Devil in a Kilt

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  He turned toward her then, but she could see he was looking back, into the past, and not at her. “’Twas my steadfast belief in being chivalrous to all members of the fairer sex, and not just those blessed with noble birth what brought me here, milady.” With a sad smile, the best his disfigurement would allow, he went on, “Mayhap ’tis closer to the truth to say it was the unchivalrous behavior of my peers, and my refusal to condone it, what landed me in the MacKenzie household.”

  Linnet set down the chess piece, then settled herself on the window seat and drew one of the colorful silk cushions onto her lap. “I do not understand.”

  “Nay, and ’tis a blessing you have been sheltered from such things,” he said, his voice turning cynical. “Mine is not a pretty story.”

  “I am still desirous to hear it,” Linnet said, hugging the pillow to her middle. “If you dinna mind, of course.”

  “As you wish,” Marmaduke agreed, clasping his hands behind his back as he began to pace back and forth. “’Twas many years hence, the summer I earned my spurs. Truth tell, I was mightily proud and took my knightly vows most seriously. Much to the scorn of my fellow knights.”

  He paused to peer intensely at her. “Sadly, I was mistaken in expecting my peers to share my idealistic beliefs. And so, on my first foray into Scotland, I refused to participate in the ruination of village women. Worse, in the eyes of my peers, I took up my sword to defend the women against the atrocities my fellow knights would commit upon them. I—”

  “You protected Scotswomen from your countrymen?” Linnet cut in.

  “Yes. I sought to prevent innocent women from being violated. My punishment for such was swift and severe.”

  “Is that how your face came to be scarred?”

  “Oh, nay,” he said, shaking his head. “My face was defiled many years later. That is another story entirely. My punishment for attempting to aid the Scotswomen did leave me with scars, but they are upon my back. I was stripped and beaten by my own men, then left for dead. ’Twas Duncan’s father who found me.”

  He paused then, absently rubbing the scar slanting across his face. “The good man, God rest his soul, carried me to this castle upon his own steed, where I was nursed to health by his lady, your husband’s late mother.”

  A wistful smile played around the good half of his mouth. “It was my great fortune to have been welcomed into this household and I’ve worn the MacKenzie colors with pride ever since.”

  Inwardly, Linnet winced at the images evoked by his tale. And at her own initial fear of him. “I must apologize to you, sir, for I did you most unfairly when first we met,” she said, heat springing to her cheeks. “’Twas greatly afeared of you I was.”

  Marmaduke smiled as best he could. “You’ve no need to apologize, lady. It is indeed a grim sight I present. You have shown me naught but kindness, and ’tis with great honor I serve you and your lord husband.”

  Still ashamed of her reaction upon first seeing him, Linnet changed the topic. “You have been friends with my husband since his father brought you here?”

  “More than friends. ’Tis as brothers we are.”

  As brothers. The words stirred a memory, something she couldn’t quite place.

  As brothers…

  Turning away from him, she glanced down at the wind-whipped waves crashing against the jagged rocks at the base of the tower.

  As brothers…

  Then it came to her.

  Robbie had once called Sir Marmaduke “Uncle.”

  Looking back at the tall, once-handsome knight, Linnet asked, “Be that why Robbie refers to you as his uncle?”

  “Nay, lady, that is not the reason,” he said, then fell silent, a closed look settling over his features.

  Embarrassed, afeared she’d gone too far with her probing, Linnet pushed to her feet and went to stand before the hearth. “Please excuse my curiosity,” she said, staring into the flame. “I did not mean to pry.”

  When he remained silent for more than a few moments, Linnet stole a glance at him. He regarded her with a look of great intensity as if weighing whether or not he aught say more.

  Finally, he shrugged and said, “You may as well know, as it is no secret. I am Robbie’s uncle by marriage. My wife, Arabella, was Duncan’s sister.”

  Linnet’s mind whirled with snatches of conversation, bits of gossip she’d gleaned from servants. The pieces settled slowly, coming together one by one, their portent chilling her to the bone despite the warmth of the crackling fire so near where she stood.

