British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  Celeste stepped inside, then waited for Allan to lead the way. A vaulted ceiling with arched enclaves displayed five intricate windows of stained glass. “How beautiful!” Celeste forgot the smell and the cold, gazing upward in rapt appreciation. Her fingers caressed a velvety walnut bench.

  Allan strode down the aisle and stepped behind the raised lectern. An enormous Bible lay open before him. “We might have our daily readings here, my lady, if ye can bear the chill.” His voice rang hollow in the expanse.

  “Is the chapel nevermore used for services?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Your ancestors—and no few of mine—lie beneath us in the crypt.”

  Celeste shook her head. “Not mine.” Instantly regretting the slip, she turned to read the inscription on a brass plaque. “ ‘In memory of Adelaide Ballantyne Galbraith, beloved wife.’ I wonder how many generations back are these ancestors.”

  “Many of the monuments bear dates.”

  Celeste read the verse inscribed beneath the name. “ ‘When Christ, who is our life, shall appear, then shall ye also appear with him in glory.’ I pray these people were true believers in Jesus. I should be pleased to meet them in heaven someday.”

  Allan spoke at her elbow, his voice soft. “Did ye mean what ye said to your cousin about Jesus, my lady? Have ye accepted His salvation?”

  She rubbed her upper arms against the pervading chill. “Aye. When I hear ye read Scripture aloud, my heart tells me ’tis truth. And your life is proof to me that God exists. I know that Jesus willna fail me, no matter what men may do or say.”

  He swallowed hard, stared up at a magnificent rose window, fingered his sword hilt, and looked back down at Celeste. “Naught ye could say would please me more. The Lord will keep ye safe, whate’er happens.”

  “I canna imagine a man hearing the Word and not believing,” she said.

  She saw his chest expand and deflate in a deep sigh. “I and my mother before me have oft spoken with family members about the Christ. They listen to the Bible stories, debate theology, decide which kirk the clan will support—and apply none of it personally. Only the Holy Spirit can convict a man of sin and persuade him to accept redemption. This I ken, yet my heart aches at the emptiness and hatred I see consuming my people. ’twas not always so, and I pray God will once again reach the MacMurrays.”

  “Ye dinna hate my family, do you?” Celeste touched his arm.

  He avoided her gaze. “My lack of hatred alienates my clan. If I am reviled for the sake of Jesus Christ, so be it. I loved your uncle, and I—” He broke off, strode away, and bowed his head, gripping the back of a bench with both hands until it creaked.

  “And?”

  When he turned his head to answer, she again saw him swallow hard. “I canna betray his trust. My lot is cast with the Galbraiths, though it cost my life.”

  He bent farther over the bench, eyes narrowing, then reached down and hauled a plaid woolen blanket from beneath it. Mutton bones, fruit pits, and a knife clattered upon the bench and floor. “Someone has been living here.”

  “Who?”

  “I canna tell, unless he died and these be his bones. If so, he was a sheep.”

  Celeste grimaced then smiled. “Ha-ha. How droll. But what shall we do?”

  “Depart in haste.” He replaced the items and hurried her out the chapel’s main door. “Turn back and exclaim o’er the windows again. We may be watched.”

  She obeyed, shivering. “But the windows appear dull from the outside. I have lived here for months, yet I know little about Kennerith Castle. What other wonders does its forbidding exterior conceal?”

  “Perchance ye’ll learn more of its secrets, but not now. It commences to rain again, and, fool that I am, I advised ye tae bring no bonnet. Make haste.” He plopped his tricorn hat on her head and rushed her back to the castle as a sharp wind blew the mist into their faces.

  That evening, while dining with Roderick and Mr. Ballantyne in the small dining room, Celeste noticed her cousin’s boisterous manner. Coming as it did so soon after his humiliation at the point of Allan’s sword, this behavior struck Celeste as peculiar.

  She felt Allan’s presence at her back like a solid wall of reassurance. If she had noticed Roderick’s odd behavior, it would not escape Allan’s detection.

  “A good day’s work, eh, Ballantyne?” Roderick said around a mouthful of venison. He sopped oatcakes in the gravy.

