He scrubbed the coarse red fur. “He’s fearless yet loving, and about as aggravating a dog as I’ve ever owned. My da raises them and I picked Henry out of his last litter. Ye can pet him if ye like.”
“Thank ye, no,” Mhàiri replied curtly, placing her hands behind her back, eying Henry with suspicion.
Michaell tilted his head. “Did yer grandda not let ye have a dog? The Mhàiri I knew loved puppies and kittens.”
She pursed her lips. “He dinnae allow dogs indoors.” Her voice dropped. “I havenae had a dog since . . . in a verra long time.”
“Ye must be lonely,” Michaell mused.
“I would rather have kept my home.” Mhàiri’s voice rose with a flare of temper.
“Och, Mhàiri, I told ye I dinnae help the English raid the keep. I was as surprised as anyone when the attack came. Even more so when they broached the walls. Why do ye not believe me?”
She waved a hand about the room. “Ye are here. ’Tis not the burned out keep I expected, but whole, restored.” She cast an accusing look. “Ye schemed with the English.”
“I dinnae.”
“Left me with naught.”
“Listen to me!”
Mhàiri rose, fists clenched. “Ye killed my ma!”
Michaell blinked. That was unreasonable, and he was getting nowhere with convincing her she was wrong about him. Perhaps they both needed breathing space.
“It hurts me to see ye so, Mhàiri,” he said, holding his voice to a low murmur with much effort. “Ye have always had a spot in my heart, and I wouldnae betray ye for the world.” He sighed and placed Henry on the floor then rose. “I will have Cook fix a plate for ye, and I’ll send a maid to ye with hot water and dry clothes.”
Patting his thigh for Henry to follow, Michaell left the room.
“’Tis not how I imagined our meeting,” he confided to Henry. “Mayhap if I had been able to meet her at Claver Hill and tell her we’d fought off the English it would have helped. She has taken the wrong idea and isnae in the mood to listen to reason, so we’ll allow her a wee time alone. What do ye think?”
Henry, his paws bouncing on the stairs, paused long enough to send Michaell a long look over his shoulder. Whether he chastised Michaell for lagging behind, or for having foolish thoughts, Michaell did not know.
He found Aileen in the kitchen again, overseeing the kitchen maids putting the final touches on the Yule feast that would begin the next day. Mounds of pies of all varieties, and a large pudding sat upon the table in the center of the room, a bleary-eyed lad tasked with guarding the largess from any rodent brave or foolish enough to enter Cook’s kingdom.
Aileen waved a spoon at Henry. “Put yon beastie to work with Tad. I’ll not have my efforts sullied by the likes of a wee mouse.”
“Could I beg a platter of a meat pie or two and mayhap a bit of cranberry jelly for a slice of bread?”
“Did ye no get enough at supper?” Aileen sent him a sharp look. “Can ye no wait until morning?”
Michaell pulled her out of young Tad’s hearing. “Mhàiri is here.”
Aileen blinked. “What? Are ye sleep walkin’, lad?” She reached a hand to his forehead. “Have ye taken a fever?”
He brushed her hand away. “Nae. I’m not ill. Mhàiri is here. I dinnae know how or why, but she is, and she’s cold and wet and I imagine she’s not had a meal since she left Claver Hill.”
Aileen mustered outrage for the young woman. “How long has she been here?” She waved her finger beneath Michaell’s nose. “What have ye done with her?”
Michaell held up both hands in peace. “I dinnae know when she arrived, and she’s next to the fire in the lord’s bedchamber. She is well.”
Henry barked as if disagreeing with Michaell’s assessment of Mhàiri’s condition. Michaell frowned. “She’s angry with me, but I will amend that as soon as I can.”
Aileen shook her head. “I will fix a platter and accompany ye upstairs. She needs a woman with her, not a lad who . . ..” Her voice trailed off and she fixed him with a puzzled stare. “How did she get in the keep?”
Michaell slapped his forehead.
“The secret passage!”
* * *
Mhàiri darted a glance about the room as the door latch clicked into place. She’d locate the hidden recess in the headboard and be gone before Michaell—that traitorous, lying rogue—returned. She did not know what he intended, but she wasn’t about to stay and find out.
