At first, Mad Malcolm brandished a wicked-looking walking stick at any who approached his chair, but Colin kept his leather horn filled with whisky, and eventually the old laird was seen tapping on the flagstones, keeping time with the music.
Occasionally tempers flared over possession of a castle wench or a Gypsy girl, but the high spirits of the men prevented the scuffles from degenerating into full-scale brawls. Gavin Douglas couldn’t keep his eyes off a beautiful young Gypsy until he noticed with annoyance that Jenna was flirting outrageously with an extremely well-favored Gypsy male. When the knife-throwing contest began, she urged the Gypsy to show off his skills and tossed her tawny head when she saw Gavin was watching her. The men of Douglas and their moss-troopers were trained in the expert use of many different weapons from swords and dirks, bills and spears, to hagbuts and longbows. The Gypsies, however, used only knives and were highly profficient, so there was no shortage of contestants who lined up to pit their skills against the Gypsies.
Not a single contestant from either side missed the target, and there were quite a few men of Douglas who had no trouble hitting the bull’s eye with the same regularity as the Gypsy men. But when the ringed target was removed and replaced by one with small red stars forming intricate patterns, the ranks soon thinned.
Heath had a matching set of eight balanced silver knives that he used on these festive occasions when they earned money entertaining the nobility. Gavin Douglas was determined to match the Gypsy’s skills and gathered knives from the moss-troopers. Because he had to prove himself to both the beautiful young Gypsy girl and to Jenna, his performance matched Heath’s, and he hit every single red star. He was gratified by the deafening cheers of the men, who all seemed to be pulling for him.
Heath flashed his white teeth in a good-natured grin and held out his hand to the audience. The beautiful young Gypsy girl stepped forward without hesitation, and Heath positioned her before the target, her head high, her arms and legs spread wide. It was an act the couple had performed many times.
Every breath was caught and held as Heath took the first dagger blade in his hand, pointed the hilt toward the unflinching girl, and let it fly through the air. It thunked into the wooden target three inches from her left ear. The crowd gasped as another knife found its mark three inches from her right ear. The next two knifeblades struck the target between the spread fingers of her small brown hands, and the crowd broke into applause. The knives that struck either side of her waist were an inch closer to her body than the others had been, and the crowd roared its approval. The seventh dagger entered between her legs, pinning the scarlet material of her skirt to the target. The knife’s haft protruded from between the girl’s legs like a suggestive phallic symbol, and every male watching achieved an erection. The climax of the performance followed quickly. As Heath’s final knife left his fingers, his beautiful target bent double from the waist and the wide eyes of the audience saw that the last dagger had entered the target exactly where her heart had been.
Tension filled the air as all eyes swung to Gavin Douglas, but before he could take up the challenge, the beautiful young Gypsy girl held up her hands, laughing prettily, but refusing to be the target for the handsome young Scot. Gavin grinned good-naturedly, extremely relieved that the challenge was over. Jenna touched his shoulder. “I’ll be your target, Gavin,” she offered bravely.
He looked down into her clear green eyes and wondered what in the name of God he’d found attractive about the young Gypsy girl. “Sweetheart, I canna let ye do that, but I’ve other weapons I wouldna mind testing.” As Gavin slipped his arm about Jenna, he cast Heath a look of triumph, feeling he had definitely taken the prize even though he’d lost the contest.
Ramsay Douglas stepped forward to take up the challenge. His pewter eyes glittered coldly as they fixed upon Heath’s darkly handsome face. “I’ll use your knives since they’re perfectly balanced,” his deep voice said decisively.
Heath’s warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he accepted the challenge. He gestured toward the fine silver-handled weapons. “Be my guest, if you can find anyone brave enough to be your human target.”
“There’s someone here with enough courage,” Ram said calmly.
“Who?” Heath asked with a smile, as no one stepped forward. “You,” Ram said simply.
