Niall described the trip to the glen and the state of the cattle. "We brought 'em back here, but I'd feel a measure more certain if we could rule out the witch's hand in this matter."
"How are we to do that?" asked Gordon.
Niall shrugged. "Darach says there's tests."
"There are tests," Alasdair said. The others turned toward their chief's younger brother. Alasdair was well educated and well traveled, in addition to being a master of swordplay. When he spoke of matters outside of their tiny realm, the men generally listened.
"There are tests," he repeated, slipping off the sill once more. "But I'd not be the one to do that testin', for my soul."
"Why not?" asked Tommy.
Alasdair's eyes darkened. "Let's just say that such tests are best left to priests who have knowledge o' such practices."
Bruce studied the younger man for a moment and then nodded. "Perhaps such testin' is better left to God."
Gordon glowered around at the circle of men. "Are we to have no justice, then? Have ye forgotten what the Morestons and their evil one did to your ain family, Niall?" He swung about to Alasdair. "Do ye no' recall what happened to my sister? What happened to your da?"
Alasdair faced him blandly. "I've no' forgotten."
"Nor have I," Niall added. "I'll ne'er forget the night Darach bore your Isobel home from the Moreston's keep, lifeless as any stane." His powerful fists clenched in his lap. "My da fell wi' the auld chief. I've seen the witherin' o' the crops. I've seen the sickness on our people and the murder of our kine." He stared into the fire, anger and frustration working in his face. ''Why should we no' have our justice upon the woman? When have the Morestons shown us such mercy?"
"Never in my memory," Alasdair said. "And justice would be most sweet. But we dunna know that the lass is the one who worked the evil. I'd have a care, is all."
Gordon spat. "Let it be on my soul, then! I've naught to lose if the witch dies. You say leave testin' to God, Your Majesty? I say leave pardon to God. We canna afford to throw all we have to the Morestons and their kind. Let the priests come and test this woman. Let them decide! If she's the witch, we've dealt a blow to auld Craigen that will hit him where he lives. If she's no' a witch, either the priests will pardon her or God will do that work in heaven!"
"Amen," Dugan rumbled.
"Aye," murmured one or two of the others.
Alasdair looked about the circle and nodded briefly. "So be it for ye," he said softly.
The men fell into silence once more, sipping their drinks and gazing into the fire.
At last Tommy spoke. "Wonder what Darach's got planned?"
Heads nodded once again.
Julia scrambled off the cot as she heard the thunk of the bar outside her room. The heavy oak door swung open and Darach MacStruan entered, sword in hand.
She sighed and sat back down. Conan again, she thought. Did he really think she was any match for his bulk and that gargantuan blade? A brief scan of his height, girth, and muscled legs told her he wouldn't even need a sword to take control of her in a second. He shut the door but didn't fasten the latch. She couldn't resist taking a speculative glance at the possibility of escape. She decided a snowball had a better chance in the Mojave desert. She had to find another way out.
He glanced around the bare, dim room. "Ye have all ye need?" he asked.
"No."
He looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate. She raised a hand.
"First," she said, ticking off on her fingers as she spoke, "I need a bathroom and a bath. Second, I need food that didn't come out of One Hundred and One Ways to Prepare Library Paste. Third, I need a lawyer or the U.S. ambassador or the American consul generalany of those will do. Fourth, I need some clean clothes; I've been wearing these for two days. And fifth, I want to know where in the hell I am and why you think you can hold me against my will!"
He listened impassively through her whole speech. He raised his eyebrows, checking to see if she'd finished. She waved a hand for him to speak.
"First, ye may have a bath. I'll see that ye get one brought down in the mornin'. As for clothes, I'll see what I can find. If ye dunna like our victuals, ye may go without. Ye'll eat what everyone else gets." He began ticking off on his fingers, in imitation of her. She resisted the impulse to kick him. "Fourth, I'd sooner let a wolf into my house than a lawyer. As for the others ye named, I've no idea who ye mean and no time to waste findin' out. If ye want to talk to Craigen, no doubt he'll find ye as soon as he's finished skulkin' after my cattle."
