by Dianna Love
He’d listened to her tales of Lady Kathy and one hundred story sky scrapes, but what sane man would have believed it all? Yet, just now she nearly vanished before his eyes!
Pure instinct brought his broadsword to her heart.
Her teeth chattered as she held out her left hand. “Duncan, it’s your ring. The ring brought me here and can take me away.”
Heart bounding, he shook his head still not believing.
She stepped to within an inch of his blade and whispered, “Duncan, please. Put down your sword.”
“Hold!” The claymore’s tip vibrated with his fear and he had to grasp it with two hands to stay it.
God’s teeth! What kind of specter ‘tis Beth that she can come and go thus? And what did she want? Was she a fairy? Had she come to charm him, to take his seed as fairies were want to do whenever they wanted a human bairn, and God help him, he’d obliged? Or, God forbid, had she come from some other place to claim his soul?
“Duncan, please...” She held out her hands in supplication. “It’s the ring.”
“BACK WITH YE! I dinna ken ye or why ye be here, but leave!”
Fear he understood and routinely dealt with in battle, but the terror now surging through his blood and causing his muscles to quake and his breath to catch felt altogether foreign. As foreign as his ladywife’s ability to disappear then reappear at will.
Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. “I don’t understand this anymore than you do. But I’m still me, just plain ol’ Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding who belongs in New York with her roaches and Chinese take-out, and I’m as frightened by this as you are.” She wrung her hands. “Actually, I’m way past frightened, Duncan, I’m truly terrified.” She reached out.
“Nay!” He used the claymore to keep her at a safe distance, and then circled the tip at her heart for good measure.
To his utter surprise she leaned into it, piercing the tender flesh over her breastbone. Before he could think—to either press his advantage or wonder why she did it—she uttered a wee cry and backed off the gleaming steel.
Shaking and pale, she looked down at the wee scarlet burn that flowed down her chest. “See, I’m just flesh and blood.”
Dumbfounded, he growled and raised his shaking blade over his shoulder.
She searched his face for only a moment before collapsing at his feet like a dropped puppet. Her shoulders shook as she buried her face in her hands. She started to sob. As she rocked on her knees, her arms now clutching her middle, his blade hovered above the fair skin of her long exposed neck.
Self-preservation caused him to inhale deeply, his body readying to wield his sword.
His heart jolted when she keened, “Why God? Why, when all I ever asked out of life was for someone to love?”
Chapter 22
A gust of air swished past her cheek and the claymore dropped with an ungodly clang to the floor.
“Ah, Christ’s blood, Beth.”
Slowly she raised her face to look into Duncan’s eyes. Not seeing death staring back, she released her breath. He kicked the broadsword away and settled on his haunches before her as she dashed her tears away with the heels of her hands. He reached for her, but then pulled back.
“Be ye alright?” His face was still flushed and dotted by sweat. “The cut, lass.” He pointed to the spot where his blade had pierced her chest. She looked not at her wound but to the sword. “Yes.”
Heart still thudding, she reluctantly shifted her gaze from the gleaming harbinger of death now lying impotent on the floor to her bloodied bodice. The once white crewelwork was now a rusty burgundy and probably ruined beyond all hope. Rachael had told her it had taken a master tailor and his three apprentice six months to make the gown. “Did you spare me so Rachael could now take my head?”
“Ack, lass.” To her surprise, he reached out tentatively, first to brush the hair from her cheek and then to trace the path of her tears to her jaw. He examined his fingers. “‘Tis soot. Did yer unholy light burn ye?”
Soot? She’d only felt a bone-fracturing cold when she started to disappear and still felt chilled. She hadn’t felt any heat, no burning. She sniffed and hiccuped again as she examined his fingertips more closely. Suddenly she wanted to laugh, and would have, had she had the energy. Her homemade mascara had cascaded south with her tears. It was too much to hope that she only had raccoon eyes. More likely she resembled a chimney sweep. Could she do nothing right in this world?