  Trembling, she cleared her throat and stated rather than asked, “’Twas the lady Cassandra who killed your wife and Duncan’s mother. She concocted a poison with herbs from the herbarium.”

  “It was never proven,” Marmaduke said, joining her before the hearth. “’Tis long past and should not be allowed to cloud your mind.”

  “It clouds more than my mind, it clouds my very life.” She attempted a wan smile and failed. “Whatever marred my husband’s first marriage casts a shadow o’er my own, dinna you see?” Swallowing her pride, she burst forth with her innermost fear. “I’ve wondered if he still mourns her, yet now, knowing this, surely he cannot? Not after what she’d done?”

  Sir Marmaduke started to answer, then clamped his mouth shut. Spinning away from her, he strode to the windows. “Upon my word, lady, and pray forgive me if I offend you, but you erred in even considering such a notion.”

  “I did? Then why does her likeness yet hang beyond yon door?” she asked, nodding toward the closed oaken door to Duncan’s former bedchamber.

  Sir Marmaduke ran a hand over his face as if he’d suddenly grown weary. “I cannot vouchsafe your husband’s motives for keeping the panel-painting, but I can tell you mine and ’tis on any saint you care to name, I’d swear his reasons are similar.”

  Linnet waited, clenching her hands to lessen their shaking.

  The Sassunach’s broad shoulders sagged ever so slightly. “’Tis to remember,” he said, bitterly. “To remember, lest I forget the misery she wrought unto myself and all who had the misfortune to know her.”

  Coming forward, he placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and turned his face first to one side, then the other. “Would you believe I was once considered handsome? That, at tourneys in France, and at court, fine ladies vied for my attention?”

  “Sir Marmaduke, please,” Linnet pleaded, the regret and sorrow in his tone squeezing her heart. “I beg you, forget I mentioned her. It was not my intent to distress you.”

  “And you have not, dear lady,” he assured her, some of the bitterness gone from his voice. “With or without your being here, my face and my memories would be the same. Truth to tell, you have helped me as none before, for your healing skills have made a great improvement in my blighted appearance.”

  Lifting a hand to the puckered flesh where his left eye should’ve been, he said, “’Twas her lover did this, ’twas Kenneth, your husband’s bastard half brother.”

  Speaking slowly, as if the words had to be pried from wherever he kept them, he went on, “My wife had learned he and Cassandra were plotting to murder Duncan. They’d already done away with Duncan’s mother, although we did not realize ’twas their doing at the time.”

  He made a low bitter sound. “Fool that I was, I confronted Kenneth. I challenged him to take his whore and be gone, warned him not to set foot on MacKenzie land again. But as so oft, my belief that there dwells a bit of good within all men was sorely misplaced.”

  Linnet tried to murmur soothing words, her own worries paling beside those the Englishman now confessed to her, but the words wouldn’t come, refused to be pushed past the dryness in her throat.

  “My interference cost me my wife and Duncan his sister,” Marmaduke said, and Linnet was horrified to see a tear form at the corner of his good eye. “Whilst Kenneth led me to believe he’d follow my advice, he hastened back as swiftly as his mount could carry him, but not to fetch his harlot and leave Kintail for good. Nay, la
dy, they poisoned my Arabella instead.”

  Pausing, he swiped the back of his hand roughly over his eye, wiping away the tear before it could fall.

  “Mayhap they feared she knew too much and would warn Duncan. I cannot say, and it scarce matters, for they killed her just the same. I am sure of it, even though their guilt can never be proven.”

  “Does my husband know this?” Linnet asked ?gently.

  “Yes, he knows. He confronted her. She ran from him, fleeing to the battlements, Duncan chasing after her.” He stopped to draw a deep, ragged breath. “She laughed as she ran, taunting him about Robbie, claiming the boy was Kenneth’s child, not his. Then she tripped on the hem of her gown and plunged to her death before he could do aught to save her.”

