Rowen tucked the fur tighter about her shoulders. Her delicate, white hand was stark in the night. Something to grasp when there was nothing else about.
“Speak your mind.”
Rowen flicked her head, sending her pale gold hair away from her face. “I do not like him.”
“Fitting, since he does not like you,” Lachlan said without humor.
“He accuses me of being a fairy. You think it nothing, but I know otherwise. People believe, and that can be used against you, especially with Jonty.”
“I do not take that accusation so lightheartedly. Tell me your reasoning for your dislike.”
“He relishes his power, and I swear he thinks he has an ownership or right to you. As of now, he stands with you, but I do not know whether he will stand with you when all are against you.”
“I know he has no love or loyalty to Jonty.”
“Why do you not ask him to tell you all?”
Lachlan rubbed the back of his neck. He felt icy fingers graze across his skin. The same cold had never dissipated since Semias entered Castle MacLean.
Rowen turned to him. She caught his eye. She said his name, but the wind snatched its plaintive tone away.
He swallowed. “I don’t think I want to know.”
She rested her hand on his forearm. “Your wants do not matter. You are laird. That is the reason you must forget your promise to my son. Send for my brother.”
He brushed his thumb across her cheek. Her inhale hung on her lips.There was much he wanted to say but found that the words failed to form. He kissed her. Her lips were stiff beneath his own. He held her. Slowly, she softened. The tart wine flavor hung on her lips.
He ought to release her, send her to MacKenzie and far from him. With Rowen inside these castle walls, he knew the danger it posed to the clan and him. She was kissing him back and he ceased thinking. His hold lessened, becoming more an embrace of sorts. She placed her hand flat against the center of his chest. To push him away or for support? Her mouth parted on a sighing breath. The sweet exhalation swept across his chin. He kissed her thoroughly.
The wind rushed around them. She tucked her luscious body to his. Her lengthy strands curled about them, tying them together. The smacking sound of their lips urged him on. He traced the elegant arch of her back. He cupped her apple shaped arse. Her groan rumbled through him. She snaked her arms around his neck. Her fingers brushed the tender skin of his nape. He felt his muscles roll from her touch. Rowen, only Rowen, had the ability to ease away his worries.
He hadn’t realized how much he hungered to taste her, to have her in his arms. He was laird and there was no reason to stop. But for the people who followed him, he couldn’t. His desire overwhelmed his reasoning.
Rain slashed against him and cooled his desire. He broke the kiss off. Her lips trembled from her shortened breath. She leaned her forehead against his chest. She had to hear the galloping of his heart that wasn’t slowing. He rested his cheek against the top of her head. He brushed his face back and forth. Her hair snagged on his stubble.
Rowen drew away from his embrace. Half her face fell into shadow, hiding part of her loveliness. Much like her face, he knew she had secrets. He’d let her keep them for now. Around him, he heard the stomping of men’s feet, trying to return sensation to their toes as well the rumbling buzz of complaints. The fervid haze of her eyes cleared and the aquamarine hue cooled. She raced away. The hem of her leine fluttered about her rapid steps. He went after her, then halted halfway to the stairs.
A southern wall guard passed by him. He listened to the guard’s footsteps fade away. Lachlan set off to his chamber.
He entered his chamber to find Semias standing in the center.
“My laird, I must advise you not to fall under her spell. The Murrays—”
“Her spell? Odd choice of words. You are so concerned for me, and it cannot be because you took a boy to his new home.”
“You are laird and I must help—”
“There is more than just my position. You would not be so assisting to Jonty. Tell me now.”
Semias lowered his head. He seemed to weighing whether to tell him or not. He straightened. “’Tis an embarrassing tale. I knew your mother before and after your birth. She was more than a beauty. I had never met a woman like her. I loved her, even offered to marry her after your arrival and claim you as my own. She denied my request. My love never died. To honor it, I have given it to you.”
“Love has a way of cooling when the object of such emotion is absent.”
Semias gave no reaction. He offered no defense of his emotion. “I pulled your limp body from the water. I slammed my hand across your back until water and vomit came from your mouth.”
The blow of his confession numbed Lachlan. He scraped his hand down his face. His hand shook. He curled his fingers tight into his palm. He hadn’t known someone saved him. When he gathered himself, he crossed to the stand. He poured water into the basin. He stared at it swirl around the bowl. The water had weighed down on him as he fought to grab hold of his mother’s hand so bright above him. She pushed back. His chest burned and against his every desire, he took in a breath. The water had been cold, but still felt like flames through his chest. His mouth opened again and only let more water in. Blackness surrounded him and tightened around him. He struggled harder. His body did not listen to him. His limbs grew heavy, weighing him down. The black consumed him. Then he was on his back and the sky was above him. His mother’s weeping mixed with his hitched, coughing cries.
Lachlan pushed away from the basin. He couldn’t catch his breath. His chest burned along with his throat. The blackness returned. He shook it off.
“You must understand, Laird. She was a desperate woman living in a station she had not been reared to. She was a lady.”
“Do not feel you must soothe me with what you think are her reasons.”
