If only she could be pleased with her marriage, too.
But, alas, whilst she could work fair magic with plants, turning a long-neglected plot of rock-strewn earth and overgrown herbage into a wondrous physic garden of which even the gifted monk, Brother Baldric, would be proud, her special talent for nurturing living things seemed to have no effect whatsoever upon her husband.
She took a deep, cleansing breath but barely had time to expel it before she heard a rustling movement in a dark corner of the garden.
“Who goes there?” she called, turning toward the sound.
“’Tis only me.” Her husband stepped out from the shadows, and Linnet’s heart leapt at the sight of him. His tall warrior’s body, resplendent in his gleaming black hauberk, seemed almost overpoweringly masculine in the morning peace of the small garden. “I came to bid you farewell,” he said.
“Farewell?” Linnet took a step forward. “You said naught about going away when we awoke this morn. What is amiss?”
He strode toward her, his plaid slung boldly over his left shoulder and not one but two long-bladed knives thrust beneath his low-slung belt. A telling precaution that matched the grim set of his jaw. His deep blue eyes had darkened to a shade very close to the steel mesh of his mail shirt and appeared equally cold.
Very much aware of the coiled power and strength he held so masterfully in check, and the anger simmering below the surface of his tightly controlled demeanor, Linnet waited until he reached her before she voiced her suspicion. “Is it Kenneth?”
As if unconsciously, Duncan’s hand strayed to the hilt of the broadsword hanging from his sword belt. “Aye, it would seem so. I’ve received word from my friend and ally, John MacLeod, that Kenneth has been harrying the kinsmen who dwell on the outmost fringes of MacKenzie land. The MacLeod is a good man and would not spread false rumors. He would not have sent warning if the danger was not earnest. I shall leave with a patrol anon.”
Linnet swallowed her ill ease at his confirmation of what she’d feared and simply nodded. He needn’t carry her worry with him when he rode through the castle gates. Keeping her tone as unruffled-sounding as she could manage, she said, “May God go with you, milord.”
A flare of something indefinable sparked in his eyes, and he touched her face, letting the backs of his fingers glide down the curve of her cheek. “’Twould please me more if He remained here to watch over you.”
A tingling shiver of pleasure rippled through her at his unexpected gentleness, but the gravity of his journey didn’t allow her the luxury of considering the implications of the simple but tender gesture. Instead, she lifted the hem of her kirtle to display the sharp knife Dundonnell’s smithy had given her. As she usually preferred, she wore it tucked jauntily into the top of her boot.
She lifted her chin and met his gaze full on. “I am not afeared of your half brother,” she declared, letting her skirt drop back into place. “Nor will I hesitate to use my blade if need be.”
He grasped her upper arms and squeezed, his fingers like bands of iron, firm and strong, yet incredibly comforting, his warmth easily reaching through her sleeves and chasing away the chill that had begun to curl around her at the mention of Kenneth.
“May the saints hinder you’ll ever come that close to the bastard again,” he vowed.
“’Tis a fine shot I am with a crossbow as well,” she said, inwardly alarmed by the tension thrumming through him. It sprang from his hands and entered her blood, a living, crackling sensation as wild and furious as the heavens gripped in the talons of a fierce summer storm.
Deliberately keeping her voice light in the hope she could dispel, at least, his concern for her, she boasted, “Not one of my brothers can best me.”
“Truth tell?” Her bravura was rewarded by a flash of amusement in his eyes and the upward turn of the corner of his lips. Not quite a smile and so fleeting she may have imagined it, but for the brief instant the almost-smile had touched his handsome face, the power of it had flared so bright it fair blinded her.
And certainly set her needy heart to thumping.
“I swear it on my mother’s grave,” she said, emboldened by his not-quite-a-smile smile and hoping to assure him of the truth of her claims.
No sooner did the words leave her lips, did his expression grow stony again. Letting go of her, he said, “I dinna care if you can shoot the tail off the devil, you shall remain within these walls. I’ll not have you wandering about and inviting trouble. I’ve ordered a guard to stand watch at your door, and I deem it best I escort you there now.”