As if she would believe he hadn’t been part of the downfall of the keep. Bah! He’d acted so surprised to see her the night of the attack and had been conveniently absent when she’d been ambushed crossing the burn.
Memory of the assault still haunted her, a nightmare of the man’s shocked face rising up, accusing, mocking, telling her she would burn in hell for her deed. Her heart fluttered and she drew a stuttering breath to regain her composure.
That was Michaell’s fault, too, and she had little difficulty tossing her burdens onto his convenient back, confusedly aware of how much that upset her kindly memories of him—and how much she’d once loved him.
She darted to the bed and ran her hands over the intricate carvings, amazed to find no charred wood to mark the firing of the keep. Another blunder to lay at Michaell’s feet. She had seen the flames, felt their heat. He must have rallied the raiders—English?—quickly to put the fire out. Would that mean he—Michaell Kerr, son of the most notorious reiver on the Scottish Border—had ties with the English? That made no sense at all, as Lord Kerr hated the English.
Mhàiri shook her head. She had no time to ponder where Michaell’s loyalties lay. Where was the hidden chamber? She tried to recall the single time she’d seen it. Her mother, lying on her side—her left side—had raised a hand—Mhàiri’s gaze followed the remembered movement. It had to be beneath one of the thistles carved into the headboard. Mhàiri sank onto the mattress and stared at the detailed flowers, willing them to give up their secrets. She ran a fingernail over the outlines, hoping to discover a joining, but the pattern was too well-made.
Damn!
She thumped her fist on the intricate wooden panel in frustration then jumped as a bark reached her ears. Michaell was back!
Mhàiri scrambled to her feet and scurried across the room into the dark recesses in the corner near one of the three windows. The door to the secret passage was slightly ajar, and she slipped quickly through, pulling it closed behind her. Her heart thundered in her chest, blocking all other sound, and she braced a hand against the wall, willing her heart to slow, straining to hear beyond the sturdy door.
It didn’t take much concentration to recognize the angry thump of the bedroom door as Michaell burst into the chamber. His words were unintelligible, but the tone was clear. Mhàiri turned her back to the wall and leaned her shoulders against the cold stone. A tight smile crossed her face. There were two other ways to access the hidden stairway. She must remain alert, but she was certain she could outlast the faithless Michaell Kerr.
Michaell shoved the door open, sending it crashing against the wall. As he feared, the room was empty.
Damn!
He glanced to the bed. The headboard appeared undisturbed. Either Mhàiri didn’t know about the brooch, or she hadn’t discovered the hidden chamber.
But there was another secret chamber, and he’d bet his best sword she was there now. He scanned the room, but darkness obscured the corners and cast nearly imperceptible lines where none existed. Michaell grabbed a poker and prodded the fire to life, chasing back some of the shadows. In a careful manner, he paced the perimeter of the room, fingertips tracing the stone, alert for the slightest inconsistency in their shapes.
Henry trotted beside him as if offering support. “I dinnae suppose ye can tell me where she’s gone,” Michaell groused. Henry’s feet pattered lightly against the smooth wood floor. Michaell frowned. What he needed was a large hound to sniff the lass out of her hiding place. “Da should have raised bloodhounds.”
Henry halted as if insulted. He tilted his whiskered head and whined.
“Dinnae interrupt me, Henry,” Michaell scolded, his attention on the seams between the great gray rocks. The masonry was sound, and he found no a sign of a hidden door. He reached the corner and began his search anew.
“It has to be here somewhere. And the longer it takes to find it, the farther she’ll have fled.”
Henry barked once then sat.
Michaell halted and peered over his shoulder at the wee dog. “What is it?”
Henry waited patiently until Michaell approached, then rose and sniffed the floor where it joined the wall. Michaell squatted, peering at the wall. He shifted to one side and saw the dark line of joining.
“Good boy, Henry!” he whispered, not knowing if Mhàiri could hear him or not. He waved a hand, silencing Henry’s excited woofs and stood slowly, running his palm up the rock until it struck a slight outcropping. The device was so well-made, the click as the latch released made almost no sound. The door swung open easily and Michaell spied the flip of Mhàiri’s cloak as she bolted down the passage.
