And when is his temper not foul? Linnet swallowed the bitter retort dancing on the edge of her tongue, grateful the shrill cries of a passing flock of seabirds prevented her from taking out her frustration on the well-meaning squire.
Instead, she laid her hand gently on his sleeve and shook her head. “Nay, Lachlan, I fear you place too much importance upon my worth to your liege. We are alone and ’tis old enough you are to ken why he married me. He will not care if the ague takes me, nor will he punish you if I dinna do as you bid.”
The squire shook his head. “I beg your pardon in disagreeing, but you are mistaken. Sir Duncan cares deeply for you.”
Turning away, Linnet clutched the cold stone of the parapet wall. “Please do not speak that which is not true. ’Tis cruel and, I would have thought, beneath you.”
“My words are not lies. I swear it upon all the holy relics in the land,” Lachlan implored her, his tone sincere enough to make Linnet’s heart skitter out of beat. “’Tis naught but the truth and all know it.”
All save your laird. Her own truth echoed in her head, mocking her with the futility of Duncan mayhap caring for her yet not knowing it himself. Pressing her palms more firmly against the cold, wet merlon, she wanted to cry out at the hopelessness of her situation.
Even if she did believe Lachlan, and she wasn’t sure she should, she still didn’t know how to breach the walls her husband held against her.
How to win his heart.
A heart she feared rested in Lady Cassandra’s grave.
“Lady, please,” Lachlan urged again, “do not think I tell falsehoods, for I would rather be struck dead than lie to you.”
Unable to resist the squire’s chivalrous tone, Linnet turned back to face him. “Are all MacKenzie men, save my husband, gifted with silver tongues?”
Lachlan’s handsome young face flushed pink, and he made her a slight bow. “So it is claimed, but I am not a MacKenzie. I am a MacRae. My father sent me here to be fostered when I was but seven.”
“More than enough time to learn their ways,” Linnet teased, amazed the squire’s glib charm had raised her mood. Soon, she’d be as addlepated as Elspeth, hearing naught but pretty words, no longer capable of seeing the truth.
Linnet lifted her chin a notch. She’d not make a fool of herself as Elspeth did, fawning after old Fergus, making moon eyes at him. But, then, the crusty seneschal seemed to welcome Elspeth’s attention.
She could not say the same of her husband.
He’d simply shown her the same concern he’d have over anyone within his domain.
“Tell me, Lachlan,” she asked, before she could lose her nerve, “Why do you think Sir Duncan cares for me?”
“Allow me to escort you inside, lady, and I shall explain,” he said, offering his arm.
Linking her arm through his, Linnet couldn’t help but smile. “I see you are clever as well as chivalrous.”
“My master teaches me well,” he said, guiding her toward the tower door, which stood ajar.
He did not speak again until he’d escorted her to her chamber. After opening the door with an exaggerated flourish, he made her a sweeping bow, then, before she could guess his intent, he seized her hand and brought it to his lips.
“The answer to your question is obvious to those who know my master well,” he said upon releasing her hand. “You have only to observe how his face tightens, as if becoming a mask, whene’er he comes upon Robbie.”
Her brows drew together in a frown. “I do not understand.”
“Do you not? Truly?” One of the squire’s brows shot upward in a perfect imitation of her husband’s frequent gesture.
“Nay, unless—” a sudden thought, nay… hope… popped into her mind, but she didn’t dare voice it lest she be wrong.
“Aye, milady,” Lachlan fair laughed, a wide grin spreading across his face, proving he’d read her thoughts. “Duncan loves Robbie dearly, but is too blinded by anger and pain to realize it. Yet we all do. When he looks upon you, ’tis the same expression he wears when he looks at his son.”
Linnet opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t get the words past the hot lump swelling in her throat. Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision, but she managed to give Lachlan a tremulous smile.
Smiling back, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Now do you understand?”
“I… want… to,” she stammered.
“You must,” he told her, stepping back, his tone and expression serious once more. “For only by understanding him can you heal him. ’Tis the one thing he’s never had and needs the most.”
