“So tell me about this laird of yours,” she said casually. “Is he the kind to take a lass against her will?”
“Laird Morgan? Oh nay!” Bethac’s conviction was emphatic. “He’s a good man. Decent. Fair. And honorable.”
“Yet he keeps my cousin and me prisoner.” Jenefer looked at her with calculation, adding the half-truth, “And we don’t know why.”
Bethac blinked in surprise. “Prisoner? Oh nay, Miss. He keeps ye here for your own protection. He dares not set ye loose when a hostile army may be near. ’Twould be unthinkable.”
Jenefer gave her a sharp glance. “Is it?”
“Aye, o’ course. Ye may be warrior maids. But ye’re also innocent lasses who—”
“Nay, I mean…is a hostile army near?” She tried to hide her keen interest in hearing the answer.
“Ah. None has been spotted yet. But…” Bethac leaned forward to confide, “The young lad who’s guardin’ ye? He told me his cousin overheard a knight tellin’ his father that this army might very well attack in the middle o’ the night.”
Jenefer’s eyes dulled. Rumors. In her experience, a man’s armory spawned just as many rumors as a lady’s solar. Rivenloch would never be so unchivalrous as to attack a castle in the middle of the night.
“So ye see?” Bethac assured her. “The laird is doin’ his best to keep ye safe. Ye’re not prisoners. Ye’re guests. Indeed, that’s his own bedchamber ye’re stayin’ in while he sleeps on the floor.”
Jenefer nodded. She had to admit that was a noble gesture. But it might have more to do with the fact that Creagor had no proper dungeon or even doors on the storage rooms.
She shifted Miles in her arms.
That was another thing she’d add when she moved in. The storage rooms should be more secure.
Then she smirked. Her mother might disagree, since her father had locked her in one such storage room at Rivenloch.
“Are ye not comfortable in his bedchamber?” Bethac asked.
“Oh aye.” Now that she’d discovered the bed was not flea-ridden after all, she found the well-stuffed mattress quite to her liking.
“And he’s feedin’ ye well?”
She was already impatient for her next meal. But he couldn’t be blamed for that. “As well as can be expected.”
Bethac nodded. “The stores were depleted when we arrived. We haven’t had time to stock the pantry.”
Depleted stores meant a short siege and a quick surrender. That was good. Jenefer was willing to face the Highlanders in battle. But she didn’t relish letting them die of hunger.
Besides, if anyone was going to starve within the castle walls, Jenefer supposed she’d be one of the first to go.
And what of Miles? she thought, running a palm over his soft, warm head. How long would a wee babe survive a siege?
“What will happen if they lay siege?” Jenefer asked.
“Don’t ye fret, Miss. Laird Morgan will take good care o’ the clan…and the two o’ ye as well. He won’t let anyone starve.”
Jenefer raised a brow. “So he’ll negotiate?”
“If the demands are reasonable.”
She tried not to sound too hopeful. “He’ll relinquish Creagor?”
“Oh nay,” Bethac said with a chuckle. “He’s come a long way to claim his rightful place as Laird o’ Creagor. He won’t surrender his inheritance.”
Jenefer’s jaw tensed, but she hid her disappointment. “Then I hope he’s a good fighter.” For his own sake, she silently added.
“Oh, aye,” Bethac gushed. “He’s a great champion. No one is fiercer with a claymore.”
That was the last thing she wanted to hear. But she supposed it was little surprise, considering his massive size.
Bethac continued. “I remember the first time Morgan held a sword. He was a lad o’ three years, and the sword was a wee thing his father made out o’ wood. But he waved it around with such ferocity that he knocked his da in the knee.” She laughed. “To this day, Laird Giric bears a scar from the blow.”
Jenefer lifted her brows. “Three years old? Have you known him so long?”
“I was with Lady Hilaire when she gave birth to him,” she said with pride. “I’ve watched him grow from a mischievous lad to a magnificent laird.”
Magnificent. Jenefer had to admit he was that. Tall, handsome, and arresting. With a natural air of command. He would set any foe’s heart to quivering.