CHAPTER SIX
The passageway darkened at the first corner, and without a candle, Mhàiri was forced to slow her headlong dash. Caution proved to be her undoing as Michaell flung an arm in front of her, bracing his palm against the wall. He was a featureless form in the dark of the narrow corridor and though Mhàiri knew who he was, her heart hitched.
“Unhand me!”
His head, a shadow among shadows, dipped once. “I’m not touching ye.”
“Let me go.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Come with me.”
With little to do except comply, Mhàiri pivoted and marched back to the lord’s bedchamber. Michaell closed the passage’s door firmly, then dragged a chest before it. Mhàiri eyed the heavy, iron-bound box and frowned. She’d likely need help moving it.
“Ye arenae a prisoner, but I willnae let ye leave until ye listen to me.” Michaell pointed to the bed. “Sit.”
With a shrug feigning nonchalance, Mhàiri sat. Michaell perched a hip on the hearth, leaving several feet between them. A knock sounded as he opened his mouth, and he rose to lift the heavy iron latch and open the panel. An older woman entered, gray hair escaping in wisps from her kerchief, a tray in her hands. Steam rose from a pitcher and enticing aromas wafted from beneath a square of linen draped over a platter.
Mhàiri’s stomach rumbled. It had been hours since she last ate. The woman placed the tray on the foot of the bed.
“There now, lassie. Ye must be half-starved. ’Tis enough ye were out in this wintry weather, but ye’ve likely missed yer supper as well.” She dumped a muddle of garments from her shoulder to the bed. “Michaell will give ye a moment to freshen up and get into some dry clothes. ’Tis not much but will suit ye better than what ye’re wearing.” She grabbed Mhàiri’s hand and dragged her to her feet, lifting an eyebrow at Mhàiri’s baggy trews and sodden cloak which was now pulled into a shapeless mass.
“Off with ye.” She waved Michaell out the door. His protest was lost behind the heavy panel as the woman closed it in his face.
“Now, dearie, let’s shuck ye out of those garments and warm ye up. I’m the cook and housekeeper here, and if ye like, ye may call me Aileen.” She deftly undid the clasp at Mhàiri’s neck and dropped the cloak to the floor. Kicking it aside, she motioned for Mhàiri to continue the process. Henry watched from his perch on the hearth, head cocked to one side.
Hesitant, Mhàiri sat on the edge of the bed and removed her footwear, stretching her feet to the hearth, relishing the tingle that warmed her toes. Rising, she untied her belt and let the trews fall in an untidy heap on the floor where they met the same treatment as her cloak. Aileen held up a chemise and gave it a shake.
“Off with the tunics, lass. It willnae be said a guest caught her death in my care.”
Mhàiri shrugged out of the wet linen, sucking in her breath as cold air touched her skin. But Aileen had the chemise over her head before her teeth had a chance to chatter.
“We’ll have Michaell make certain the shutters on those windows are closed tight. The tapestries are down for cleaning.” She clucked her tongue. “They were a sight!”
A dark red wool kirtle followed, encasing Mhàiri in soft warmth. Mhàiri lifted her arms as the older woman settled a brown bliaud over the top then tightened the laces. Finishing with a woven belt, Mhàiri smoothed the fabric.
“Thank ye. I am much warmer now.”
“I’ll be leaving ye to yer supper, now. Mind ye pay attention to what young Michaell has to say. He’s a good lad.”
Mhàiri’s sense of well-being evaporated, leaving a frown behind.
Aileen clucked her tongue. “None of that, my girl. I willnae say more, but a moment of yer time is well worth the effort.”
Bending, she bundled the wet clothes and opened the door, admitting a startled Michaell into the room with a curt nod. She sailed past, dragging the wet hem of Mhàiri’s cloak behind her.
Michaell stepped inside the chamber. Henry bounded over to Michaell’s feet, stumpy tail wagging furiously.
“He missed ye,” Mhàiri said with a shrug. She lifted the linen square from the tray, chose a thick slice of bread, and scooped some red jam from the small pot next to it. She nibbled warily, keeping her gaze on Michaell.