  “Do you think he would have?” Linnet’s voice was a bare whisper.

  “Yes, had he been close enough. He likely would’ve questioned her, then banished her to a convent for the remainder of her days.” He paused then, staring off into the distance before he continued, “May God forgive me, but had I been up there with her, I do not think I’d have made an effort to prevent her fall.”

  “And when did Kenneth do this?” Linnet gently touched a finger to his puckered scar.

  “That same day. I caught him trying to steal Duncan’s best horse. He’d learned of his ladylove’s demise and meant to flee. We fought and, as you can see, he bested me.” He stopped to take a deep breath, then tried to give her a smile, a rueful one. “He is an excellent swordsman, almost as masterful as Duncan.”

  “But Duncan has boasted of your skill with arms,” Linnet protested. “He said he’s seen you cut down five men at once.”

  “And so I have. In war,” he told her, his voice burdened by a flat dullness that twisted Linnet’s heart. “’Tis a fool I was that day for I broke the first rule a squire is taught when learning to wield a sword: I let my emotions get in the way. My rage made me clumsy.”

  “I am sorry.” Linnet frowned. “’Tis a high price you paid for your loyalty to my husband.”

  “I did naught he would not have done for me. Duncan is my brother as surely as if his blood flowed through my veins. As for my face, and losing my eye…” Sir Marmaduke let his voice trail off, then sighed. “I’d gladly forfeit my remaining eye and all else I possess if by doing so my Arabella could return to me.”

  When Linnet said nothing, he peered at her with such intensity she feared he could see into the deepest reaches of her soul.

  Shuddering under the weight of all he’d told her, she turned back to the fire, no longer able to meet the pain she saw on his face. Ne’er had she heard of a man sacrificing so much, nor of a husband whose love for his wife burned so strong.

  “You loved her very much,” she said at last, her gaze steady on the flames curling around the firelogs. “I canna imagine a love so enduring.”

  “Indeed? I have observed your gaze following Duncan, and I have seen how he watches you when he thinks no one is taking notice of him,” he said, his voice seeming to come from a great distance.

  Linnet strained to hear him over the unusually loud crackling of the fire. Shaking her head, she tried to rid her ears of the noise, but the popping and snapping of the fire only grew louder.

  The wind, too, had become deafening, whistling past the windows with an unearthly howl, rattling the shutters in its wake.

  As the din increased, the skin on the back of her neck prickled and her hands grew damp. Still staring into the fire, she fought the uncomfortable sense of ill-ease creeping up on her and concentrated instead on making herself heard.

  “You are mistaken,” she said, her voice sounding strange, hollow, even to her own ears. “My lord husband has told me—”

  “Lady?” The Sassunach rushed forward, catching her as she swayed and began to slump to the floor. “Sweet Mother of God, what is it?”

  Linnet felt herself collapse into his arms. She could barely make sense of his words, so shrill was the buzzing in her ears. Her head fell back against his chest, and she tried to look up at him but saw only flames.

  A dancing wall of fire surrounded her, its heat searing her, its roar drowning all other sound. Through the flames, and as if from many leagues away, she thought she heard someone calling her husband’s name, but she was too weary, too deafened by the raging fire to tell for sure.

  With great effort, she forced her eyes open, only to recoil in horror at the terrifying sight before her. Cringing, she cowered against the hard chest of whoe’er held her so securely. But she kept her eyes open, bound as if by a sorcerer’s wand to stare at the figure standing in the flames.

  ’Twas a two-headed man.

  A monster.

  An abomination of nature.

  Tall and powerful-looking, he stood with his legs apart, hands braced on his hips. His two heads were cowled, shielding his features from view, but she knew instinctively one of the heads smiled benevolently at her whilst the second wore an evil grimace.

  A horrifying mask of fury aimed straight at her from the gates of hell.

  And all the while, the other head smiled, benignly enjoying her terror.

  Linnet screamed.

  Wild shrieks ripped from her throat, torn from her very soul, straining her lungs and bursting forth until her cries grew louder than the roar of the flames.