But she felt a sinking in her chest. She’d never imagined Bethac might be loyal to the snarling Highlander. If she cared so much for the man, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to convince her to stay behind.
“And what about ye, Miss?” the maid asked.
“Me?”
“When did ye first learn to fight?”
She shrugged. “I can’t remember not knowing how to fight.”
At that moment, one of Miles’ flailing hands smacked her jaw.
“Oh ho!” She chuckled. “So you’re a fighter as well, aye?”
Bethac beamed. “He’ll be a fine warrior like his da.”
Jenefer caught Miles’ fist in hers and gave it a shake. “Is that so, Miles?” Then she turned to Bethac. “And who is his da?”
The color drained from the old woman’s face. For an instant, Jenefer would have sworn she glimpsed panic in Bethac’s eyes.
But just as quickly, it was gone. Bethac turned her attention to Miles, giving him a fond smile and patting him on the back.
“Oh, he’s a braw swordsman, he is.”
“So he’s alive?”
“Oh, aye.” Bethac cleared her throat. “Very much so.”
She frowned. “Then why does he not visit his son?”
Bethac hesitated. “He…does.”
“But how? I’ve never seen him.”
The maidservant seemed suddenly fixated on the hem of Miles’ gown. “Are ye certain?” she asked, smoothing the edges between her fingers as she spoke. “Because he comes most every day.”
“When?” Jenefer had stayed up with Miles half the night and a good part of the day. The only men she’d seen were Morgan and the guard.
“Oh, at different hours. He may have come when ye were sleepin’.”
Jenefer didn’t think so. She’d hardly slept at all.
Bethac moved away to tend to the hearth, speaking over her shoulder. “He’s…he’s in mournin’, as ye might imagine. ’Tis difficult for him to look at the bairn. ’Tis why the poor wee lad has gone so long without a name.”
Jenefer nodded. That made sense. The man had just buried his wife.
“Does Miles look like his mother?”
Bethac dusted off her hands. “A bit. Lady Alicia came from Catalonia. She had a frail, fey look about her, peat black hair and eyes and fair skin. Miles is far bonnier, to my mind, and more hale, thank God, but he has the heartlike shape o’ her face.”
“That must be difficult for his father.”
“Aye, I think ’tis.”
If Miles was a painful reminder of his father’s lost love, was it possible that when the Highlanders were forced to return home, he’d be grateful to be rid of the child?
The thought pleased her.
For the first time, she tried to imagine herself as a mother. What would it be like to raise a babe like Miles to manhood? To mold him into a warrior without peer? An able commander? A leader of men?
She envisioned teaching the lad knightly courtesy. And archery. And how to wield a sword.
Telling him the Norse legends of her forefathers. Sharing the stories of her clan. Teaching him how to read and write and keep accounts.
She smiled and lowered her head to breathe in Miles’ unique sweet scent. It seemed she may have found a way to not only win a holding for herself, but also to avoid the pesky business of taking a husband to get an heir.
Chapter 29
Morgan scowled and scratched at the back of his neck. Where were the Campbell brothers? The last time he’d seen his four knights, they were
patrolling the perimeter of the woods, searching for signs of the missing Colban while keeping an eye out for Rivenloch scouts.
He checked the armory. Twice.
He scanned the great hall, where tables were being assembled for the final meal of the day.
He scoured the stables.
On his second turn through the courtyard, he heard the clash of steel. Following the sound, he found the Campbells sparring on the sward beneath his bedchamber window. They were wielding strange implements. A slender, curved sword. A pair of pointed daggers. A lady’s fan.
Feiyan’s weapons.
Ordinarily, he would have no qualms with his men confiscating the weapons of fallen foes. But the lasses were neither fallen nor foes. Not exactly. He might not be quite ready to return their arms to them yet. But neither would he condone his men stealing them.
He marched toward the Campbells. But before he could demand they turn the scavenged weapons over to him, to his amazement, he heard the lass herself shouting down commands from his window.