Julia shook her head. "I don't know any Craigen."
His broad shoulders rose and fell, the muscles beneath his shirt rippling like shallow ocean waves. "Have it your way. As for your fifth request, I am Darach MacStruan. Chief of Clan MacStruan. This is my house, my land, my people. Ye're a stranger and ye were caught trespassin' on my land. There've been too many attacks on my lands and my folk for me to let others wander about at their leisure. Ye'll stay here, by my orders, until your folk come to ransom ye, or until ye can prove who ye are to my satisfaction."
"Couldn't you send down to Kinloch Rannoch and have one of them come up here? I was staying at an inn there and the innkeeper will know me."
He stared at her. "Ye were stayin' at Kinloch?"
"Yes!" She bounded up from the bed. "If you had given me a chance to speak, I could have told you that yesterday. All it would take is a phone call."
He scowled. "What inn?"
"The Blackwater." She watched his face and saw no change. She took a cautious step toward him. "Aren't you going to call them? Ask for Mrs. Carie, she knows me. Ask her if an American woman named Julia Addison has been staying there. Ask her if she could send someone here to pick me up. My car's stuck in the woods."
"The Blackwater, ye say?"
"Yes."
"There's no inn in Kinloch village wi' that name."
"Oh, come on!" She placed her hands on her hips. "Now you're trying to gaslight me. I know what hotel I was staying in. My stuff is still in my room there. Just call, please?" She looked up into his eyes, hoping for a hint of sympathy in their cool blue depths.
"I can't send any o' my men on a foolish chase to Kinloch. If someone knows ye're missin' they'll come for ye."
"They don't know for sure that I'm missing, and I'm fairly certain that they don't suspect I'm being held prisoner in some goofy summer camp for fans of Bonnie Prince Charlie. And you don't need to send anyone to Kinloch. Just call."
"Call?" He shrugged again. "So. Ye are addled, then, lass."
"I'm perfectly sane. Why do you keep saying that?"
"If ye think I can shout all the way to Kinloch village from here, ye must be daft."
"I didn't sayOh, no." She felt her heart sink. "Are you trying to tell me there are no phones here?"
"Never has been any such thing."
"How about a cellular?" He shook his head. "Well, a radio, then? Fax machine?" His head moved slowly back and forth. "What do you do if there's an emergency?" she asked. "What if one of you got sick or hurt?"
"What rubbish are ye talkin'? We tend our ain."
"And you think I'm nuts?" Julia paced across the cell and back. "You must get mail. How about sending a letter?"
"Can ye write?"
She glared. "That's low. I may be an American but that doesn't mean I'm illiterate. Yes, I can write."
He thought for a moment. "All right, then. Ye may send a letter down to th' village. One o' my men may be able to go next week."
"Next week?"
"Aye. Now, if ye're satisfied"
"I'm not satisfied!" She came to stand before him again. He towered above her, his dark features still as stone as he met her gaze. To her annoyance, she found her own gaze drifting from those dark-fringed eyes, to the striking nose, to the lines on either side of his mouth. That mouth that gave utterance to that deep, liquid voice . . .
What the heck are you thinking, Addison? This wasn't a man; this was a barbarian! Perhaps ev
en the leader of a cult of barbarians. She needed to make every effort to get away from him, not take inventory of all his barbaric attractions. She needed to get back to a world of normal men in normal clothes. Not that she had anyone waiting for her, but she knew this Darach MacStruan just wasn't her type.
"I can't possibly wait a week," she began lamely, backing away from the solid rock wall of his frame.
"Be that as it may, that's all I can provide for ye now. I was about to say that ye may go out tomorrow. Ye'll be bound and twa of my men will be lookin' after ye, but at least ye'll be out of your cell for a bit."
Julia sighed. "Don't overextend yourself."
"I willna," he said with bland disregard of her sarcastic tone. He headed for the door. "I'll hae someone bring the tub to ye in the mornin'."
She nodded. At least he had some sense of decency, she decided. "Thank you."