Linnet nodded, wishing she could reassure the young man, but how could she make promises she doubted she’d be able to fulfill? Understanding what troubled her husband wasn’t difficult.
Knowing what to do about it, was.
And far more difficult was believing he cared for her.
Lachlan had to be mistaken.
Long after the squire had rekindled the fire in her hearth and left her on her own, Linnet stood gazing into the flames. She watched them grow and lick around the firelog, their crackling, and the distant rumble of thunder, not near so loud as the thudding of her heart.
If only she could warm Duncan’s soul as easily as the flames warmed her outstretched hands.
If only she could ignite his passions.
If only Lachlan’s words were true.
But she’d been too long alone, too long unloved to dare hope.
’Twas late when Duncan and his men returned from patrol, and later still when he finally made his way up the circular stairs to his wife’s bedchamber.
He would’ve gone immediately after downing a welcome draught of ale in the hall, but Marmaduke had barreled back down the stairs from whence he’d retired shortly afore, predicting doom and despair if Duncan sought his wife’s presence without first consulting with him.
Tired and irritable, Duncan had waited for the Sassunach to speak. His patience was thin, for he was eager to join his lady wife in bed.
And not merely to sleep, but to partake of the tender ministrations she wasn’t aware he knew of.
But instead of speaking, his friend handed him a flagon, telling him where he’d discovered it.
No other explanation had been necessary. With a growing sense of dread deep in his gut, Duncan understood: Linnet had ventured into his former bedchamber.
She’d seen the panel-painting.
Waves of hot anger and cold chills had washed over him in turns. Anger at himself because he hadn’t destroyed Cassandra’s likeness years ago, and chills at his brother-in-law’s grim prediction of how looking upon it would affect Linnet.
As if from a great distance, Marmaduke’s deep voice had droned on, advising him how best to approach his lady.
But Duncan had scarce listened. Only he knew of the sweet comfort she rained upon him each night, thinking he slept. His lady was good and pure, yet possessed of an inner fire and strength Duncan greatly admired. And she was… sensible.
Although his friend had meant well, Marmaduke had not the experience to know the heart of a robust and strong-willed Highland lass like Linnet. He’d been wed to Arabella, Duncan’s sister. A high-spirited woman, beauteous and gay, as skittish and excitable as Linnet was earthy and unruffled.
And before Arabella had blossomed and captured Marmaduke’s attentions, he’d dallied with the jaded ladies of the tourney circuit. Or the worldly women at the Bruce’s court.
Aye, his friend knew women, but not Linnet. She wouldn’t be distressed upon seeing his first wife’s great beauty. Appearance mattered little to his lady wife. Such things were of no significance to her.
She’d be more upset to find her precious herbarium destroyed than to gaze upon the loveliness of a woman she knew to be dead.
But his confidence evaporated the moment he entered their bedchamber and saw her sitting before the fire.
She looked as though she’d been out in the rain the entire time he’d been away. Her hair fell l
oose about her shoulders and was badly snarled from the storm winds, while her gown was wrinkled and damp, the leather of her shoes dark with waterstains. Only the worn arisaid she clutched about her appeared to be dry.
“By the Rood, woman, must I watch over you every minute?” Duncan asked sharply, forgetting the bland words he’d meant to utter before slipping into bed to await her sweet explorations of his body. “What have you done to yourself?”
“I… I have been—”
“I ken where you’ve been.” He strode toward her, holding the little flagon in his outstretched hand.
Her eyes widened, but she said not a word, only gaped at him from troubled eyes.
“Have you naught to say?” Duncan prodded, leaning so close he could smell the sea brine in her wildly tangled hair.
But for once she didn’t spout pepper at him. She only shook her head and stared at the fire. Why didn’t she speak up for herself, show him the vinegar she’d exhibited nigh onto every day since he’d first brought her to Eilean Creag?
Why didn’t she revile him for pining for his dead wife?
