She met his blue-eyed gaze. "I would ask ye the same."
Again, that devilish grin that seemed to be his tradesman's mark. "I asked you first."
She couldn't resist smiling in return. "I think I must go to Rancoff. I could demand to see my sister to make certain she is still alive and unharmed. Then I would speak directly to Cerdic... or whoever seems to be in charge." She deferred to his obvious hope his brother was not responsible.
Munro nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "I could ride with ye."
She laughed. "I think not."
He lifted one brawny shoulder. "Ye would have been disappointed in me, had I nae given it a try."
She glanced out over the great hall, trying to conceal the smile that would not leave her. Her clansmen and vassals were still talking and eating, too mannerly to make it outwardly apparent, but all obviously attuned to her. Only Finley dared stare straight at them; only Finley dared wear that frown of disapproval upon his face.
Munro took another helping of hare and several pickled doves' eggs. "I cannae think what my brother could mean by this. It makes no sense that he would take her and make no demands."
Elen listened carefully not only to his words, but his tone. She believed the laird of Rancoff was sincere. His sincerity in no way solved her problem, but she felt as if she could deal with him fairly. She almost felt she could trust him, but she recalled her father's warning and knew she must not allow her attraction to him to cloud her judgment. Though she would like to have him moved to more comfortable quarters, she knew Rancoff must return to the pit. Right now, it was her only leverage.
Her meal completed, Elen sipped her ale and divided her time between watching her men in the hall and watching the man who sat beside her.
As the evening stretched on, the conversation turned from her sister and Munro's brother to safer topics such as the reavers seen in the area. When he had eaten his fill, Munro accepted more ale and seemed content to remain at her side and converse. The Burnards finished their meals. As the maidservants cleared away the food, men set out dice and cards to game. One of the older vassals lifted the pipe from the corner of the vaulted room and began to play.
Munro and Elen spoke of common matters—storing food for the winter, hunting, doling punishment and justice to the serfs within their jurisdiction. She found him to be knowledgeable and fair, and discovered they shared many of the same philosophies of ruling over a castle and men. Not until they began to talk did Elen realize how lonely she was. Since the death of her father, she had had no one to share such discourse with, no companion. Though Finley served her well, he was not a friend. Not as her father had been.
Munro poured more ale for them both and pulled up one knee to lean upon it. Just then, her dog Camille scrambled between them in search of scraps and he bent over to peer beneath the table. "God's teeth," he exclaimed. "When did someone last clean here?"
She glanced beneath the table and was surprised to find piles of bones and dog droppings, along with a bent cup, fish bones, and various other smelly objects she could not identify in the dim light.
She lifted her gaze, feeling sheepish. "'Tis a wee bit dirty," she conceded.
"Dirty?" He gave a laugh. "'Tis foul. Ye have plenty of servants. Why havenae the rushes been swept out?"
Feeling chastised, she bristled. Who was this man to judge her? "I have much to attend to, my lord. Seeing the rushes changed isnae a high priority when my sister has been kidnapped by villains."
He nodded, a smile twitching on his full lips. "I agree. I apologize for my words. But the cleaning of the hall should be someone's duty." He glanced around disapprovingly, spotted the hawks on their rests and the waste below them, and grimaced. "I attended your father on more than one occasion, and I must say he was an organized, cleanly mon."
She scowled and pushed a bit of leftover meat around her plate with the tip of her dagger. She was hurt by his comment and wished she were not. Why did she care if her prisoner did not approve of her housewifery skills? She was not his wife.
"If ye have naught else to say"—she forced her tone to be light—"but to criticize, I should think it's time ye returned to your accommodations." Before he could respond, she rose from the bench and stepped over it, this time not allowing him to give her assistance.
Already, the hall was less crowded. Men were taking their leave for the night—to bed, to watch, to attend to their evening duties. The fire was beginning to die back, and there was a chill in the air. Elen could not tell if it was between her and the great fireplace or her and Munro.
"Elen..."
She ignored his soft plea. She did not want to hear his gentle words of apology. What would be the point? She would not deny she was attracted to this virile laird, but to what end?
Finley approached her the moment she came around the dais. "Ye want him tossed below?"
"I'll see to my prisoner." She lowered her voice so Munro, taking his time to finish his ale before he followed, could not hear. "Check our records. I want a map of Rancoff castle."
Finley's muddy eyes lighted up. "An attack?"
She frowned. "Find the map. I know I have seen one among my father's records. We will meet at dawn to break the fast and discuss my plan."
"Aye, my lord," he conceded with a nod, lowering his gaze. He turned away.
"And Finley—" She crooked her finger, beckoning him.
He lowered his head to listen.
"Please, in the future, address me as 'my lady'... or 'Elen' will do."
He lifted his gaze in question, but she had no intention of explaining that she did not want to be viewed as a man, that she never had, that she had accepted the role only because it was what her father had offered. How could she tell him this man, her prisoner, had made her realize she was not ready to give up on her femininity? How could she explain to him what she did not understand herself?
"Good night, Finley. God rest ye in your bed."
With that dismissal, he had no choice but to take his leave. "God rest ye," he returned, and made his departure.