“Surely I am safe in the garden?”
Rather than answer her, Duncan remained silent, his lips thinning into a tight look of displeasure… or disapproval.
The same closed-face look she’d observed each time he’d caught her heading for the little herbarium. The last whirling eddies of pleasure his presence always seemed to set loose in her fizzled out, his dark mood vanquishing them as swiftly as two fingers can snuff out a smoldering candlewick.
“I like it here, sirrah,” she said, straightening her back and the set of her shoulders. “Tending the garden gives me purpose.” She gestured toward the neat rows of newly planted herbs. “I came to prepare an elixir for Sir Marmaduke. The ragwort poultices I’ve been giving him have worked so well, ’tis my hope an elixir will benefit him even more.” On impulse, she laid a hand on his arm. “Have you not noticed the change?”
A grudging smile slowly spread across his face, transforming it and stealing Linnet’s breath away. “Aye, I have, and if I hadn’t, the vain blackguard would have made certain I did notice.”
“Then you are pleased?”
He smoothed a stray lock of hair off her face, and let his fingers skim along the line of her neck. A tender, gentle touch, light as a breeze but mighty enough to curl Linnet’s toes and send a wash of pleasurable sensations spilling through her. “’Tis fine work you’ve done,” he said, his fingers toying with the hair at the nape of her neck. “The swelling around Marmaduke’s missing eye has all but receded, and I’m mightily impressed with your talent. Still, if you must work with herbs, I’d rather you collect them from the brothers at the abbey than grow them here.”
“But why?” Linnet glanced around the little garden. It was just beginning to look well tended… loved… again. “’Tis true the garden needs much care, but I do not mind. The work is a pleasure to me, a joy. Your mother—”
“Who spoke of my mother?” Duncan cut her off, his fingers stilling their pleasure-spending caress.
“No one, except, that is…” Linnet stammered, confused. “Fergus said she’d cared for the garden and I thought, since it’s gone so long untended, you’d appreciate—”
“It went untended on my orders.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand.”
“Nay, you do not and cannot.” Stepping away from her, Duncan strode to the gate, where he remained standing with his back to her, his hand resting on the rusty latch.
Linnet stiffened at the cold dismissal she read in his stance, but something about the way he lingered, hesitating as if waiting for her to come forward, made her go to him.
“I would like to understand, Duncan,” she said softly, unaccustomed to using his given name. But somehow it felt right on her tongue.
He rewarded her by resting his arm about her shoulders and drawing her near. Yet his touch felt awkward, stiff and wooden, as if holding her close made him uncomfortable. “You have naught to do but have a care when here. And I shall have your word you ken each and every plant… every seed… what grows here.”
She pulled back to look at him, surprised by the reproach in his voice. “Why, sir, I’ve been familiar with herbs since afore I could walk. I assure you there is not a single plant here what can be used for aught but good.”
“And so I wish it shall remain.”
“Do you worry I would cause someone ill?” A chill washed over her at the thought he could think so poorly of her. “Ne’
er would I—”
“It is not you I distrust,” he said, cupping her chin in his large hand. “’Tis only that unhappy memories linger here and spoil this place for me.” He paused as if weighing his words before he continued. “My mother and sister both died of tainted food. ’Twas believed the poison came from this garden.”
“Merciful saints!” Linnet’s hands flew to her cheeks. “’Twas surely an accident?”
Her husband waited a moment before he answered. “I canna say. Naught could be proven, for the person we suspected perished before any questions could be raised.”
“I did not know.” She paused to wet her lips. “If it pleases you, I shall abandon my work here.”
He hesitated, then smoothed his knuckles lightly over her cheek. “Nay. ’Tis perhaps time the garden once more enjoys the attention of a gentle lady.”
Linnet nodded, too moved by his unexpected tenderness to speak.