He turned and looked at her, as if searching her face to see whether she was sincere. He turned back. "Ye're welcome," he said as he passed through the doorway.
Darach hefted the crossbar and let it fall into place. He listened but heard nothing from inside the cell. He left the narrow passage and made his way to the great hall.
The big room stood empty and silent. His men had left his house soon after the evening meal. They were most likely gathered around the Bruce's cozy fire, swapping lies and drinking. Somehow the idea of being alone in the house with his beautiful prisoner made him uneasy. It wasn't as if he were afraid of her. She did seem more halfwit than sorceress. And as an ordinary mortal woman, she posed no physical threat to him.
Yet he had to admit that she'd been in his house for nearly two days and he'd spent most of that time avoiding her. He'd told himself he had work to do and duties to carry out. His men could look after one small woman. The Morestons or her kin would come looking for her soon and then he'd make a decision about her. He didn't need to see her.
But tonight, after all the men had deserted his hall, he'd paced about, the sounds of his boots echoing off the high stone walls. All his attention seemed to be focused on the dim cell below the stairs. His awareness of her presence in his house had forced him to go and see her, just to rid himself of the thought of her.
He'd been only partly successful. He'd seen her, and seen that she was indeed only a woman and probably a mad one at that. He'd heard her strange accent and her nonsense words. He'd listened to her foolish babble about a Black-water Inn and being able to call all the way to Kinloch village.
He'd also seen that fair, wee face again, with its firm but delicate chin tilted up to meet him eye to eye. She wore those outlandish trews still, and he could hardly keep his eyes and his hands from straying to the slender waist that flared so perfectly down into soft hips and trim thighs. Her lips alone, even when spouting such gibberish as "raydeo" and "gas light," were the most delicious pair he'd ever seen. He could almost taste the sweetness of them just by looking. As he'd thought the first time he'd seen her, she looked like a woman made for loving.
So he'd held himself still and steeled himself against her distracting physical appeal. He was a man, a chief, and she was a prisoner, be she madwoman, witch, spy, or lost traveler. To touch her might not only prove dangerous; it would be the basest sort of behavior in him as her jailer. He wouldn't take advantage of her.
Still, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his chamber, he hoped someone came and claimed her soon. He wasn't sure his honor could hold out for long against lively, delectable Julia Addison.
Chapter Four
Soft mists hung over the world when Julia stepped outside the following morning. The clouds above the hills had dipped low, as if going for a leisurely skim over the land, close enough for her to reach up and touch them like solid objects. The fresh, moist air made a welcome change from the dank air of her cell.
The weather placed a far, far second in her thoughts, however. Darach and the one called Alasdair had come and fetched her after her bath. She felt a bit awkward in the strange, loose gown, undergown, and moccasin-type shoes they gave her, but at least she was clean from her bath in the big wooden tub that had been rolled in and filled with bucket upon bucket of hot water. The gown had belonged to Darach and Alasdair's mother, Ross had told her. So now she knew the big ogre had a mother and wasn't merely spawned from a rock.
Odd, she thought as she smoothed the soft, worn woolen of the gown. For the first time since she'd landed in Scotland, she felt warm.
But even warmth and cleanliness paled at her first glimpse of the village. If she'd found Darach's house quaint and primitive, that impression was left in the dust by the sight of the village that ringed the grassy area outside Darach's door. Chickens and ducks scuttled out of the way before them as they walked, and a couple of sheep wandered about, doing some freeform lawn mowing. A huge dog barreled out of the woods, its tongue lolling in a canine grin. The animal flung itself at Darach, who greeted it with rough affection.
''Down, Big Dog, ye daft thing," he said, scrubbing the dog's rough head. "Gang ye and hunt some rabbits. Mak' yersel' useful for a change." The animal gave Darach's face a swipe with his tongue and trotted off to stand watching the proceedings with cocked ears and interest in his eyes.
Julia wondered at the way the dog seemed to adore Darach. Everyone around seemed to revere him. What kind of power did he possess that he should inspire so much unswerving loyalty? Would they be so loyal to anyone who claimed to be descended from the so-called first MacStruan?