Semias shifted from foot to foot as he was unsure what to do with his hands. He crossed them over his wide chest, then hung them at his side, and then put them behind him. “My laird, there is something I must ask you.”
Lachlan gave a wave of his hand for Semias to speak.
“I knew you as a wee lad. I remember your appearance, your gestures…I can still see the boy you were and I see it again in her boy. Is there a chance that bairn is yours?”
Lachlan spun toward him. “He is not mine.”
“Lachlan, he does not share her coloring or that of Eacharn Murray.”
“Her brother Magnus has dark coloring, or perhaps Eacharn and her coloring blended together to create the boy you see before you. Besides, they were wed when she birthed the boy.”
“’Tis just that she continued the Murray line most expediently,” Semias said.
“God does bestow children upon brides on their wedding nights.”
“Through my years, I have learned God bestows bairns before the wedding night.”
“Be at ease, Semias. That boy is a Murray.”
Semias hesitated. “Aye.”
Lachlan gave him his back and splashed water upon his face. The lad could be his. A bastard…he could not do that to a child. For himself he must know. Rowen would not leave until he learned all.
Chapter Nine
For the next fortnight, Lachlan watched Kenny. He watched him eat, watched scratch his nose even watched him stand. Was Semias right? The boy was left handed as himself. The auld Laird MacLean wouldn’t allow priests or tutors to force him to use his right one. The old priest had told the laird that the left hand was the hand of the devil. The laird responded with, “Good. I want devils fighting for the clan.”
Rowen hadn’t changed it either, then again he had not started writing and there was still a chance. A hand did not proclaim his parentage. Lachlan’s own father was right handed. He ought to demand the truth from Rowen.
Not that the truth would change anything for him. For Rowen and Kenny…she would be a whore and him a bastard. He couldn’t allow that to happe
n. Kenny galloped around the hall on his riding stick horse. Lachlan had gifted him with it some days ago and he wouldn’t let the thing go, thanks to the honey on his hands.
The rest of Semias’ confession popped into his thoughts. The man loved his mother and put that love on Lachlan. He had saved his life. The bastard boy was valued by someone. There were some secrets Lachlan wished to unlearn. Whatever happened, Lachlan couldn’t return to the person he was.
Ianatan rushed in. “Laird, tracks have been found. ’Tis Jonty and his men. Ye can see the smithy’s mark.”
Lachlan leaped to his feet and crossed into the courtyard, ordering his horse. Minutes later, he was in the saddle, Ianatan leading him to the trail. This was where he showed his skill. His sword was at his side, a comforting weight.
Buttery sunlight cut through the forest to skip over the ground in a dapple pattern. Light glittered off the Scots pine branches. Its pine needles littered the melting snow. The birch tree trunks gleamed brightly like a polished sword. Its trunks were marked with moss that seemed to be seeing all that happened within its sight. Lachlan wished the damn things spoke and could tell him. The trail was muddy and each step of his horse, he heard the pop of its hooves pulling free from its sucking grasp.
“There, Laird.”
Lachlan looked down at the horse’s hooves. He followed the trail. Other tracks covered some, overlapped it in certain places, but each one headed in the same direction. It led away from the clachan. A horse could easily fit between the bare broadleaf trees to reach this trail.
“They are heading deeper into the forest.”
“There’s been a sheiling on Broickhollis. A good place for shelter.” Ianatan raised his gaze in the direction of the hill as if he could see the sheiling. The building was used during the summer when the men drove their cattle upward and where the men and their families spent the season until it was time to return with their beasts to the clachan.
Lachlan rose to his feet. A red grouse flew into the sky, coming from the burn he heard in the distance.
“My laird, should we na go an see?” Ianatan balanced on his toes ready to leap on his horse.
“Nay, it could be someone hunting, but this will lead us to them or their hiding place.” Lachlan climbed on Wulver.
“Do ye ken, Laird, that when the coos feed there they give a braw yield of butter?” Ianatan drew up beside Lachlan.
“Before we butter our bread, let’s deal with this threat.”
Snow swirled around the hilltop, thickening the gray mist sloping along the side. The tracks ceased, having been obscured by circling wind and the snow it deposited from its whirl.
“Where is this sheiling?”
“This way, Laird. Tamhas comes up here to feed his herd along with his father. I spent time here. The land is boggy and stones jut out from the ground. From here, ye have good sights.”
“And far away from people’s curious gaze,” Lachlan added.
They rode in silence. Each man was alert for any sound that had no place, waiting for their horses to pick up a scent that did not belong. This had to end, Lachlan knew, he was ready to ride off and hunt them down. Rowen and Kenny’s presence stopped him.
“There it is.”
With one glance, Lachlan knew the structure stood empty…for now. He went for an inspection. The lingering smell of peat smoke was the first sign of their presence. Flung about the square structure were the meatless carcasses of animals. In the corner was a half empty bag. He opened it. Cheese, stale bread, and a horn nearly empty were wrapped in the cloth.
He almost took their meager supplies, forcing them to depart the safety of this place in search of food. Instead, he decided to let them relish their false sense of security. Let them think that Lachlan had no knowledge of their whereabouts.