Elen waited before the dais for Munro to join her and then continued through the hall toward the steps that led down to the oubliette. A few men remained behind, still dicing, but the great vaulted room was now relatively quiet. A maidservant moved from group to group, making lively with the men as she removed the last remnants of the meal.
Down the steps, the entranceway was dark. Someone had allowed the two torches that ordinarily burned there to go out.
So perhaps she was occasionally remiss in her housekeeping.
Elen stood at the mouth of the oubliette. "Would ye like the ladder?"
"Elen, I dinnae mean to insult ye," Munro said. His tone was soft, gentle, yet remained entirely masculine. It seeped into her head, into her body, like water leaking around a window not properly sealed.
Suddenly she felt vulnerable, and she did not like the feeling. Not one bit.
"No insult was taken," she said, more abruptly than she had intended. "What do I care what ye think of the cleanliness of my castle?"
He chuckled, and the sound drew her against her will. She met his gaze in the small, shadowy stone chamber. She had not realized he stood so close. Her breath matched his, and they seemed to inhale and exhale as one.
He brushed her chin with the tip of two fingers and her breath caught in her throat.
"I think ye wouldnae care what I think of the state of your hall," he said in the same mesmerizing voice, stepping closer so that his tunic brushed hers, "Nae when I earlier offered ye compliment. Ye are a better laird, I can see, than most in our Scotland." His gaze washed over hers and he reached up to smooth a lock of hair at her temple. "I like your hair like this," he whispered." Tis beautiful. As magical as the flames of a campfire."
Elen could not drag her gaze from his blue eyes, not even when he lowered his head.
He was going to kiss her? He would not dare!
His mouth was nearly at her trembling one before someth
ing snapped inside her and she lifted her hand to cuff him. "How dare ye—"
He caught her wrist in midair and held it above her head. "Do not strike me, ever," he whispered in such a low, threatening tone that she suddenly wished Finley was beside her.
"If ye nae wish my affections, ye've naught but to say so. But never ever strike me."
Her lower lip trembled. Not because she was afraid, but because she was angry—angry with herself for wanting his mouth upon hers.
And he knew. He knew.
A strangled cry erupted from her throat as he released her hand. In one swift motion, he grasped her around the waist, pulled her against him, and forced his mouth upon hers.
It was harsh and frightening... and sweeter than she could have imagined in her wildest maiden's dreams. Munro's manly scent enveloped her as tightly as his brawny arms. As his mouth met hers, her fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck.
He tasted of ale and his maleness and some startling emotion she did not recognize.
And she wanted him.
Elen gave Munro a great shove, ashamed of herself and her body's betrayal. Even now, as she panted and wiped at her mouth, she wanted him to do it again.
He was breathing hard, too. She could hear him in the tiny chamber, though she did not dare lift her gaze to meet his for fear he would see the tears of frustration that sprang in her eyes.
"Either jump below," she snapped, striding past him, her entire body trembling, "or I will push ye, and ye are likely to break a leg."
His laughter echoed in her head and off the walls of the oubliette as he dropped easily into the hole.
She took her leave at a dead run.
Chapter 7
"I think we should attack," Finley said without preamble the moment they were out of earshot of the other men.
It was midmorning, and she and several of her armed clansmen were riding out to a tenant's farm. She had received word this morning that the farm and been raided by reavers. Apparently no one had been harmed, but cattle had been stolen and a feed shed burned to the ground. Because the family lived upon Dunblane land and paid her homage each year, she was responsible for their safety. Though she could have sent Finley or any number of trusted men, she had decided to look into the matter herself. She needed to get away from Dunblane for a few hours. Needed to get away from him.
"I am well aware of your opinion, and I thank ye for it." If there was one thing she had learned from her father, it was diplomacy. Whether she agreed with Finley or not, she must appreciate him for what he was—a loyal clansman. And she had to keep in mind he always had her and Dunblane's best interests at heart. He was the most unselfish man she had ever known.
"But ye nae intend to follow my advice."
Elen adjusted the reins in her gloved hands and pushed her mount to pick up his speed. "I intend to take your advice under consideration, as I always do."
"Ye should take care," he murmured under his breath.
She glanced at him. "If ye have something to say, speak."
He hesitated.
"Well?" She was not in the mood for sport.
"There is talk that ye havenae been as concerned about your sister's kidnapping as might ye should be."
"Who says such nonsense?" she flared. "Which of my men?"
"'Tis only prattle. Nae men," he defended. "Maidservants, vaslets without enough work to occupy themselves."
"They'd do well to sweep the rushes from the hall if they have so much free time." She set her jaw, focusing at a point ahead on the gray horizon. They were rounding a peat bog, and the pace was too slow to suit her. She felt the need to ride fast, the wind in her hair, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Tell me I am nae concerned for my sister. What would they have me do?" she muttered. "Run about the hall flailing my arms, wailing and pulling out my hair?"
"Only idle gossip."
She eyed him. "Better yet, would they have me take their husbands and sons and attack Rancoff without clear forethought?" She lifted one shoulder, her tone sarcastic. "Aye, mayhap a few men would die, a limb or two might be lost, but 'twould show my concern."
"Elen..." he said quietly.
She threw up one gloved hand to silence him. "I am placed in a mon's position," she hissed. "And then criticized for nae behaving as a woman."
Finley opened his mouth to say something more, then clamped it shut.
"Speak," she demanded. "Finish what ye have begun."
He shook his head. "Ye have enough to concern yourself with right now."
She pressed her leg to her mount's side and eased him over until she was an arm's length from Finley. She knew she had no right to be angry with him. He was simply repeating what had been said.
She gentled her tone. "Finley, ye know you can always speak your mind with me. I may nae agree with ye, but I have always listened."
He lowered his gaze. "The prisoner," he said as if he were afraid she might strike him.
Ah, so there it was. She had feared this was coming. She had seen the way Finley had watched her and Munro. "Go on," she said, half wishing he would not. Suddenly she was afraid. How much had he seen?
"There are those who observed ye last night at the sup table behaving verra much in a womanly way with him."
She looked forward again, feeling as if she had been slapped in the face. For a fearful instant, she had feared Finley was going to say someone had seen her kiss Munro. At least that disaster had not occurred. Still, she could tell by his tone that he disapproved of her behavior. He was not telling her what some of her men thought, he was telling her what he thought.
She had two choices now: lower her head and admit she had behaved inappropriately with the prisoner by laughing and talking with him, or defend herself.
"I supped with a mon, Finley. I am well beyond the age of my father or anyone else telling me what I may and maynae do. I have a right to enjoy another's company."
"Your duty is to Dunblane."
"Ye nae have to remind me what is my duty," she said firmly. "I know it well. All too well," she exhaled.
"I dinnae mean to make accusations, only to make ye aware there has been talk."
Elen understood all of the reasons why Finley warned her. She understood he was only looking out for her and Dunblane. But his words still hurt and angered her.
"They want to talk? They want to judge me?" She met his gaze head on. "Let them judge." She grasped her pony's shaggy mane and lunged forward to ride ahead of the men.
Once Elen was well in front of her men, she relaxed in her saddle and gave the gelding rein. Alone, she could think more easily.
It had been almost a week since Rosalyn had been kidnapped. Unconcerned? They thought she was unconcerned? She was becoming more worried with each passing hour. She was desperately worried her sister had been kidnapped for ransom; she was worried she had not been.
She was not, however, desperate and knew she must not behave so. She had studied the layout of Rancoff Castle and had mentally considered various plans of attack, but her gut feeling told her to hold off. Yesterday she had sent a second missive, addressing this one directly to Cerdic. Her runner had returned empty-handed, but this time with the promise of a response, as well as an unsoiled tunic.
Munro was growing impatient in the oubliette, and rightly so. Last night he had attempted to convince her to release him. He swore he would have his brother's head on a pike himself if only she would let him go.
She, of course, could not release him. Intuition was not enough to trust a man when her sister's life could be at stake. She had not even allowed him out of his cell since they had kissed. Nor had she gone below. It was not because she did not trust him within the walls of her castle, but because she did not trust herself.
Munro. She groaned aloud, thankful her men were not close enough to hear her.
Just thinking of Munro led to the memory of his mouth, of his arms around her waist, bringing a heat to her cheeks. She had relived that kiss over
and over again, remembering every brush of his skin against hers, every breath they had taken. It was the first kiss she had ever shared with a man, and though she supposed every woman memorialized her first kiss, she suspected what had passed between her and her virile prisoner was more than first kiss perturbation. Munro was dangerous. Her physical and emotional reaction to him was dangerous.
In the past, little had mattered to Elen but Dunblane and her duty to her family and clan. Her every waking moment had been devoted first to her father's wishes, and now to the daily running of the castle. Now Munro was in her every waking thought. He distracted her from her duty, and she could not be distracted, not when Rosalyn's life was at stake.
Elen prayed a message would come from Rancoff quickly. If it did not, she would have to send word to Rosalyn's intended of his love's plight. If word did not come soon, she would have to deal with her feelings for Munro. At this moment, she did not know which would be more difficult.
The sound of pounding hoofbeats behind her party caught Elen's attention, and she immediately pulled back on the reins. The men she traveled with halted, looking back, their mounts dancing.
"'Tis all right," Finley said, magically at her side in a breath's time. "'Tis a rider from Dunblane."
They waited for the messenger. It was the same man she had sent to Rancoff yesterday. He waved one hand wildly as he drew near.
She spotted a scrolled paper in his hand. It had to be a message from Rancoff.
Elen spurred her gelding forward, not waiting for one of her men to retrieve the message for her. She held out a gloved hand, passing the nervous young man on his right side so closely that their legs touched and his mount shied.
"From Rancoff, m'lady," he said. "I came straight away because I knew ye would not want to wait for it until you returned."
Pulling off one glove and halting, Elen nervously unrolled the delicate parchment. She scanned the script quickly, then glanced up, a curse upon her lips. "Finley!"
"M'lady?"
"Take six of the men with ye and see to the farm. Get what details ye can on the reavers and come home. Do not pursue them, even if ye suspect they are nearby. We must be prepared and well-armed before we encounter them face to face."
Highland Lady Page 7