Marmaduke had warned him that Linnet would believe he was pining and, as always, the one-eyed bastard had been right.
And he doubted Linnet would ever believe how far from the truth her assumptions lay.
Duncan swore, an oath blacker and more ominous than the storm-darkened night lurking beyond the thick tower walls. As if the heavens understood his frustration, a loud crack of thunder sounded, its resounding boom drowning out his curse. His wife jumped as if struck, but as quickly reassumed her rigid posture.
No doubt she’d jumped because of him, not the thunder.
Whether she’d heard his curses or no.
’Twas well aware he was of his untamed appearance. But he’d had reason to be out on such a night. He’d sought to ferret out Kenneth and his followers, banish them from his lands once and for all time. Hoped to send his half brother to the most vile abyss in hell for his many crimes.
But more, for his lady’s sake.
To protect her from harm at Kenneth’s hands.
Yet she shrank away from him as if he were the one to be feared.
Stepping close enough to tower over her chair, Duncan planted his hands on his hips and gazed down at her. “If you will not speak of what I know weighs on your mind, then tell me why you look as if you’ve been swimming in the loch.”
“I did not leave the castle, sirrah,” she snapped, showing a spark of her usual backbone. “I was on the battlements, watch—”
“That, too, I know, milady, for ’tis none under my roof what dinna tell me what wondrous feat you’ve accomplished.” He paused to drag a hand through his own damp and disheveled hair. “I suppose their hunger has grown greater than their dread of a murderer.”
Something flared briefly in his lady wife’s eyes, and he couldn’t tell if it’d been anger, frustration, or pity. He hoped it wasn’t the latter, but whatever it’d been, she now sat ramrod straight in her chair, regarding him from eyes that no longer looked so haunted.
“And did you?” she blurted, piercing him with a gaze as all-seeing as his annoying arse of a brother-in-law’s.
“Did I what?” Duncan shot back, fully aware of her meaning.
He grew rapidly uncomfortable under her sharp perusal. ’Twas she who now steered their discourse… and in a direction he did not care to venture.
“Did—I—what?” he repeated in a tone that would’ve warned a more prudent soul.
“Did you murder your first wife?”
Duncan’s face flushed with heat at her blunt question, and his stomach tightened into a cold, hard knot. “What do you think?” The four words dropped between them like tiny chips of ice.
Faith, how he wished she’d abandon the cheek he’d yearned for only moments ago and return to her prior stubborn silence. The lass riled him more than any man should be made to endure.
“You are the seventh daughter. Can you not see the answer to your question?” he challenged, his temper barely in check.
She looked away then, and for a long moment, the rumble of thunder and soft popping of the fire made the only sound. Keeping her gaze averted, she finally said, “I already know the answer. Still, I should like to hear it from you.”
“If you can see the answer to a matter of such gravity, why can you not divine if Robbie is my true son or nay?”
“That answer, too, will come in time, milord. And it was not my gift that told me you did not kill the lady Cassandra,” she said, returning her gaze to his. “It was my heart.”
“Then you canna know for sure, for hearts lie,” Duncan contradicted.
“Nay, they do not,” she said simply, folding her hands in her lap and peering up at him with that strange look in her eyes again.
Unable to stand her close scrutiny, Duncan turned away from her and crossed the chamber to the bed, shrugging off his drenched cloak as he went. His back to her, he drew his tunic over his head, then began removing his soggy shoes when she stayed him with one sentence.
Stiffening, Duncan asked her to repeat the softly whispered words he hoped he’d misunderstood.
“I said, actions dinna lie either.”
“What actions?” Not that he wanted to know.
“The action of a bereaved man keeping his dead wife’s likeness in his bedchamber,” she said, her tone as bland as if she were commenting on the rain hammering against the shutters.
Duncan crossed the room in a heartbeat. He grasped the arms of her chair so tightly it wouldn’t have surprised him if the heavy oak had snapped in twain beneath his fingers.