“Cover our tracks and all sign of our presence. Ianatan, I wish this place guarded and every move reported to me. And if one person speaks of this to anyone but me, I will have his head on the castle walls.”
* * * *
Rowen smoothed down her leine. Why had she made this one? The green hue made the blue tint of her ghostly skin appear bluer. She picked up her red arasaid and then threw it aside. She looked like a tree with its berries hanging plump and juicy. The saffron one would not do. She settled on the blue one. Maybe it would lessen her blue skin.
“Come here, Kenny.”
He ran to her, slamming into her legs. “Behave yourself for Ceit. I will return later.” She kissed him. Her lips pressed into his plump cheek.
Kenny hurried back to play with the maid and forgot all about her. She ambled her way into the great hall. A small crowd had gathered to hear the bard play the clarsach. Their conversations overlapped and sounded more like a beehive busy making honey. In a wave the talk ceased as their judgmental regard fixed upon her. Behind her, the hum of hushed and hurried talk spread. She couldn’t make out words, and then she heard it. Banshee.
Lachlan rose from his seat at the front and took her hand. She pulled it free from his hold once she sat. Though her station required her to sit here, she knew that it pronounced her standing with their laird.
The harper sat upon the dais, the hearth flames aglow behind him. The beautiful, carved clarsach gleamed under the candlelight, and the gold and silver openwork of unicorns and Celtic knots shined. Rubies, pearls, and amber filled the knots’ centers.
Lachlan spoke her name. She flinched. He held out a filigreed cup to her. She smelled the wine.
“Take a slow taste. It will give you something to do and calm you as well.”
She did as he said. It helped so she took another one. “Do you know the trouble you are causing?”
Lachlan leaned toward her ear. He raised his hand to his mouth and said, “I do not act without being fully aware of the reaction.”
“They are calling me a banshee.”
“Not the first time you have been called such.”
“Nay, but if the man murdered your father for being under the spell of a fairy, what do you think may happen to you?”
“Mayhap, the sinner will act.”
“That is what you truly desire? Such action can work against you. More men may join Jonty.”
“It was not one of the followers. The person who killed him must have been someone he trusted enough to guard his back.”
“You wished for them to speak such things. You are endangering me and my son.” Her voice quivered.
“Rowen, I will protect you with my body. You are more than my heart. You are part of me…the only part that is worth anything.”
The harper plucked at the silver wire and Lachlan turned away. The man knew how to pluck her strings. Her hand shook, sending drops of wine on her leine. The liquid spread through the weave. He had done it again. A torrid of reactions racked her—her pulse raced—a delicious heat spread through her—she tingled.
She had felt this way countless times before. When he first proclaimed his love for her, she had been spinning in the hall when he came up to her and whispered those words in her ear. His breath was hot against her skin and tickled her ear. She shook in both pleasure and reaction.
She had peered over her shoulder to see him, strolling out of the hall. She had watched until the sunlight swallowed him.
“I will not ask if you feel the same. When and if you want to speak of your feelings toward me, I will listen.”
Lachlan returned to listening to the bard as he launched into another ballad. Upon her marriage, she buried her love for him. Here with him, there was no reason not to profess her love for him. Except for her fear.
A commotion stirred at the rear of the hall. Artur rushed to Lachlan’s side.
“Laird, Jonty and his men are in the clachan. The horses are being readied.”
Lachlan jumped from his chair. He stormed into his chamber and returned with his sword at his side.
Once the door shut, the guests rose and began to mill out. Servants departed. Their heads bent together in whisper
ing. She bade those near her a good night and safe journey to their cottars. The bard climbed from the dais.
“Semias, have you ordered more men on the walls and shut the castle gates? You may have a few more men ready to ride out if necessary.”
His thin mouth flattened and arched downward at the corners. “I am aware of my duties. You are not the lairdess and have no right to give me orders.”
“Not yet.”
Semias stormed off, leaving her alone in the hall. That was the most emotion she had glimpsed in the man.
“I am still lairdess.”
Rowen spun around toward the cordial voice. The lairdess, as she liked, ambled toward Rowen. She behaved as if they had gathered about the hearth for an amicable talk. Age had not wasted away her beauty.
“God has blessed me, sending ye here. Oh, I ken who ye are.” Her right brow arched up. “That bastard willna be laird.”
“Then you should not have killed the old one.”
She grinned, a sinister edge to it. “He deserved to die and be sent into hell. If that bastard exacted justice, that bitch would be dead.”
“For a charge she is guiltless in.”
“She is guilty of other sins, so all is balanced like humors. ’Tis important to keep that balanced.”
“Are your own humors needing balance?”
Her eyes became mere gray slits and emphasized her swollen under-eyes. “All is well. I have been blessed with a fortified constitution. Ye ken he will bring women to his bed without a care for your desires or hurts.” Her strong voice faded to a whisper.
“Why are you here?”
“I have my reasons. I wanna thank ye for helping rid us Gordons of that one.” She spat on the floor.
“How have I helped?”
Highland Scandal Page 14