“Duncan, I wasn’t burned. It’s just lamp black—-lamp sable.”
Obviously confused, he frowned but only said, “Ah.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I wanted to be pretty, so I used the soot...” She heaved a sigh. “Hell, you wouldn’t understand.”
While she struggled to her feet, surprised she wasn’t nauseous from fright, he sheathed his short blade to his calf. Not looking at her but toward the window, he quietly asked, “Will ye be leaving?”
She shrugged.
Yes, she wanted to return to her old life where threatening steel meant only a racing taxi, where she could speak normally and be understood, where she had friends, coffee and real make-up. But then again, no. For home would also be bereft of hope, for love or for children. She’d have her ghost but not the real Duncan. She took a deep breath and confessed, “Not right now, unless you want me to go.”
Not wanting to watch as he made his decision, she walked to the window. Her head and heart continued to ache as she studied the movement along the battlements in the light of oil torches whipping like horsetails in the errant wind.
The burning in her throat defeated her effort to sound matter of fact as she confided, “I never expected to wear a wedding ring, much less be married to a man such as you. To discover the ring—-something I’d hoped would hold such promise—could terrify me so...”
She heard him come to his feet. “I dinna suppose any woman should expect it.”
“Three wives wore this ring before me. Have you ever been in love?” Why had she asked? What difference could his ability or willingness to love her matter now?
She placed a hand on her stomach. Did a new life already hide in the deep recesses of her womb? That possibility—not whether he could love her—would have to be the deciding factor in her staying or leaving.
He took a long time in answering. “I grieved for Mary.”
Yes, he had written of his guilt, that he hadn’t loved her, but had he lied to himself about loving her? Why else would he be so obsessed with the chapel?
And what, if anything, would he write of her, Beth, should she decide to slip the ring off for good? Would he grieve? And for what? The loss of a potential heir, a good meal, or just an efficiently run keep? One or all of the above? In any event, it certainly wouldn’t be for her. He’d never mentioned the word love. And knowing that certainly shouldn’t cause the burning at the back of her eyes and throat, much less the fissures now spreading across her heart. She was, after all, plain-as- pudding Pudding.
When she’d sent her silent plea to God for an honest answer, Duncan had been so close to cleaving her head from her shoulders she’d seen her life pass before her. What staid his hand she might never know, but she thanked God all the same. At twenty-four, she tearfully acknowledged, she’d yet to earn the right to die.
Duncan studied his wife’s straight back as she stared into the night and tried to gather his wits.
He’d never been so unnerved in his life. Aye, her turning specter before his very eyes had nearly stopped his heart, but that dinna compare to the last.
The verra worst occurred when—kenning his fear and possible intent—she’d pleaded not for God’s mercy nor for his, but had used what could have been her last breath to demand an explanation from God for what she truly believed to be His betrayal.
No faint heart, his lady.
He’d seen many a brave man die and never before had heard such. Ack! His skin still pebbled like a plucked fowl just thinking on her temer
ity in calling God to task. ‘Twas also at that very moment—-when she keened her demand—-that he kenned fully that she had spoken nothing less than the truth from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.
He had no need to fear his enemies. He would be the undoing of himself.
And he couldna blame her if she decided to disappear for all eternity. Nay, given all the angst he’d caused her, he could only expect it.
Why the thought caused a dreadful tightening around his chest he’d not dwell on. He had yet to tell her a painful truth and he owed her that much before she left him.
He stepped forward to stand at her back. “Beth, I do believe all ye have said.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Aye, I ken ye are not wode but from another time and place.” He studied the stars as he gathered courage to say what must be said.
“‘Tis been difficult for me to accept yer tales. For if I believed in sky scrapes and plum mink, then I had to believe I willna be laid to rest when my time comes, but will haunt these halls for all eternity.” He took a deep breath. “’Twas far easier to believe ye coddled in some fashion than to admit I am doomed for what I have done, for the lives I have taken.”