Without warning, he stepped closer and took her face between the palms of his hands. He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers in an achingly sweet kiss, its tenderness stealing Linnet’s breath away. Then, even as she melted against him, parting her lips to gladly accept a deeper, more urgent joining of their lips, he released her and was gone.
Linnet remained where she stood, her fingers pressed lightly to her still-tingling lips, until the sound of his receding footsteps was swallowed by the morning fog.
Shaken and awed by the force of passionate need his kiss had unleashed deep inside her, Linnet bent to pluck several fat snails from a newly cleared bed of mint and thyme. Mayhap her nightly efforts to breach the barriers he held against her were having effect?
She couldn’t deny the tenderness of his parting kiss nor the concern that had laced his words just now.
Did he suspect how she’d lain awake night after night, waiting for him to settle into a deep sleep? Had he unwittingly sensed her tracing the noble lines of his face with the backs of her fingers? Had he merely feigned sleep whilst she’d tenderly explored his hard-planed warrior’s body with her questing hands?
For only then, in the quietude of the dark, did she dare hope to gentle him with the tenderness of her touch.
To win his heart when he was unwary and perhaps too weary from the day’s toils to resist her affections.
Only then did she allow herself to dream.
Straightening, she wiped her hands on her apron. Faith, but she’d grown bold. Each night she’d become more daring, first stroking his hair, then moving on to the breadth of his shoulders, and finally caressing the rock-solid muscles of his arms.
Once, she’d even smoothed her fingertips down the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, stopping just short of the thick black hair that sheltered his manhood.
There, her fingers had hovered while tingles had raced up her arm, surging through her, alighting her senses, before pooling in the depths of her belly. The sensations had warmed her, urged her to explore that most masculine and mysterious part of him.
But she’d desisted, pulling back her hand as if she’d been scorched.
Too frightened of his possible reaction and too unsure of herself to risk discovery.
She winced at the very idea of his awakening to find her running her hands over him, exploring his body as if she were the lowest sort of village bawd. She couldn’t imagine his reaction, but knew he’d not appreciate her boldness. He’d made no secret of his desire to keep himself from her.
A great shudder passed through her at the tremendous chance she’d taken in daring to touch him thusly.
Yet he’d come to the garden to bid her farewell, shown her the kind of gentleness she wouldn’t have dreamed possible, voiced his desire to know her safe.
Had given her cause to hope.
Suddenly, a thick sheaf of hair slipped forward and fell across her eyes. With well-practiced ease, she tucked it in place and sighed.
If only she had more to commend her than her supposedly bonnie tresses!
Not that she considered her hair as lovely as some claimed.
Ne’er would it stay properly coifed, being far too weighty for the plaits Elspeth so painstakingly arranged each morn. The hour of terce was not yet upon them, and already Elspeth’s handiwork had come undone. Aye, her tresses were e’er difficult to tame. And its color was far too immodest a red, a shade better suited to a woman of lesser morals. Or as her da oft accused, a sorceress.
Had fate been kind, she would’ve been blessed with her sisters’ quiet beauty. Instead, she’d been born with a plain face and errant locks, lips much too full, and skin, whilst fair enough, marred by freckles inherited from her sire.
A drunken lout of a man who’d no doubt revel in the stinging humiliation she’d found by coming to care for a man who didn’t want her as a husband should. She craved more than tender kisses, she burned to experience true passion, a total abandonment to the fires her husband ignited inside her. Aye, her da would convulse with laughter if he could see her now, yearning for Duncan MacKenzie’s favor.
For despite his concern for her well-being, her husband’s only true interest in her was the answer to the question he posed her every morn… and every night.
But she’d remained silent, keeping her secret even as he fell into sullen silence over her apparent failure to see the truth he sought.
Yet with each rising sun, she awoke with new hope.
Hope for herself, and hope for Robbie.
But with the coming of the night, she went to bed knowing her attempts to please had been hopelessly ineffective regardless of what she did. Her efforts to make him want her and to acknowledge, unconditionally, his love for his son, remained sadly futile.
