickness.
Iain strode after him, his viselike grip on Madeline’s wrist leaving her no choice but to hasten in his wake, her uncomfortable gaze fastened on the looming threshold.
Draughty and dimly lit by a few sputtering wall torches, the stairs wound upward into the dark unknown, though, truth be told, Madeline knew exactly what awaited her beyond the well-worn stone steps.
If she allowed her passions to get the better of her.
But she wouldn’t.
No matter how much her lips tingled and ached for more of her shadow man’s kisses.
And despite the way her heart clutched at the mere thought of sharing darker, deeper intimacies with him. The kind they’d shared countless times in her most secret, damning dreams.
Fisting her hands, she closed her mind to the lurid images. But they whirled a mad dance across her sensibilities and—were she not careful—threatened to trample everything she held as right and honorable.
Convinced he’d becharmed her, she mounted the turnpike stair behind him, the chaos of conflicting emotions inside her waging a fiercer battle with each ascending step.
“Have a care, lass, the last few stairs are slippery,” Iain warned over his shoulder. Releasing her wrist, he laced his strong, warm fingers with hers.
The touch, the warm pressure of his firm but gentle grasp, sent tingles speeding up her arm.
Have a care,
he had said.
The words almost made Madeline laugh aloud.
A nervous laugh, for little he knew what great care she already exercised. Even the simple words of caution, issued in his deep, golden voice, melted her bones.
Jellied her knees so badly she could scarce maneuver the
non
slippery steps.
Feeling trapped, apprehensive, and excited in one, she followed him onto the landing, and the moment she set foot on the somewhat slanting wood-planked floor, a cold wave of jitters swept away the last remnants of her fortitude.
She began to tremble.
No longer just her knees, but the whole of her body a quivering mass of jelly.
For good or ill, she was about to spend the night with her shadow man.
Candlelit hours alone with the man who’d branded his claim on her soul the very first time she’d felt him wrapping himself so warmly around her heart.
“That be your room,” the ale-keeper declared with pride, his voice overloud in the quiet of the landing.
He gestured toward the end of the short, poorly lit corridor where the merest hint of soft, golden light leaked from beneath a surprisingly stout-looking door.
He started forward, his raised lantern casting weird shadows on the walls . . . each one of them seeming to point long, accusing fingers at Madeline.
Iain MacLean squeezed her hand, but the gesture he’d surely meant to be reassuring only flustered her more.
That wee physical contact sent little bolts of heated flames skimming across her every nerve ending.
As if he knew, he tossed a quick glance over his shoulder, one brow lifted in silent question.
Was she ready?
She gave him an equally mute nod, sparing herself the shame of voicing a lie.
Beyond him, the aledraper had reached the end of the darkened passageway and was already opening the door to their room. Welcoming yellow light poured from within, its inviting glow banishing the shadows.
Madeline’s heart leapt to her throat.
She gulped.
But then she set her jaw and consigned herself to making the best of what she couldn’t change.
Retiring was no longer an option.
And only the morrow’s rising sun would prove if the long hours between then and now would leave her filled with bitter regret or glad-hearted relief for not seizing hold of what she knew would be the sweetest of bliss.
The same wet and windy night, but in far less commodious quarters deep in the bowels of Abercairn Castle, Sir John Drummond,
true
laird of the castle and all its surrounds, drew a wheezy breath of chill, musty air. ’Twas the best he could hope for in his dungeon cell.
He silently thanked the saints that, as a young man, his first act upon becoming laird had been to abolish use of this selfsame hellhole.
A cramped and dank niche scarce larger than a garderobe in the lowliest of keeps and equally foul-smelling.
An abomination beneath any man’s dignity.
Sir John prided himself on being a just man, a fair and kindhearted one.
And it was his great softheartedness, the lack of steel and fire in his blood, that made him a much-loved father to his people, but a not so notable laird.
A
poor
laird, were anyone callous or outspoken enough to speak the truth.
A truth that had landed him in his present predicament and would no doubt cost him his life.
But not his beloved daughter’s.
And for her—to ensure she lived and remained unharmed—he’d draw on the strengths of the more stalwart Drummond lairds who’d gone before him and, for once in his life, be intractable.
Firm and unbending.
Wholly resolute.
He’d do it for her, for Madeline, even though she’d never know. It would be his last gift to her, the daughter he loved more than life itself.
“Where are the jewels, Drummond? The English booty. All ken your father harvested riches from the slain English after Bannockburn. ’Tis said he spent days gathering English swords and armor, simply to pry away the jewels . . . and with the Bruce’s sanction!” Sir Bernhard Logie peppered him with the same questions he shot at him every day. “I’ve found your treasury stores, your gold and silver coin, but not the stolen English riches. Where are they, Drummond?”
He considered the fingernails of one hand, his face a tight-set mask. “It will go easier on you if you speak.”
But his repetitive barrage and veiled threats only earned him the same blank stare Sir John gave him each time he sought to interrogate him.
Sir John pressed parchment-dry lips together in a bold show of defiant silence that, truth be known, required little strength. Just as his limbs withered by the day, becoming too thin and weak to bid his will, so, too, did his cracked and parched tongue lie dead as a dried autumn leaf in his mouth.
Useless beyond forming a few painfully rasped words which, at the moment, he wasn’t wont to attempt.
“Where is your daughter, John? Where would she run to?” Silver Leg began his second assault of asked-daily questions. “Who would harbor her?”
Marshaling what strength he could, John Drummond turned his head to the side. He fastened his stare on the narrow air slit cut high in the opposite wall and hoped Logie wouldn’t notice that if the wind caught the slanting rain just right, a strong enough gust could send a burst of fine, wet mist spraying into the cell.
The moisture John gleaned in that way went far in keeping him alive.
And miserable though he was at the moment, neither did he want to die. Unlike most Drummond men, he lacked the courage to look death in the eye and feel no fear.
“Think you can ignore me?” Silver Leg came closer, nudged his thigh with a booted foot. “I see the serving woman brought you a plaid,” he said, leaning down to muss the length of wool Morven had so lovingly tucked around John’s shackled legs.
“She fretted you’d perish of the cold. I told her she could bring you your own plaid, the one on your bed— my two greyhounds sleep on it—but she declined, claim
ing the dog hair would make you sneeze.”
And Sir John did.
The mere thought of a greyhound’s coat was enough to set his nose to twitching, his eyes a-water.
“That dire?” Silver Leg shook his head in mock commiseration. “A pity to exit this life without knowing the companionship and loyalty of a big-hearted dog,” he added, his tone softening as he spoke of his pets.
Sir John kept his face a stony mask. He struggled not to let his tormentor see he’d innocently trod upon another soft corner of John Drummond’s heart, for though he could ne’er be
around
dogs, he’d e’er loved the creatures.
“I told the serving wench you’d starve before you’d freeze to death,” Sir Bernhard’s voice came cold again. He snapped his fingers and a pale-faced kitchen lad entered the cell with a platter of roasted
capercailzie,
the large turkeylike birds so plentiful on Drummond land.
Tasty and much enjoyed throughout the Highlands, its tender, savory meat had e’er been one of Sir John’s favorite repasts. He near swooned as its delicious aroma filled the tiny cell.
His empty stomach near convulsed with hunger. His mouth would’ve watered copiously if only he’d had enough fluid in his body to allow it.
Silver Leg tore away a roasted leg joint and waved it in Laird Drummond’s face. “It would be to your best advantage to speak,” he advised, bringing the
capercailzie
leg so close it almost grazed Sir John’s nose.
But he yanked it away as quickly. “Think hard after I leave, and you might see the wisdom of being less belligerent.”
Recognizing the end of Silver Leg’s torments, John Drummond gave heed to his weariness and let his head fall back against the slimed stone wall behind him.
The effort to hold it upright so long as he’d been face-to-face with Logie had taxed him greatly.
Too weary to sigh, he closed his eyes and wished his sense of smell had gone the way of his useless tongue.
The faintest of smiles flitted across John Drummond’s haggard face.
He didn’t mind his tongue’s failings. And he was mightily relieved by his continued ability to repel Silver Leg’s attempts to wear down his resistance, for he could make himself understood if he
wanted
to speak.
But he didn’t. He’d sooner yank out his tongue.
Answering the dastard’s questions would be to damn his daughter to certain death.
Abercairn Castle
did
hold a considerable cache of pilfered Sassunach jewels. And it was true enough that they’d been taken with the late Good King Robert’s blessing.
But as war booty.
Due and just reward for Drummond swords and loyalty at the Battle of Bannockburn, the Hero King’s most shining triumph over the English.
And once Silver Leg discovered the hiding place of such a treasure, he’d have no reason to keep Madeline alive.
Sir John drew another quivering breath, licked his dry lips.
With the exception of him, only his daughter knew Abercairn’s secrets.
So John Drummond kept silent.
And prayed to every saint in heaven to let him live long enough for his daughter to get as far away from Abercairn as her feet could carry her.
Chapter Eleven
I
AIN STARED AT THE OAKEN PANELS of the heavy wooden door, his fingers clenched around its substantial drawbar, and reached deep inside himself for the courage to slide the greased bar into its socket-hole.
Doing so would mean locking himself in the chamber with Madeline Drummond . . . locking
her
in the room with him.
The latter being the reason for his hesitation.
The aledraper hadn’t lied about the room being well-appointed. Beaming with pride, he’d ushered them inside, even patted the bed’s plump feather mattress, again; claiming it stuffed with swan down. Iain doubted that, nevertheless, its sumptuous dressings and great size made the bed seductively inviting.
The entire chamber proved inviting.
Firmly latched shutters held back the worst of the night wind and lashing rain, though enough of a draught whistled through the slatting to ruffle the wall hangings and tease the flames of whate’er candles had been lit.
A great branch of them flickered on a sturdy table by the bed . . . along with a platter of oatcakes, honey, and tasty-looking cheese. Two drinking cups and an earthen jug of what the ale-keeper insisted was fine Gascon wine rounded out the tempting array.
And each one of the unexpected comforts banded together to thrust a cruel hand straight through Iain’s rib cage to squeeze his heart and freeze his feet to the floor, there before the closed door, where he’d been standing, his back to the room, ever since the proud aledraper’s departure.
Iain MacLean, the great Master of the Highlands, was afraid to turn around.
He winced, closed his eyes briefly. The luxuriously outfitted chamber could have been at Baldoon. Not quite as fine as his own, but similar enough in amenities to hold more than the chill of the storm-harried night and all its inky shadows.
The room was full to overflowing with reminders of his past.
Grim ones dark enough to unleash his demons, even as the undoubted luxuries—the great curtained bed and round wooden tub filled with steaming water—ripped at the thin veneer of his manly restraint.
Squaring his shoulders, he drew a deep, shuddering breath. Damp and heavy with the smell of rain, the cold night air also carried the scent of the thyme and meadow-sweet someone had scattered across the floor rushes . . . and a very light hint of heather.
Her scent.
And saints help him, he could so easily drown in it.
His fingers pressed harder against the smooth wood of the drawbar, the throbbing need he’d suppressed for hours swelling to a painful degree.