The smile left Heath’s face as the men took each other’s measure like two dogs with their hackles raised. Heath was aware of Black Ram Douglas’s other nickname, Hotspur, that sprang from his volatile temper and low boiling point. In these parts he enjoyed a larger-than-life reputation for breaking women’s hearts and men’s jaws, but Heath looked beneath the surface, realizing this man was intense, complex, and intelligent as well as strong and poised for an eruption. Apart from this, there was an unknown quality about him. Gypsies were hot-blooded and admitted it freely; Heath wondered if Ram Douglas was the same, or if he was cold-blooded. He was about to find out.
With a nonchalant bravado he did not quite feel, he handed over the knives and stepped in front of the wooden target. Douglas picked up the first knife and fixed the Gypsy with a piercing look. The weapon was an age in coming, and Heath realized it would be a battle of nerves. Douglas was testing him to try to learn his breaking point. Heath was puzzled. He knew this level of rivalry between two men was only ever about a woman, yet he was almost sure that woman was not Zara. Douglas had too fine an intelligence and was too blood-proud to be jealous of a Gypsy harlot.
Heath did not flinch as the first two knives thunked into the wood beside his ears; he knew Douglas had enough confidence in his own ability to stretch the game to its limits. Heath realized it would be the last two daggers he must worry about, but he was relieved to find he still had all his fingers after the second pair was thrown.
The third set of daggers came so close to his body, they nicked his shirt at the beltline. It was a clear reminder that Douglas had him at his mercy. Heath’s mouth went dry as he thought about the next knife. This hostility between them was definitely a cock-and-balls thing. Heath prayed that Ram Douglas’s pride was stronger than his acrimony. How easy it would be to emasculate him, then claim it was accidental—but then, all would think his prowess with a knife somewhat inferior.
Heath wanted to flash him an insolent devil-may-care sneer, but his lips seemed to stick to his teeth. It was Ram’s mouth that curved into a wolf’s grin as the dagger left his fingers and embedded itself snugly against Heath’s balls, bruising them deliberately.
So far, Douglas had won and both men knew it. But they were more alike than either knew. Built into both were seeds of self-destruction. The whole point of the challenge came down to the last knife, yet the conclusion was far from inevitable At that moment it was as if they stood alone—no other beings existed in the entire universe. Each man had a decision he must make regarding his enemy.
Heath asked himself if Ram would aim for the heart or throw the knife above his head. Ram asked himself if the Gypsy would drop the top half of his body or defy him by remaining erect.
Their eyes locked together for endless minutes as each man made his fatal choice. Heath found suddenly that he could smile As he did so, his head lifted with pride. At the last split second the Black Ram knew the Gypsy would not move a muscle. The dagger parted the Gypsy’s hair, cutting off a lock and pinning it to the wood behind him.
A great roar of approval went up from the clan and the moss-troopers, showing that they believed Douglas the clear victor. But Ram and the Gypsy male knew otherwise. Both knew who had given way at the last moment. And yet it was a moral victory for Ram Douglas. He alone knew he had not given in to the bloodlust that would have branded him a coward in his own eyes.
As the night progressed, the noise level increased. The music came louder and faster. The shrieking laughter, stamping feet, and barking dogs made it necessary to shout every word. The amount of food and drink consumed would have fed an army for a week, and the entire castle rang with the unrestrained
mirth of men and women who knew how to abandon themselves to the moment.