As they reached the center of the green, Julia looked about at what she realized constituted the whole of their village. The houses that formed a crescent about the green were all built of rough-cut natural stone and built low to the ground; black houses, they were called. She remembered the term from the tourist guide she'd read in her inn room. Thickly thatched roofs, weighted down by heavy rocks, topped most of the dwellings, and sturdy wooden shutters covered the few deep-set windows she could see. At one house she could have sworn she saw a cow looking out from one of those windows, calmly chewing its cud. Good grief, she thought, did they sleep with their cattle? Or just have them around as house pets?
As she and the two men continued their walk, figures began to materialize out of the mists. Slowly the other seven men who'd brought her here came to the edge of the grass and stared at her with unconcealed curiosity. But as she drew closer, several of them pulled back and one or two, muttering under his breath, made the sign of the cross when she met his eyes.
"What's the matter with them?" she asked.
Darach looked down at her. "Don't ye know? Ye must be used to such greetings."
"I've had my share of snubbings in my time. I've been stood up. I've even been left off the guest list at parties. But I've never had anyone treat me as if I had some kind of communicable disease." She started. "Is that what they think? That I'm sick?"
Alasdair shook his head. "Nay. They think ye're a witch." Julia stopped dead. "They what? You mean all that silly talk when you brought me herethat was serious?" She looked back and forth between the two.
"Did ye think ye'd fooled us?" Darach asked.
"No. I'm not out to fool anybody. But I'm not a witch, a Wiccan, a Druid, or even a gypsy fortune-teller. I'm a chef!"
"Ye told me ye were an america."
"American. Yes, I am an American. And I work as a chef. Or I did untiloh, hell, that's too complicated to go into now. All I'm saying is that I'm not a witch and I don't care about getting the ruby slippers or following the Yellow Brick Road
. Will you please tell that to the Lollipop Guild here?" She waved a hand at the men before them.
Darach looked over her head at Alasdair. Then he looked at the others. "She says she's a chef, no' a witch."
"A chief, d'ye say, Darach?" asked the older man, who carried a heavy walking stick.
Darach shrugged. "Ask her."
Julia shot him an exasperated glance. "Not a chief," she said to the other men. "A chef. I cook."
"Ahh
." The chorus of male voices would have made her laugh if she weren't so concerned with the way they all still stared at her and fingered the knives tucked into their belts. She looked at Darach. "Don't they believe me?"
"Like as not they believe ye can cook."
"But they still think I'm a witch." "Like as not," drawled Alasdair with a nod. "Ye've given them no proof that ye're not."
"And have I given them proof that I am?" She began to feel more nervous by the moment. Knives, strange houses, odd clothing and speech, and now witches. This had to be more than a trainee camp for the Highland games. Perhaps she had fallen into the middle of a cult after all.
They all seemed to ponder her question for a moment. Then they looked to Darach.
"Ye've done us no harm that we've seen so far," he said. "But ye're too outlandish to be an innocent."
"What does that mean? That anyone who's different from you is automatically evil? Who died and made you boss?" She could feel the heat coming to her cheeks. She lifted her chin, challenging Darach to speak in defense of prejudice.
There was another of those great intakes of breath among the group. More crossing of chests and foreheads.
Darach's eyes darkened. "My father died and made me chief."
She flushed. "I'm sorry," she said at once. "That was crass of me. But I hate bigotry of all kinds. Haven't you ever heard of a person being innocent until proven guilty?"
This time they positively goggled at her. That was the only word for it, she thought: goggling. It was a textbook example.
"Innocent until proven guilty?" The one they called Liam still stared, wide-eyed. "What sort o' nonsense would that be? If ye didna think someone was guilty, they wouldna be in trouble in the first place! It's up to them to prove their innocence, if they can."
"That's just plain backward!" Julia couldn't help arguing. "If everyone's guilty before you've even heard their side of the story, then you might as well sentence them before they ever come to trial!"
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