  Mr. Ballantyne seemed more wizened and miserable than usual. He picked at his food and drank quantities of wine. “The gout,” he murmured. “Canna abide this rich fare. I keep telling his lairdship, but he doesna wish to disturb the servants ….”

  Candlelight flickered in Roderick’s eyes. “Uncle Malcolm was never meant to be earl. The value lies not in the castle but in the land! These crofters pay half the rent they should and could if the Highlanders didna steal our rightful earnings.”

  “My father will be fair and good to his tenants and to the Highlanders,” Celeste said. “They owned this land before we Galbraiths did, at any rate.”

  A cruel smile curled Roderick’s lips. “We Galbraiths? Have you forgotten your true parentage so soon, my love?”

  Giving a start, Mr. Ballantyne spilled wine on his waistcoat. “Sir, ye’ve ne’er told the lass that tale? ’twas intended a secret!”

  Roderick chuckled. “And you’ve now confirmed its veracity. Ah, Mr. Ballantyne, what an invaluable source of information you are! Drink up, aged cousin. Enjoy what pleasure is left you.”

  Celeste clenched her hands together in her lap and felt Allan shift his weight behind her chair. “If ye’ll excuse me, I believe I shall retire early this night.” Her voice trembled despite every effort to control it. Rising, she curtsied to the gentlemen, who both rose to bow.

  “Sweet dreams, my love. Soon you’ll be mine in every sense.”

  Allan closed the door behind her. She rushed into the great room, stopped, and stamped her foot on the flagstones. “I hate him!” Her voice echoed among the beams high overhead. Immediately she repented of the childish display. “But it is wrong to hate.”

  “My lady, I grapple with the same sin. God is able to deliver us both.”

  Chapter 7

  The new maid assigned to Celeste’s service plaited her hair silently, warmed her bed linens, regarded her with proper respect, and curtsied before she left the room … yet Celeste missed Beryl. She lay awake with one candle burning long after the maid retired. Light from Allan’s fire glowed reassuringly through the cracks in the heavy door.

  Lord Jesus, forgive my hateful thoughts. I know I should love Roderick as You do, but I find it difficult. Allan is easy to love because he is like You. I wish to spend every day of my life with Allan.

  Her eyes popped open. An idea slipped into her mind. She could bundle up in blankets and join Allan on the floor in the antechamber. They could sit beside the fire and talk. So many things Celeste wished to learn about her bodyguard, her dearest friend. Which foods did he favor? What were his fondest childhood memories? What was he thinking when he gazed at her, as he sometimes did, with his eyes of softest gray like lamb’s wool and a hint of a smile about his lips? How would it feel to be held in his arms? Would he wish to kiss her? Roderick’s caresses made her flesh creep, but the thought of Allan’s hands upon her skin produced entirely different thrills.

  Lord, my mind wandered again. Is it evil for me to have such thoughts? Surely I may sit and talk with Allan in the antechamber … and yet, somehow I know You and he both would disapprove. Perhaps this is the wisdom You promised to give me if I asked. I know it is impossible that Allan and I could ever marry, but if he could even be with me for the rest of my life, I think I should be content. Or would I? You know my heart better than I do. Please do with me, with us, as You deem best. I beseech You in the blessed name of Jesus.

  Oh, and please help me to sleep. I am frightened to the depths of my soul this night! Since I mayn’t have Allan’s arms about me, I ask You to hold me in Y
our hands. Amen.

  Despite her earnest prayer, Celeste’s mind merely wandered in and out of consciousness, and strange dreams wafted through her thoughts. True sleep eluded her.

  Sometime during the night, her eyes opened wide. A sound had awakened her. Allan still snored in the antechamber. The banked embers of her fire occasionally popped, but that ordinary sound would not have disturbed her peace. Someone was breathing nearby, breathing heavily but trying to muffle the sound. A footstep scuffed on the rug beside her bed, and the bed curtain rings scraped along the pole.

  Summoning all her strength, Celeste rolled over and over to her right. She felt a blow upon the bolster, and a gruff voice cursed. Thunk. Cocooned in blankets, she fell off the far side of the bed and tried to roll beneath it. Heavy footsteps rushed around the bed.

  Dust filled her eyes and nose, yet she freed her mouth of blankets and rug long enough to scream with all her might. “Allan! Allan! Please God, help me.” Her screams turned to weeping, and her imagination felt a knife slide between her shoulder blades.