Leaning forward until he could taste her breath upon his lips, he said, “You cannot know why I kept the panel-painting, and I will not speak of it. I will tell you whatever tale you’ve conjured up as a reason ’tis untrue.”
She gasped, pressing herself into the back of the chair, but keeping her jaw defiantly lifted, her injured gaze level with his furious one.
“God’s blood, wench!” Duncan cursed, straightening. “Must you e’er vex me?”
“I understand, milord. Truly. I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman.”
“You understand naught, do you hear me?” He grabbed her arms, pulling her to her feet. “Naught, I say!”
“You are hurting me, sirrah,” she cried, and he released her immediately.
Rubbing her upper arms where he’d gripped her, she persisted, “But I do. It is not difficult to comprehend. At least why you haven’t touched me since our wedding night. What I do not understand is how you can even bear to look upon me after being married to her?”
“Will you drive me to the brink of madness?” Duncan groaned, then closed his eyes, forcing himself to draw a long, calming breath.
When he felt able to speak again, he opened his eyes, determined to guide their evening to a swift and peaceful close. “’Tis tired and wet we both are, Linnet,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “I am going to bed. I bid you to do the same.” He paused for emphasis. “And remove those damp garments afore you join me. It suits no purpose for either of us to become ill.”
Returning to the bed without sparing her another glance, Duncan rid himself of his shoes at last, then stripped off his braies until naught but the chill air of the room was next to his bare skin.
Hearing no telltale rustling of clothes, and heedless of his nakedness, he turned to face her. “If you are not out of those sopping rags and into bed by the time I’ve doused the candles, I swear I shall divest you of them myself.”
She eyed him warily as he went about pinching the candlewicks, but made no move to rid herself of her rain-dampened garments. “My clothes are merely damp, not sopping, and I’ve no intent to remove them. I beseech you to leave me be,” she said, her voice so low he barely heard her. “Please.”
Duncan took two steps forward, then halted at the look on her face.
Gone, the brief flaring of temper, a condition he much preferred… except now. In
its place, she wore an expression he first thought to be shyness.
Yet such modesty made scarce sense for she’d slept fully unclothed beside him for many nights now.
And during those nights, she’d done deliciously wicked things to his senses, her innocent explorations arousing him more than the wiles of the most skilled harlot he’d e’er paid to lift her skirts.
Duncan stared hard at her, suddenly recognizing it was shame clouding her gold-flecked eyes, turning their normally enchanting color a dull brown.
Shame making her seem to shrink into herself as he strode forward again. And that knowledge sent a pointed shard of regret lancing through him, for he knew what had put the abashment on her face and self-doubt into her soul.
The all-knowing Sassunach had told him.
“And why can you not undress?” he queried, as if he must torture himself by hearing the words from her own lips. “What has changed since I left that you will no longer disrobe before me? ’Tis oft enough I’ve seen your naked flesh.” He glanced briefly at his own nakedness, thankfully at rest. “As you have seen mine.”
“Everything has changed.” She turned her face away from him.
Biting back another furious oath, Duncan closed the distance between them and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. “Naught has changed save the foolishness you’ve allowed to overrule your good sense.”
“Nay, ’tis my good sense that has opened my eyes to the truth. The only foolishness I am guilty of is… is… having thought you could care for me.”
He hadn’t expected to feel such a painful stab of regret, but he did. By the Rood, he did care for her. He desired her, too. But the stirrings of his body were naught but lust. What man could lie still each night whilst a maid ran her gentle hands o’er his flesh and not quicken with animal need?
Aye, he cared, but not in the manner she wished.
Not in a romantic sense.
Such folly was best left for young squires like Lachlan, yet to earn their spurs.
Yet to have their hearts ripped out and trod into the dirt.
“I do care, lass,” he said, hoping to soothe her. “’Tis the highest regard I have for you. Think you I’ve not seen all you’ve done here? Now cease fretting o’er a dead woman who means naught to me, remove your gown, and come to bed.”
Devil in a Kilt Page 18
