It was with revulsion that Adrienne wiped bits of chicken and spittle from her face when he roared, but it was with genuine alarm that she comprehended his words, through his thick brogue.
She was a godsend, he proclaimed to the room at large. She was a gift from the angels.
She would be married on the morrow.
Adrienne fainted. Her unconscious body spasmed once, then went limp. The black queen slipped from her hand, hit the floor, and was kicked under a table by a scuffed leather boot.
When Adrienne awoke, she lay still, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Beneath her back she felt the lumpy down ticks piled thickly. It could be her own bed. She had purchased antique ticks and had them restitched to plump atop her waist-high Queen Anne bed. She was in love with old things, no dithering about it.
She sniffed cautiously. No odd scents from the banquet she’d dreamt. No hum of that thick brogue she’d imagined earlier.
But no traffic either.
She strained her ears, listening mightily. