Highland Lady

by Colleen French

  The sound of pounding footsteps in the stairwell drew their attention to the closed door.

  Elen's breath caught in her throat. She had known this could happen. She had known—

  "If he enters this room without knocking—" Munro clutched one fist threateningly.

  Elen grabbed Munro's hand. "He willnae." She clasped his fist and lowered it to the bed, then lowered her feet to the floor, taking a sheet with her to cover her nakedness. She hurried to the closed door.

  "Elen!"

  It was Finley, of course.

  "I am here," she said as she pressed her hand to the door.

  She heard Munro rise from the bed and begin to gather his clothing.

  "If he has harmed ye," Finley whispered harshly.

  Elen closed her eyes, wishing at this moment she was anywhere but here. "Finley, go downstairs," she said calmly, though her heart was pounding.

  Already the waves of pleasure were being replaced by waves of guilt. She should not have done this. Elen of Dunblane had no right to a personal life. She had no right to pleasure. Only duty.

  Finley remained outside her door. She could feel him on the other side. She could hear him panting with exertion from the run up the steps. With his anger.

  "Go," she repeated sternly. "'Tis an order, steward."

  Finley was quiet on the other side of the door. She knew her harshness had hurt him, and for that she was sorry.

  "Ye must get him out of your chamber," he said after a moment. "If others see—"

  "I understand perfectly," she said, wishing she did not. "So, ye go back to the great hall where I left you. Keep all content, and I will join ye shortly."

  Again, Finley paused. Elen waited, clutching the linen sheet, as she leaned her forehead against the door. If he did not go, she did not know what she would do.

  "As ye wish, my lady," he said finally.

  Elen closed her eyes in thanksgiving. She waited until she heard him retreat and then turned to Munro. He had dressed and was yanking his boots on.

  The magic of the moment was gone. Reality had returned full force.

  "I have to dress and return to the hall or there will be questions. It would be better if ye return to the oubliette."

  "To the oubliette?" he protested. "Knowing what ye know now of your sister? After this?" He gestured to the bed.

  Elen leaned against the door, clutching the sheet to her breasts. She was thankful it was dark in the chamber. She did not want Munro to know how close to tears she was. She did not want him to know how uncertain she was of what she had to do next. Of how she felt right now about him.

  "I ken naught for certain. Ye are still my prisoner."

  "Elen—" He started to speak and then changed his mind. He took a deep breath. She could see his silhouette across the dark chamber, broad-shouldered and tall.

  "Let me help ye dress," he said, the anger gone from his voice.

  She shook her head, turning away from him. "If ye want to help me, dress and go below," she whispered, fighting the lump that rose in her throat. "Ye can do no more."

  Chapter 11

  "Hallo!" Munro cupped his hands around his mouth and called from the damp, dank oubliette. "Hallo, above!"

  He had slept poorly last night and was in a foul mood this morning. His lack of sleep had been partly due to the thinness of his bedding on the stone floor and partly because of Elen.

  Munro could not believe his good fortune—or his sour luck. Last night had been one of the best moments in his life, and he wouldn't hesitate to say so if he could just get the damned woman to speak to him. Last night he had shared with Elen something he had never shared with another woman. It had not just been about bedsport; it had been about intimacy.

  In the past, even with his wife, he had always been anxious to have his pleasure and move on. He had never wanted to lie in bed and hold a woman in his arms as he had held Elen. He had never before been more concerned about a woman's pleasure than his own. His behavior had been totally out of character.

  Elen was right. She had offered intercourse, but he had wanted more. He wanted her trust. He wanted her love.

  Then Finley had come along and ruined everything. Why could the man not have remained in the great hall with the others as Elen had ordered, even if he had suspected Munro and Elen might be together? So what if he suspected what his mistress was about in her tower room?

  Munro ground his teeth at the injustice of it all. Had Elen been a man, Finley never would have thought twice of his master taking a woman to his bed to ease his needs. Munro knew for a fact that Murdoch Burnard had shared bedsport with women on a regular basis after he had become a widower.

  But, of course, this was different. Elen was a woman. And though she was expected to ride as a man, make life and death decisions as a man, swing a broadsword as a man, she was expected to follow the rules of morality of a woman. It was ludicrous.

  "Hallo!" Munro shouted angrily. "Is someone there?"

  He knew it was midmorning, yet still, no one stirred in the great hall above. The Burnard Clan had danced and drank until dawn and now all but the guards, no doubt, were sleeping it off in their bunks or on the floor before the fireplace in the great hall where they had fallen.

  But Munro didn't care who he woke. He wanted to see Elen. He wanted to talk to her. He needed to talk to her, to set things right between them before too much time passed.

  "Isn't there someone alive up there?" Munro growled.

  He heard footsteps at last, and a man with a bulbous nose and bloodshot eyes appeared on the grate above. Munro recognized the burly man. He was Elen's bailiff and had served Murdoch Burnard before her.

  "Quiet yer racket," the bailiff bellowed. "Ye be loud enough to wake the dead—or those who be wishing they were dead right now."

  Munro scowled. He had never been a man taken to besottedness and he had not patience for those who were. "I wish to speak to your mistress." He ran a hand over the tunic he had been given to wear. He could still faintly detect the scent of Elen's skin on the wool. "Now," he ordered.

  The bailiff removed his dirk from the sheath at his waist and leisurely began to cut his fingernails, letting the dirt and nail bits fall through the grate onto Munro.

  Munro took a step back, so angry that if he could have flown, he would have lifted off the stone floor and through the grate to strangle Donald Burnard with his own hands.

  But because he could not fly, Munro was forced to take a deep breath and speak again. "I have need to speak with your mistress. Could ye please send word I want to speak with her?"

  If Munro could just talk with Elen, if he could just reason with her, he knew he could convince her to release him from the oubliette. Together they could ride to Rancoff and discover exactly what his brother and her sister thought they were doing. Together they could put an end to this matter of Rosalyn's "kidnapping," and then perhaps they could move on to explore their own relationship.

  Suddenly Munro was feeling his age. Come spring he would be four decades old. He had experienced enough battle, enough death and dying for a lifetime. Now he wanted to live. He wanted sons and daughters and a wife. To hell with his father's warnings of the unmanliness of emotions. Munro wanted to love and be loved.

  Donald took his time in responding, and Munro wondered if all Elen's servants and clansmen were required to be surly. "Cannae talk to her."

  "But I must speak with your mistress about the lad who came from Rancoff Castle last night," Munro said from between clenched teeth, thinking a different tack might work.

  The bailiff shook his head. Another dirty fingernail floated downward.

  "Listen to me, ye sullen, corpulent excuse for a bailiff. If ye nae inform your mistress of my need to speak with her, ye will regret the day your mother whelped ye." He pointed. "Because eventually I will be out of this dunghole, and then all of Scotland will nae be large enough for the both of us."

  Donald gazed down at Munro, then back at his fingernail, not in
the least bit disconcerted. "Cannae, because she isnae about."

  "What?"

  "Said ye can't talk to the mistress 'cause she ain't here." The bailiff crossed over the oubliette grate, obviously on his way out of the hall.

  "Get back here," Munro boomed. "I have nae finished with ye."

  "Gotta piss."

  Munro spun in the oubliette, facing the direction the bailiff had gone. "Where is she?" he called after him.

  "Rancoff Castle," Donald retorted, as if Munro were the most addlepated of men. "Where else?"

  * * *

  Elen eyed Rancoff Castle's drawbridge apprehensively as it creaked downward. Her pony nervously sidestepped one way and then the other as Rancoff's armed guards on the wall peered down at her with what appeared to be a mixture of amusement and wariness. The clansmen who had accompanied Elen hung back as ordered, but rested their hands on their swords, ready to draw, should their mistress be threatened in any way.

  There was a scent of snow in the crisp, biting air and she took notice of the direction the wind was blowing. Off the sea. A storm coming in? she wondered. A seagull soared overhead, screeching above the sound of the yielding drawbridge.

  The drawbridge hit the ground with a solid thump, and Elen urged her mount forward. It was the first time she had ever entered Rancoff's bailey. The surefooted pony pranced across the wooden drawbridge as the guards on the wall turned to watch Elen make her entrance. The moment she and her men were inside, she called to the nearest gawking stranger, "I am Elen Burnard of Dunblane. I wish to see Cerdic Forrest."

  A redheaded lad, barely old enough to use a straight razor, stepped forward. "Is my lordship well?" he said softly. "We have been greatly worried for his well-being."

  She eyed the redhead. "If ye were so worried, I cannae help but wonder why someone dinnae come to check upon him."

  The redhead lowered his gaze. "Orders, my lady. My father, the steward, is away on Rancoff business. We cannae act without orders from the hall." He indicated the castle tower.

  Elen nodded in understanding. Munro would be pleased to know there were at least some men within Rancoff's walls who were loyal to him.

  Munro... The thought of him sent her mind racing in a direction she had been avoiding all morning. Last night had been the most wonderful and the worst night of her life. It had given her a glimmer of what life could be with a man who touched her soul. It gave her a glimpse of what she would never have.

  Elen shoved all thoughts of last night and of Munro Forrest from her mind. She had to remain focused. Right now, she had to find out what had happened to her sister, what part she played in the obvious farce, and why.

  First thing this morning, she had awakened thinking she should release Munro and let him ride home beside her, but at the last minute, she'd decided against it. Perhaps because she was not ready to face him. Perhaps because she wasn't ready to let him go from her life. The excuse she had given Finley was that her original demand had been the Earl of Rancoff for Rosalyn Burnard, and she would not capitulate at this late date and lose face with her men or with Munro.

  "Is Cerdic inside?" Elen asked the redhead, confident she had found an ally.

  "Aye. He knows of your arrival and waits." He grasped her pony's reins but seemed to sense she did not want or need help dismounting.

  Elen dismounted lightly on her feet. She had discarded the green woolen gown and the earrings for clothing she was more suited to. This morning she wore a soft brown tunic with hare trim at the neckline and a mantle of soft brown hare that was both light, but warm. She rested her hand on the dirk fastened to her girdle. "Lead on."

  Elen's men dismounted behind her. "Finley, come with me. The others may remain here and wait." She met Finley's gaze, and though she knew he questioned the idea of taking only one man inside the castle walls to guard her, he knew better than to question her decision among others.

  That was one of her steward's best qualities. He understood it was not that Elen wanted to be a tyrant, only that she must be one in situations such as this. It was the only way for a woman to retain her power. The only way for a leader to keep control of the men and women who served him or her.

  The redhead tossed Elen's horse's reins to another lad. "This way, my lady." Again, he lowered his voice. "I am called Robert. Will ye give my master word that all is well within Rancoff?" He cut his dark gaze at her. "At least as well as can be expected."

  On impulse, Elen reached out and squeezed the young man's forearm. "I will give Munro your message. He will be relieved to know there is someone about who still has some sense about him." She met the boy's gaze. "He will be home safely. Have no fear."

  The young man offered a shy smile. "I am to take ye to the solar."

  She turned to him, lifting an eyebrow. "The solar, is it?"

  The boy shrugged. "So I was ordered, m'lady. 'Tis what she calls the sleeping chamber."

  Elen studied the young man's honest face. "Will I see my sister?"

  He lowered his gaze to the ground, his cheeks coloring. "'Tis possible."

  She walked beside the boy. "The solar." She nodded. "Your master keeps his prisoners well," she said, her tone dry.

  "Nae my master," Robert mumbled, obviously fearing someone might hear him, but feeling the need to express himself. "I serve no one but my father, the Lord of Rancoff, and God Almighty."

  Elen couldn't resist a smile. She liked this young man, liked him indeed. She could use more of his ilk within her own walls. "So, to the solar," she said. "Lead the way."

  The boy escorted Elen through a roll-molded and arched doorway, pushing through an iron-studded door. Rancoff was smaller than Dunblane, but extremely well fortified. No wonder she had never been occupied by English forces.

  In a small paved vestibule, they took a steep stair contrived within the thickness of the tower wall. Elen glanced over her shoulder at Finley. She could tell that he, too, was curious as to why Cerdic would see them in the solar, a personal chamber, rather than the hall, where politics were normally played out.

  They climbed three stories in the stairwell and halted on a landing. Robert knocked on a closed door.

  "Enter," a man called.

  Elen could have sworn she heard her sister's voice and then a giggle, but she could not make out Rosalyn's words.

  Robert pushed open the door. "Elen Burnard of Dunblane," he announced and stepped out of her way.

  "Come, come, there are no formalities here," Cerdic called, waving Elen inside.

  Cerdic sat on the floor at the hearth in the private bedchamber... at Rosalyn's feet.

  Elen walked into the room and planted her feet squarely, her hands on her hips. Finley stopped short behind her.

  "Do close the door," Cerdic said, all smiles and warmth. "'Tis a cold draft that comes up the stairwell."

  Elen's immediate reaction that her sister was alive and obviously well was not one of thanksgiving, but of anger. White-hot anger. Here was the truth now, hitting Elen square in the face. She could no longer deny what fiber Rosalyn was made of.

  Rosalyn was wearing her own gown, the one she had worn the day she was kidnapped, but it was not fastened in the back. It hung over one shoulder, baring more pale flesh than appropriate. Her glorious blond hair fell loose in waves over her shoulders, looking as if she'd just rolled from the bed. Her feet were bare.

  Elen eyed the grand curtained bed. From the look of the linens, Rosalyn had just climbed from the bed, and Elen's guess was that she had not been alone.

  "Aren't ye going to say anything?" Rosalyn said sweetly. "Something like, 'Tis good to see ye, dear sister.'"Elen bit down on her lower lip. "'Tis good to see ye safe, sister, dear," she mocked, taking a step closer. "When I dinnae receive word immediately, I feared for your life, but I see ye have been well taken care of."

  Rosalyn smiled. She was indeed a beauty, looking like some mythical blond sea sprite with her waves of golden hair and her rosy lips and cheeks. "Nay, Cerdic has taken good care of me."
/>
  He grinned up at her as if he were her pup.

  Elen thought she might be sick, and the heavy scent of flowery soap or perfume was not helping.

  Munro had been completely right and she completely wrong. It was obvious from the look of the chamber—pillows on the floor, food heaped in dishes here and there, glasses of half-drunk wine and ale—that while Munro Forrest had spent days in the dank, dark oubliette, Rosalyn and Cerdic had occupied the long hours in the warmth of this chamber, engaged in debauchery.

  A second look at the chamber, the needlepoint tapestries that hung on the walls, the rich waxed wood of the furniture, made Elen think this was not even Cerdic's chamber. Only the master of the house would warrant such a room. While Munro had been sleeping on a damp pallet on the stone floor, Elen and Cerdic had been sleeping on his feather tick. Somehow, that made the entire situation even worse.

  Elen's gaze turned back to Rosalyn. She was so angry she could not find the words to express her feelings. What did she do now?

  Rosalyn was obviously going to make no attempt at offering an explanation. Had she gone mad? It did not appear so, and yet Elen could think of no other reason why her sister would so openly flaunt lascivious behavior.

  Elen took a deep breath, lowering one fist to her palm. "Sister, might I speak with ye... in private?"

  Cerdic hugged his knees and glanced up at Rosalyn. "Whatever ye wish, love."

  Rosalyn thought a moment, reaching for a cup on the chest beside her. Her casual attitude made Elen even angrier. Had she honestly no idea what she had done to those at Dunblane, or was this more of the same game? For sweet heaven's sake, men had been willing to storm this castle to "rescue" her. Clansmen had been willing to die to save Murdoch Burnard's youngest daughter, and here she had been safe all along, tangled in a lover's arms.

  At this moment, Elen wanted nothing more than to grab a handful of that lovely blond hair and shake Rosalyn until her teeth rattled.

  Cerdic rose from the floor, garbed in some sort of silken dressing gown, and clasped Rosalyn's hand and kissed the back of it. Rosalyn uttered some sort of simpering, cooing sound that made Elen want to cuff her before she shook her teeth out of her head.