He stepped to the tray and poured a mug of the steaming liquid then held it out. “Drink it whilst warm. Aileen’s mulled wine is much sought after. Ye’ll like it.”
Angry and disappointed in Michaell, Mhàiri nonetheless accepted the mug and drank deeply. The hot wine seared a path to her stomach, leaving a pleasing bouquet of spices on her tongue.
“Good?”
She nodded and approached the tray again, this time choosing a meat pie. The crust was delicate, the meat and vegetables cooked in a hearty gravy that dripped down her chin. Self-conscious, Mhàiri grabbed the linen square and dabbed her mouth, checking the front of her gown to make sure she hadn’t stained it. Henry whined.
“He’d like ye to drip a bit of meat next time,” Michaell murmured. The dog wiggled, begging her to share. Despite herself, Mhàiri grinned.
“The two of ye have the same look on yer faces. Yon pup wants a bit of my supper. And ye? Ye want something, though I dinnae know what.”
“Only a bit of your time, Mhàiri. Will ye listen to what I have to say?”
Oh, Michaell. You dinnae know how yer betrayal stings. Four years ago, I would have given ye anything ye wished of me. Even yesterday, I would have greeted ye, happy to see yer face again. But your being here has changed everything I thought about ye and has wounded me deeply.
She shrugged, shoving her thoughts deep inside where she could no longer hear them. “Aileen said I should listen.”
She took another bite, giving Michaell a bland look. Though time was running out for her to find the magnificent brooch, she could not bring herself to provide him encouragement.
Mhàiri was still angry with him. Would his story tilt her favor? His next words could easily mean the end of his plans and dreams, the difference between success in his eyes—and at long last, to his father as well—and dismal ruin. He’d not seen her in four long years, but they’d grown up together and he knew in his heart she was the only woman he wished to marry. Failure to convince her of his innocence in the downfall of Siller Stane Keep was not an option.
He hesitated as doubt crept in. Why should she believe me?
“Tell me why ye are here, Mhàiri. Would ye satisfy my curiosity?”
As a ploy to get her mind off her anger it was weak, but all he could think of.
Mhàiri nibbled the meat pie then set it aside. “I wished to see the keep again.”
Michaell frowned. “Ye could have come here with a dozen soldiers to protect ye—and waited for the blizzard to pass.”
She shrugged, sliding her gaze to him then away.
“Why now?” he insisted.
<
br /> Mhàiri heaved a great sigh. “My grandfather has betrothed me and I wanted to see my home again. Is it so difficult to imagine? My grandfather wouldn’t understand . . . .”
Michaell felt as if the air had been punched from his lungs. Why hadn’t he considered Mhàiri’s betrothal to someone else? In his mind she’d always been meant for him. Her grandfather had no right . . . .
Her grandfather had every right. And Michaell had only hours—if that, before Lord Scott surely sent someone after her—to convince Mhàiri to listen . . . and hope they could figure out a way to thwart her grandfather’s plan.
“Do ye wish to marry this man?” The question tore Michaell’s heart, but he had to know the truth of her heart.
“Nae.” Mhàiri’s soft voice sounded wounded, lost.
“Is there someone else ye’d rather wed?”
She flashed him a hot look. Uncertain if he’d overstepped the boundaries or if he’d stood a chance at her heart before she’d thought him complicit in the raid, he lowered himself to the hearth and slowly placed his hands on his knees, prepared to tell her everything.
“I was not a party to the raid here that night,” he began carefully. She glowered, but did not speak, and he chose to interpret that as a good sign.
“After I left ye and yer ma near Claver Hill, I returned here, hoping to do whatever I could to minimize the damage to the keep. I dinnae know what, exactly, I could accomplish, but I managed to blend in with the soldiers—it being dark and them as drunk as lords—and, er, misplaced a few items they’d dragged from the castle.”
Mhàiri tilted her head in a show of interest. Michaell continued, encouraged.
“A small chest that contained yer ma’s jewelry—it should have been under guard, but I dinnae stop to point that out to the drunk bastard who sat on it. And yer da’s sword.” He shrugged. “That was a bit harder, and the man dinnae wish to part with it, but he was sotted as well and gave me less trouble than he should have.”
Merry Medieval Christmas Page 37