  With her ear against the floor, she heard footsteps like crashing thunder.

  Allan rolled from sleep to his feet and drew his sword at the first thump and angry shout. Celeste! The warped door boomed against the wall as he burst into her bedchamber.

  Darkness. Silence but for Celeste’s muffled sobs. Did the invader have her in his clutches? Allan’s bare feet padded on the hardwood and rug. He sidestepped left to avoid being backlighted by the fire. His sword point drew tiny circles in the dark.

  Glass shattered to his right. He turned, recognized the distraction ploy, and feinted left, sword extended. Something struck the wall behind him. His sword point caught on—flesh?—then sprang free. A shadow deeper than its surroundings passed between Allan and the hearth. He lunged low. His saber slashed. A grunt. The assailant landed prostrate on the floor. Allan pressed his sword point against the heaving mass. “As ye value life, be still.”

  “Allan?” Celeste’s voice quivered.

  “Aye, lass. Rise and give us light.”

  Shuffling sounds from the area of the bed.

  “My lady, are ye injured?” Allan inquired, becoming restive.

  “Nay, I am tangled in the bed linens until I can scarce move.”

  “Make haste.”

  “I’m making all possible haste, if ye please. I must find my eyeglasses!”

  Her testy response pleased him.

  “I’m coming now. Dinna slay me!” Her footsteps padded behind his back. She tossed a peat block on the fire and poked the embers into a blaze. Allan focused on the man beneath his sword.

  “Allan, look!”

  He glanced up. Celeste pointed to his left.

  He returned his attention to the would-be murderer. “What is it?”

  “A door in the wall.”

  “Close it, please.”

  “But should we not first learn how it works?”

  “Later, when danger of this rogue attempting escape through it is past.”

  She obediently closed the door. “I see how it works! A lever hidden beneath the—”

  “Clever lass. Now stay back near the bed.” He nudged the invader with one foot. “Rise slowly and turn about.”

  The man clambered to his feet, lifted his gloved hands, and faced Allan. “I’d ha’ killed ye both had I been whole, cousin.” A sneer disfigured Dougal’s countenance. Dark stains upon his breeches, hose, and coat glistened in the firelight and dripped to the floor. “Two days past, the earl’s outrider caught me with a ball in the side, but not ere I’d shot his lairdship!”

  “Ye’re insane!” Celeste said. “Why would ye want to kill my father? Why would anyone kill Papa?” She began to weep again, and Dougal laughed.

  “This castle belongs to MacMurrays by right of inheritance! The young master schemed to inherit, but I had my ain plans. Death to all Galbraiths! Death!”

  Knocking Allan’s sword aside, Dougal stumbled toward the chamber door. Only then did Allan see his objective—the point of a dagger was embedded in the wall. In one motion, Dougal gripped the dagger, spun, and flung it at Celeste.

  Allan’s sword knocked the knife aside. But in that moment, Dougal had staggered to the window, pushed open the casement, and climbed upon the sill. Allan dropped his sword and dove after him, catching his cousin by the coattail. “Dougal, ye’re mad! Tis a rainy night—the roof will be slick. Come and let us tend your wounds.”

  “Ye’d heal me to hang me, traitor that ye air!” Dougal punched Allan in the head, then beat at his grasping hands. “I’ll run to the hills or die a free Highlander!”

  A kick caught Allan in the inner thigh, and pain made him see stars. Dougal left his coat in Allan’s grasp and slid through the window. Thud! He hit the roof ten feet below. His scrabbling attempts to catch hold ended in a despairing scream that faded into the distance.

  Celeste wailed.

  Allan gripped the stone sill and pushed himself to his feet. Grief for his cousin and for the earl weighted his heart, but first he must see to comforting Celeste.

  She was a wraith in white beside the bed, her eyeglasses reflecting the firelight, her hands clasped beneath her chin. She took one step toward him, then another.

  The antechamber’s outer door slammed open, and a stream of servants poured into the tower. Roderick entered last, dazzling in a violet-striped banyan robe. “What has happened here? We heard shouts and screams….” His gaze fell upon Celeste, and his eyes widened. He then studied Allan, the open window, and the disheveled state of Celeste’s bed.