“Aye, Davey, that’s it! Sweep the fan beneath your elbow. But take care not to—”
“What the bloody hell is goin’ on?” Morgan bellowed.
His knights froze, looking as guilty as priests in a brothel. No one spoke.
“Ye,” he barked, stabbing a finger at the dark-haired sprite at the window. “What do ye think ye’re doin’, orderin’ my men about?” Before she could answer, he glared at his men, adding, “And ye. Why are ye takin’ orders from a lass?”
The Campbells looked shamefaced.
“M’laird, I can explain,” Davey, the oldest, said.
Before Feiyan could reply, Jenefer appeared at the nursery window to defend her cousin. “’That lass’ happens to know how to wield those weapons, you big oaf.”
Morgan’s blood boiled at the insult.
She added, “They might well have chopped off a hand without her instruction.”
“My men need no instruction,” he ground out. “Men, return these weapons to the armory. And ye two,” he said, skewering the lasses with a hard stare, “get away from the win—”
The two lasses simultaneously slammed their respective shutters before he could finish.
The men began gathering Feiyan’s weapons.
“Our apologies, m’laird,” Davey mumbled.
Morgan blew out a vexed breath. To be honest, he wasn’t all that upset that his men were learning a new skill. He wasn’t even that bothered that they were taking direction from a lass, who probably did know a great deal about the curious weapons.
What worried him was that the Campbells had neglected to report back to him after their search.
“What news do ye bring o’ Colban?” he asked them.
“Naught, m’laird,” Davey said. “We scoured the forest for hours. We can see where Colban entered the wood. But there’s no visible trail.”
He rubbed his jaw. With leaves littering the autumn ground and hours since he’d left, that was to be expected. “Ye encountered no Rivenloch scouts?”
“Not a soul in the wood but us.”
He nodded and dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
It was late enough that Morgan could be fairly certain Rivenloch was not planning to attack today. But they might have sent spies ahead to do surveillance.
As he wheeled to return to the armory, from the nursery above, he heard his bairn’s sorrowful cry.
The sound reminded him of his own grief over the loss of his wife. Thin. Hollow. Relentless. He wondered if the torment of Alicia’s death would ever end.
And then, not long after, the whimpers softened into cooing.
There could be only one reason for that. Jenefer. Despite her angry outburst, she’d been willing to attend to the bairn. Morgan was glad, for everyone’s sake, he’d relented and given the guard orders to allow her to care for his son as long as Bethac was there.
What kind of magical sway the lass held over the child, he couldn’t fathom. Even Bethac was mystified.
But what troubled him was wondering what he was going to do when she left.
He made his way back to the armory. There, he calmed his disquiet over Colban by inspecting the weapons hanging on the wall.
Though the Campbells could sometimes be wild-mannered, all of his knights were well disciplined. The soldiers kept their gear in good repair. The lances were sharp, and the axes had a keen edge.
As for Colban, he was a clever tracker. He’d find the lass.
Morgan took each longbow down, flexing the wood between his hands to test its strength.
From what he’d seen of Hallidis, she was a sensible woman. The most levelheaded of the three cousins, she seemed the least likely to make trouble.
Morgan made a cursory inspection of the quivers. The arrows were straight and neatly fletched.
If Colban had intercepted Hallie, Morgan reasoned, he’d assure her that her cousins were safe. He’d tell her that the king’s messenger was on his way to settle the matter of the ownership of Creagor. He’d let her know there was no need for war.
And because peaceable Hallie hadn’t wanted a siege in the first place, she’d agree to wait for the messenger’s arrival.
Unless she didn’t trust Colban.
Still, Colban had the upper hand. He was a seasoned warrior. She was a vulnerable lass. Colban no doubt had everything under control.
His mind eased, Morgan examined the claymores, one by one. Freshly polished, they gleamed like the surface of a still loch. Into each hilt was carved the mark of its owner.
Davey Campbell’s hilt bore a cross.
John mac Dougal’s symbol was a circle.
The X belonged to Ian Clare.