Beth spun and found him rigid, his gaze glassy with unshed tears as he stared blindly over her head into the night.
Oh dear God!
She placed her hands on his chest and felt furious beating beneath vibrating muscle. He was terrified—not of her—but of the future.
She hadn’t thought him a religious man, but given the time and the Church’s influence on their everyday lives—-the in-house priest, the daily vespers so many attended—she should have seen this coming. Should have understood the impact her words would have on him.
“I’m so sorry. I never meant...”
He slowly, gently, brought his powerful arms around her while his eyes remained on the stars. “Nay, Beth. Ye’ve not done anythin’ to be sorrowful for. Ye told only the truth.” He then looked at her, a small grin playing at one corner of his mouth. “‘Tis by my own doing—-my own hand—-that I shall have no peace.”
“But it makes no sense. You’re honest, a man of character. Surely, there must be more to this—”
“Sweet Beth.” He kissed her forehead. “Ye wish to ease my mind, but why? I am nay digne of ye forgiveness.” His tears escaped the confines of his thick lashes. “I nearly smote ye with my sword.”
“You were upset. Fear of the unknown can—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Too, I’m a widower thrice and carry that blame. And lest we forget, I’ve killed in battle more men than we—-together—have digits.”
She hadn’t meant for her eyes to grow wide in shock but they did, and he murmured, “Aye, lass. At last count the number is close to sixty.”
“Oh.” It came out as a squeak. What more could she say? That isn’t so great a number? Or he really shouldn’t worry because he’ll be a relatively pleasant ghost, who only has a tantrum now and then and has much more mourning yet to do? Oh God.
“My lady?”
“What?” She’d been woolgathering.
“I asked if I had issue. Did I at least leave an heir?”
Matters were definitely going from bad to worse.
She ran a tentative finger along his finely crafted lips then caught a tear as it trailed down his smooth well-chiseled cheek. He’d kept his face shaved only because she preferred it.
Please, God, let what I’m about to tell him be so.
Aloud she whispered, “I suspect that very problem is the cause for my being here.”
His moan escaped before he could collect himself. He then nodded resignedly and threw back his shoulders. It was an admirable job of sucking up, but defeat still lurked deep within his eyes as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. “So be it.”
She took his right hand in hers and examined his long, well- shaped fingers and heavy calluses. With it he had brought her to the heights of ecstasy and the pits of despair. Whether she chose to stay or not, he had forever changed her view of life.
“Duncan, I honestly believe everything happens for a reason. I could have drowned in my time, but didn’t. I could have died in that coach, but was spared.” She didn’t add he could have severed her head just moments ago, too. He had, after all, apologized and was upset enough.
She took a deep breath. “I believe I’m here to give you an heir.”
Chapter 23
Without warning, Flora began walking along Oban’s rutted roads at a fierce pace. Rachael growled as she tried to keep up, doggedly dodging harried wives, venders, dogs, and waste along the town’s sodden ways.
To her relief Flora finally slowed before the market stalls. When Flora came to a full stop before a woman selling flasks of perfumed oil, Rachael, gasping, sent a thankful prayer to heaven. Flora started negotiating with the vender and Rachel relaxed, her attention drifting to the next cart overflowing with fresh greens.
She finally held up a nice clump of watercress to ask Flora’s opinion and found her gone.
Rachael’s panic quickly shifted to aggravation. How Flora had slipped away unnoticed mattered naught at this point. She was gone. Finding her without asking their guards for help—for they could not know of Duncan and Isaac’s suspicions—would take precious time from her shopping. Oban might not be London or even Glasgow, but it did have merchants and peddlers on market day that she normally had no access to in her little corner of the world.
Teeth gritted, Rachael cursed Flora, lifted her skirts and raced along the rutted roadway fronting the loch. Here she could no longer wear her stylish French pattens—her high wooden overshoes to keep her feet dry and her hems clean—for fear of twisting an ankle. Stepping into a puddle, she cursed Flora once again.