  Then all went still.

  The flames vanished as if they’d never been there, mercifully taking the two-headed man with them, leaving her floating in a sea of darkness where all was quiet and still.

  And black.

  A blackness deeper and more impenetrable than the dark waters of a bottomless loch on a cold December night.

  Through the darkness she heard the muffled sound of running feet and loud cries. A man’s agitated shouts, peppered with curses and tersely barked orders. But despite her efforts, it was impossible to fully decipher the words or place the direction from which they came.

  She heard mumblings, too. Softly uttered words, unintelligible murmurs.

  Sounds of concern.

  Then other arms took hold of her. Arms equally strong and powerful, perchance even more so. And her aching head was held against something hard and firm yet undeniably comforting.

  Comforting and familiar.

  Linnet tried to open her eyes to see who held her so tenderly, to discover where he was carrying her, for she could only tell they climbed round and round… in dizzying circles.

  But her eyelids proved too heavy to lift and sleep pressed in on her with a relentless, overpowering seductiveness she couldn’t resist.

  Then she was floating again. No longer held and coddled, but on her own and resting upon a bed of such exquisite softness it could only be a cloud.

  ’Twas surely a dream.

  But a nightmare, too, for the ghastly figure of the two-headed man appeared again, albeit only in the darkest recesses of her mind.

  Hoping to will away the frightening image, she curled herself into a ball and kept her eyes tightly shut. Someone’s gentle hands touched her, at times stroking her forehead, then pressing something cool against her cheek.

  On occasion, whoever it was, would lift her head and carefully dribble fresh water onto her parched lips, or help her take small sips of cool water until sleep claimed her once more.

  Then she’d drift deeper into the darkness, unaware of those around her.

  Gone, the roaring flames. Vanquished, the fiendish two-headed man. Silenced, too, the shouts and curses.

  Faded to nothingness, the hushed and guarded whisperings.

  Naught remained but an all-encompassing quiet and the dark.

  And the comforting feel of her hand, limp and cold, held tenderly between a pair of larger, warmer hands.

  Strong hands, gentle and sure. Familiar, too, yet strange as well for their touch conveyed without question that, whoever it was, cared.

  Cared deeply, for each time the fog thinned, the hands were always there. Oft simply holding hers, sometimes heartily mass
aging her fingers as if to chase away the cold.

  Once, when the dark receded a bit, she stole a brief glance at the owner of the hands. ’Twas Duncan, her husband. But when she looked again, to make certain, the haze blurred his face, and she couldn’t tell for sure.

  With a sigh so weak she barely heard it herself, she gave herself up to the darkness. It was safe and pleasant to drift through a dreamworld where her husband watched o’er her.

  A world where he held fast to her hands, caressing them.

  As if they were cherished.

  As if she were cherished.

  Aye, for a while at least, she’d tarry in the netherworld between the place whence her visions came and the cold, unforgiving world in which she was naught more than a wife desired but not loved.

  That decided, she let herself sink into the soft feather mattress of her bed—for she knew the bed was not truly a cloud—and savored her husband’s gentle ministrations as he sat beside her, tending her as if he cared.

  As if he loved her.

  A tiny, contented sigh escaped her when he suddenly began massaging her fingers anew. She’d warn him of the two-headed man on the morrow when her head was no longer fuzzy.

  After she’d had her fill of his surprisingly gentle touch.

  Then would be time enough.

  None could fault her for indulging herself in a few scant hours pretending her husband cared.

  14

  Linnet woke to a room cloaked in semi darkness. Weak sunlight filtered through the closed shutters, casting long blue-gray shadows across the floor and up the tapestried walls, letting her know it was late evening. Faith and mercy, but she’d slept many hours since her frightening vision in the solar.

  An empty chair stood next to the bed, mute testament someone had indeed sat there, tenderly holding her hand, offering her comfort whilst she’d slept so fitfully, plagued by nightmares of a two-headed man surrounded by flames.