Colban’s sign was…
The pit of Morgan’s heart suddenly went cold. Colban’s claymore still hung on the wall. Which meant he’d gone into the wood unarmed.
Chapter 30
“Don’t ye fret, Morgan.” Standing before the buttery, Bethac actually patted Morgan on the arm, whispering to him as if he were a child. “The lass was up there with us most o’ the afternoon. She was only feelin’ peckish. So Cicilia and I came down to fetch her a wee crumb.”
Cicilia smiled in innocent agreement.
Morgan couldn’t breathe. The shadows cast by the torches in the great hall wavered ominously over his dozing clansmen as apprehension snaked through his veins. Did the maids not understand the peril?
Nay, of course not. To Bethac, the lasses were guests, not prisoners. But he’d given specific orders for Bethac to remain in Jenefer’s presence if she was caring for his son.
Under his breath, he said, “Ye left the warrior maid alone with my bairn?”
Cicilia’s smile faltered.
“O’ course,” Bethac said, oblivious to his concern. “Ye’ve seen how she is with Miles. The bairn loves—”
“His name is Allison,” Morgan choked out, casting an alarmed gaze toward the nursery.
In a dozen strides, he crossed the great hall. He took the stairs two steps at a time. By the time he passed his bedchamber guard, who snapped to attention, his heart was pounding.
With no knock of warning, he pushed open the nursery door.
The flames on the hearth flickered wildly in the silent room, illuminating the honey-haired beauty curled atop the bed, fast asleep.
Cradled in her arms was the wee bairn. His eyes were closed in slumber. One tiny fist was tucked under his chin.
Morgan let out a shuddering breath and closed the door softly behind him.
Why he’d been so full of dread, he didn’t know. He should have realized Jenefer would never hurt a child. Particularly this one. As Bethac had noted more than once, the lad had a curious affinity for the warrior maid. No doubt the feeling was mutual.
Besides, Jenefer was as yet unaware that the lad was his. Morgan had sworn the maidservants to secrecy. The lass from Rivenloch would have no reason to think the bairn could be used as a hostage.
He narrowed
his eyes at the child and took a few cautious steps forward.
Morgan was accustomed to seeing a screaming infant with his features contorted in rage. Now that the bairn was at peace, Morgan saw he was a handsome lad. His hair was as fine as silk thread. His skin was flawless. Dark brows arched over his eyes like drawn bows. And the lashes below them rested upon rounded cheeks. His mouth was set in a drowsy pout, as perfect as the bud of a rose. And the shape of his face…
It was hers. He had Alicia’s heart-shaped face.
Of course he did.
He probably had Morgan’s features as well.
Morgan had never thought about it. In fact, he’d hardly given the lad a second glance. No matter how irrational it was, lost in his own anguish, he’d always secretly blamed the bairn for Alicia’s death.
Now, gazing at the helpless, innocent, angelic child—his child, their child—his eyes filled. How could he blame the wee bairn? He’d not asked to be born. Why should the poor lad suffer from the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, when he’d had no say in the matter?
As Morgan stared down at the motherless infant left in his care, his vision blurred. How would he ever replace what he’d lost, what both of them had lost? Would Morgan marry again? Was he even capable of feeling affection for another woman?
Regret and love and grief tangled into a knot in his throat.
Jenefer always slept with one eye open. She might be wandering deep in the land of Nod, but if a wee beetle entered her bedchamber, she’d know it instantly.
So, though she gave no sign, she sensed at once that someone had come into the nursery. It wasn’t Bethac or Cicilia. They wouldn’t have opened the door with such speed and force.
Maintaining measured breaths and closed eyes, she silently calculated the path she’d have to take to get to the fireplace poker, bearing in mind she’d have to sweep Miles up safely in one arm.
The door closed, and she heard the intruder steal toward the bed. Every muscle in her body was primed, ready to spring.
But then, there was a long silence.
She waited.
And waited.
Finally, unable to endure the suspense, Jenefer lifted her lids just enough to peer through her lashes.
Bride of Fire Page 12