  He pointed at Allan. “Arrest that man for the attempted murder of Lady Celeste Galbraith!”

  “Nay!” Celeste ran toward Allan. He caught her in one arm and grabbed her bed gown from its hook on the wall. Keeping his gaze averted, he wrapped her in its concealing folds.

  “Roderick, ye dinna understand!” Celeste slipped her arms into the bed gown’s sleeves. “ ’twas another man tried to murder me. Allan saved my life!”

  “Murder? Where is the body?” a strange voice asked.

  Celeste buttoned her bodice, staring up at Allan’s face. Why did he not refute the charge? She whirled about. The village sheriff stood at Roderick’s side, looking almost as confused as Celeste felt.

  “The body of the murderer lies in the courtyard,” she said. “He fell off the roof while attempting—”

  “The darkness and the late hour have bewildered your thoughts, my lady,” Roderick said. “I sent for the sheriff when word of a heinous scheme reached my ears.” He stepped forward, keeping a wary eye on Allan. “Sheriff, this man is part of the MacMurray plot to steal Galbraith lands and title. Are you a man of the law or not?”

  The law officer wavered. “I am, but I see no evidence of murder, and the lady says—”

  “If you neglect your duty, I’ll have the wretch thrown in the castle dungeon until a scaffold can be built. The laird of the castle’s word is law, and I am he. Charlie? Ian?” Roderick beckoned forward two young men, strangers to Celeste, who grasped Allan by the arms.

  “Nay, ye canna take him!” she cried, but a large hand shoved her aside, and they dragged Allan toward the door.

  “My lady!”

  She met Allan’s gaze. He glanced at the dagger on the floor. Celeste quickly seized it. When she looked up, he was gone. Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  “Clear the chamber, the lot of you!” Roderick shouted. “Dumb sheep.” Several servants glanced in evident bewilderment from Celeste to Roderick, but obeyed without protest.

  Roderick fixed Celeste with a glittering stare. His silken turban and robe gave him the aspect of an Oriental potentate. He extended a hand. “The dagger, my love.”

  She clutched it, turning away, but he caught her and wrested the knife from her grasp. “I canna allow you to despoil either your breast or mine.” She struggled to free her arm. His smile twisted into a sneer. The point of the dagger snagged in her lace chemise as he traced it along
her neckline. Celeste stilled but could not restrain a shudder.

  “Perhaps I’ll keep you alive after all, safe in this tower until I tire of your charms. Come what may, I shall inherit your fortune, for you have no other living relatives.”

  “The Lord knows your black heart, Roderick,” she said.

  “More religion. I have used God’s house as mine these past months, and it served me well. Either He doesna care, or He canna intervene, or He doesna exist.”

  “Ye’ve been living in the chapel?”

  “Aye. Accomplices inside the castle saw to my care and feeding. The MacMurrays played easily into my hands; I fed upon their resentment and superstition. Dougal killed your father, but it should be easy enough to switch the blame to your bodyguard, since Ballantyne will back my word that Allan Croft went missing these past three days. A prompt hanging, a few legal ends to secure, and all will be mine. Including you. If you’ll join me, I shall marry you. If not, I fear you’ll pine away for loss of your father and die here in the tower.”

  Celeste studied his features and wondered how such a heartless soul could exist. “My heart pities the void it senses in yours, Roderick, and I pray the good Lord will touch ye ere ’tis too late.”

  He swore and flung her away. “I’ll give you until the morrow to ponder your fate. A laird of the castle has many tasks to occupy his time, but I might think to visit you. Be grateful for small mercies—I might have chained you in the dungeon with your lover. Dinna attempt to leave the tower; I’ve set my loyal guard upon the tower stair.”

  Celeste stared at the closed door and listened to his footsteps on the spiral staircase. As soon as silence met her ears, she sprang into action. First, a warm woolen gown and cloak. Sturdy shoes. A simple candle would not do; she lighted two lamps.

  Then, standing at the closed portal, she pressed the lever inside a recessed candle sconce.

  Chapter 8

  With the grinding of stone, a black crack opened in the wall. Narrow steps led down a stairway barely wide enough for Celeste. Blinking and taking deep breaths, she lowered her chin. Dougal had traversed it; so could she.