She peeked in every window and doorway she could find. Not seeing so much as a glimpse of her wayward charge in the obvious places, Rachael began a methodical search of all the mews and stables.
Thirty minutes later, annoyed beyond words and desperately thirsty, she entered a public house and heaved a sigh of relief. There sat Flora in a dark corner across from a man Rachael didn’t recognize.
“‘Tis here ye be!” Out of breath, Rachael didn’t remark on Flora’s startled expression but wiggled in beside her on the bench. She caught the tavern maid’s attention as she set her basket of greens at her feet.
She smiled at Flora and the pox-marred man across the table. After waiting a respectful amount of time for an introduction and receiving none, she said to the man, “I am Madame Silverstein, and you be...?”
“Richard of Oban.”
“‘Tis a pleasure to make yer acquaintance.” The tavern lass appeared at her elbow. She ordered a tankard of ale and wondered why the man neglected to mention a surname. She dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with her handkerchief. “Flora hasna mentioned that she has been keeping company with a gentleman.” She elbowed her charge playfully. “Naughty girl.” To the man she asked, “So how did ye come to court our full fair and fetish friend?”
He turned scarlet at Rachael’s question and well he should, she thought. From the sour odor wafting across the table, Rachael could only deduce he’d not bathed since her son, Jacob, had been born. Too, half the man’s teeth had hied off with most of his auburn hair, no doubt in an effort to escape the stench she now labored under. What remained had a decidedly yellow cast.
“I met Mistress Campbell...” He blinked and brought his tankard to his lips, apparently seeking the answer to her question on the pewter bottom.
“If ye must know,” Flora interjected, not quite masking her annoyance, “I commissioned Richard to make our liege and lady a marriage gift.”
“Ah.” Rachael waited expectantly. When nothing materialized she asked, “May I see it?”
Flora heaved a resigned sigh as she delved into her pocket and pulled out a fist-sized packet. “‘Tis a small token.” She uncovered a brass enseignes—-broach—with two doves carved into it.
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��‘Tis lovely! What fine craftsmanship.”
Thank heaven, Flora thought. She’d purchased the piece from a peddler only a week ago in the event she got caught with the odious man across from her. She had no choice but to come today. Had she missed this rendezvous with the Bruce’s man, she would have been forced to wait almost a fortnight before she could pass along her information, and then ‘twould be too late. The tournament was set for the next full moon.
She had hoped to get through all this intrigue and keep the broach for herself, but better to lose a pretty than to lose her life. “Thank you.”
She did have exquisite taste.
“Our lord and lady will be verra pleased.” Rachael said as she turned the piece in her hand then smiled at the man. “‘Tis truly fine. Yer talent is such, ye should be abiding in a major city, not hiding here where only a few can appreciate ye labors.”
When Richard blushed and remained mute, Flora mumbled, “He does travel extensively to sell his wares.”
“Ah.” Rachael handed back the broach. “Have ye been to Edinburgh, sir?”
Looking uncomfortable, Flora’s hapless partner mumbled, “Aye.”
“Ye made him shy with ye teasing, Rachael.” Not kenning if he’d been to the capital or not she said, “Richard was just telling me how difficult ‘tis getting his cart up the steep ways of Edinburgh.” When he remained mute, she kicked him under the table and ground out, “Is not that so, sir?”
“Oh, aye,” Richard agreed. “‘Tis verra steep the streets. The castle sits upon a mountain, ye ken? And the high street runs from the gates to the valley below.”
When Rachael asked, “Has the great tower started by King David been completed yet?” Flora nearly choked on her brew. Why on earth had she foolishly encouraged talk of Edinburgh? Arriving in Scotland, Edinburgh was the first place the Silversteins had sought refuge, only to discover the city filthy and full of pestilence.
Flora glared at the Bruce’s man. He had the plan to bring her brother-by-marriage to his bloody knees, so why in hell was he still sitting here tolerating Rachael’s inquisition? She kicked out again to gain his attention.