The spirit of Damaris was extremely restless. At first she kept to her chamber, but the laughter and the Gypsy music finally lured her to the hall. As she surveyed the celebration, she reflected how shocked she would have been at such abandoned behavior when she first came to Douglas, but after roaming the castle for fifteen years, she understood and accepted that they had a hungry zest for life. She sighed. ‘Twas what had attracted her to Alexander in the first place. Ramsay had a love for music and a passion for heroic literature that he kept hidden. He was so like her dead husband, it frightened her. They were both so dour, grave and curt on the surface, but underneath they loved colorful spectacle and had a distinct flair for extremes. She watched one or two Gypsy women laying out tarot cards and listened as they told fortunes. Damaris smiled sadly. All that the young girls seemed interested in was snaring a man. Had she been like that? Once she had laid eyes on Alex Douglas, she admitted, he was all she had ever thought about. She had grown up amongst a clan of redheads and garnered a lot of attention because she had silken blond hair and not a freckle in sight. Alexander Douglas had been the darkest man she’d ever seen. So dark, it gave her shivers just picturing him. He had seemed just as wildly attracted to her paleness. How ridiculous to choose a lifetime mate on the basis of coloring! And yet when you thought about it, vivid coloring was what made certain individuals stand out from the crowd. It was the first thing you noticed about them. There were millions of ordinary drab people, and then nature would produce someone so darkly beautiful, they looked sinful. Someone with the opposite coloring like herself, with milk-white skin and silvery-gilt hair, looked pure and angelic. Then there were vivid creatures like her niece Valentina, with startling golden eyes and a mass of molten, flaming hair at which a man wanted to warm his hands. She and Alexander had been fatally attracted, and the day Tina came to Douglas, she had feared the same thing would happen between her and Ram. Fortunately, sparks of hatred had been kindled, so she need never worry on that score.
The specter of Alexander watched her from the shadows of a deep window embrasure. How ethereal she looked! His heart ached with longing as he remembered the first night they had shared a bed. Her limbs, so exquisitely pale, contrasted shockingly against his swarthy black-haired legs and chest. It had seemed a desecration to join their bodies, to mate, almost like a devil ravishing an angel, and yet their wild attraction for each other had aroused them to such need, such peaks of desire, he knew he must wed her so they could share a bed every night for the rest of their lives.
Alexander could not help himself. He drew near to his love. “Damaris,” he breathed.
Her apparition began to fade, then was gone.
“Damaris!” he called urgently, but he knew it was quite pointless. She would never acknowledge his presence.
Old Meg the Gypsy, however, said, “Who is there? What do you want?”
“I’m Alexander Douglas! Can ye see me? Can ye hear me?” he demanded.
The old woman stood up and put out a gnarled hand, feeling the texture of the air about her.
“Ye canna see or hear me, but ye can sense me, can’t you? God, if only I could communicate with ye. Damaris is ma wife. I didna kill her! Come with me—I’ll show ye her portrait.”
Old Meg’s eyes swept around the hall searching for something. She did not quite know what she sought. She closed her eyes and let her other senses, including her sixth sense, have full rein. She circled the hall slowly, her shrewd eyes missing very little. She paused beside Mad Malcolm. He brandished his stick. “Filthy Gypsy—away wi’ ye!”
Old Meg recoiled, not at his words but at the evil she felt surrounding him. Something from the long-dead past stirred in her memory. She’d had an unwitting hand in a poisoning here at Douglas. At the time she had put it from her mind—she had no reason to waste her pity on a Kennedy. She had a nodding acquaintance with evil. She’d been exchanging poison for obscene amounts of silver for years. She lived by the Gypsy code of “no guilt.”
Colin Douglas refilled Malcolm’s drinking horn and cast Meg a helpless apologetic look, then he tapped his fingers to his temple in the age-old sign that conveyed madness. Meg stalked off. She was in a mood to prowl about a bit. Alexander stood at her shoulder at the bottom of the staircase. He tried to “will” her up the steps but learned that her willpower was every bit as strong as his own. Discouraged, he withdrew up the staircase. Old Meg followed
Alexander halted outside his wife’s chamber. Ever since his death, he had never entered, never violated her sanctuary. Meg, it seemed, had no such scruples. Her gnarled hand turned the doorknob, and she went inside and stood transfixed before the painting of Damaris.
Alexander said, “The portrait-limner did a credible job, but she was beautiful on the inside as well.”
“Get out!”
Alexander whirled about, joy radiating from him like the rays of the sun. “Damaris—ye can see me. Fifteen years ye’ve looked through me, but I never gave up!”
“Fifteen years should have conveyed how I feel, you pigheaded spawn of the Devil!”
His eyes shone with happiness. “Yer angry wi’ me.”
“Angry? There’s the understatement of the century! I hate you, I loathe you, I detest you, I abhor you!”
“I love ye, Damaris,” he declared.
“I curse you!” she vowed, then vanished.