With a mumbled curse, full-bodied enough to have made her brothers proud, Linnet kicked a stone out of her way, then strode straight for the haven of the little stone workshop built against the garden’s seaward wall.
Here, and with the lad, Robbie, she found solace.
This morn, as on others, the burden of the great task she’d taken upon herself felt lighter the moment she stepped into the low-ceilinged workshop, with its bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters.
The many shelves crowded with bottles, jars, and earthenware pots, along with several worktables holding an assortment of pestles, mortars, and wooden bowls, the variety of which Linnet had never seen, gave her great comfort.
In a corner cupboard, she’d even found a precious set of metal scales, a collection of small wooden boxes ideal for storing her medicinal preparations once dried, and even several rolls of fairly clean linen for bandaging wounds if e’er she must.
Linnet took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the pungent air. Her heart warmed immediately. In the quiet of the dim workshop with its comforting scents of herbs and peat smoke, she’d found a sense of peace she’d not expected to find at Eilean Creag.
Even the earthy smell of the well-trodden dirt floor and the tang of briny sea air drifting in through the one tiny window calmed her and gave the workshop an indefinable air of sanctuary.
Taking an earthen jug from a high shelf, she poured a measure of ragwort elixir into a small flagon. She’d concocted the special unguent especially for Sir Marmaduke, taking great care with the selection of its ingredients. On impulse, she added a few drops of other herb essences to the ragwort in the hopes of bringing even more relief to the puckered and angry welts upon Marmaduke’s face.
Satisfied, she carefully sealed the flagon so not a drop of the precious elixir would be lost.
Tucking the flagon into a small purse tied to her apron, she turned and nearly stumbled over a large hound stretched upon the floor behind her. She smiled upon recognizing Mauger, the ancient mongrel wont to follow her stepson wherever he went.
But she’d heard neither of them enter. Nor did she see Robbie anywhere in the workshop. Puzzled, Linnet bent down to scratch the hound’s large head, scanning the shadows as she did so. “Robbie? Are you here, laddie? You’ve no need to hide from me.�
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Although he didn’t answer her, a slight rustling noise in the far corner revealed his hiding place. Robbie sat on the floor, beneath a table, his small form barely visible in the deep shadows.
More puzzled still, Linnet closed the short distance between them and knelt on the earth floor. Despite the dimness, ’twas plain to see the boy was much distressed. He’d drawn his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly about them. To her dismay, he kept his face averted.
But what troubled her most was the way his shoulders shook. Robbie was crying, and his silent tears rent her heart in two. Edging forward, she reached under the table and tried to touch the lad’s arm, but he ignored her and continued to cower against the wall.
“Robbie, lad, what’s happened? Will you not come out and tell me what’s troubling you?”
A muffled sniffle came in reply, but he did twist around to glance at her. Pity seized her at the sight of him, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, his cheeks pale and wet with tears.
Thinking only to comfort him, Linnet snatched him to her, cradling his trembling body against hers. As gently as possible, she smoothed her hands over his dark hair, then used the edge of her apron to dab the moisture from his cheeks. “What ill has befallen you, laddie? Tell me, for I promise it canna be so bad as it seems.”
He sniffled again and didn’t attempt to speak, but the way he tightened his arms around her encouraged Linnet to keep probing. “Why aren’t you with Sir Marmaduke?” she asked gently, stroking the back of her hand down his damp cheek. “’Tisn’t this the hour he instructs you in handling a sword?”
“Uncle Marm’duke rode out with the patrol,” Robbie blurted, swiping at his eyes as he spoke.
Uncle Marmaduke? Linnet tucked that interesting bit of information into the back of her mind for later clarification and concentrated on discovering what ailed the boy. “If you dinna have a lesson this morn, what are you doing about so early?”
Again, silence answered her. But the anguished look in his dark blue eyes, eyes so very like her husband’s, was all the clue she needed to know something had hurt him sorely.
Devil in a Kilt Page 16