Old Meg reached up her fingers to touch the girl in the portrait. She could feel the very air in this chamber was charged with emotions, all conflicting. The memory came back clearly now. So this was the Kennedy girl who had wed a Douglas—an explosive, deadly combination. Both clans were insufferably blood-proud.
“Don’t touch that portrait, or all hell will break loose,” ordered a deep voice of authority.
Old Meg turned to see an angry Ram Douglas. Zara hovered in the corridor, assuming Meg had been caught stealing.
“A double murder will leave its imprint until justice prevails,” Meg said.
“‘Twas a murder-suicide. They got justice. The bitch was unfaithful. Alex Douglas killed himself before the Kennedys could get their vengeful hands on him. Get downstairs before I hang ye fer theft.”
Her lip curled with contempt. As if it were yesterday, she recalled selling the poison to this man who stood before her so arrogantly. He had been a wild and willful youth of only about sixteen, but shortly thereafter Lord Alexander Douglas lay dead and the Black Ram was the new lord and master. “Have a care for yourself, Ramsay Douglas. Visitants from the other side have such power, they could strike you down for the lies you perpetrate.”
Ram laughed derisively. “Go on, call up the dead—command them to materialize. Yer supernatural powers underwhelm me, old woman!”
“I claim no supernatural power, but I do have the second sight.” Her eyes flickered beyond the door toward Zara. “Debauch yourself while there’s darkness left. ‘Tis the last time you’ll be permitted to waste your seed.”
Her implication was marriage or death, and he wasn’t sure he didn’t prefer the latter “If yer hinting at my being leg shackled, yer second sight is playing tricks on ye, old woman. ‘Tis yer own shackles ye can see when I lock ye up. Begone from this place, while ye’ve breath left in yer body.”
Meg’s eyelids covered the windows of her soul. It was not politic to threaten this man. He would not cavil at one more murder.
Chapter 10
Ram Douglas could not close his eyes even long after he’d sated himself. Zara slept beside him, curled into a ball like a sleek cat replete with a fortnight’s ration of cream inside her. He smiled grimly into the darkness. The mere hint of a suggestion of marriage had robbed him of sleep. Deny it as much as he liked, the truth was he was a coward with no guts for marriage.
Wedding bells were the death knell for love Love was a myth in itself, perpetrated by females and poets. He’d never seen a happy union in his life. Lord Alexander Douglas and Lady Damaris
Kennedy had had everything going for them. Their union had joined two of Scotland’s greatest clans. Not only that, but both of their great-grandfathers had married daughters of King Robert III, so their marriage linked them with the royal house. How long had it lasted—twelve days? A fortnight?
His mind strayed to his mother and father. There was a union made in hell They’d lived at the top of their lungs, not caring if the whole world knew of their savage exchanges How many nights had he comforted Gavin and Cameron as they crawled into his bed shaking? His mother was a Ramsay, giving as good as she got Threats, fights, recriminations, betrayals, beatings. He had been ten when she left. She’d taught him the hypocrisy of the sanctity of marriage.
His relentless mind moved on. The biggest sham in Scotland was their king’s marriage. James IV had a weakness for women, and Scotland thanked God for it. His father had been a raving homosexual who had failed to keep his minions in his bedchamber but allowed them in the council chamber. His ruling chiefs could not stomach such a thing; sodomy was not a Scots vice. Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, had led the men who had dragged the king’s catamites out and hanged them. Ram’s thoughts shied away from examining his uncle too closely and returned to the king’s marriage. James had avoided the matrimonial trap until he was thirty, then for the weal of the realm and to beget heirs, he’d been persuaded to wed fourteen-year-old Margaret Tudor, Princess of England.
Their marriage was a nightmare. The princess had a flat, pudgy face like a lump of dough and a stodgy body to match, yet she was highly sexed. James himself had once confided to Ram that he feared impotence when he had to bed her. Though they’d now been wed over eight years, every pregnancy had ended in a dead child. The queen had just produced another puny bairn, so there still might be no heirs to the throne. Even a sanctified marriage was no guarantee of heirs. Marriage in fact was a guarantee of naught save misery!
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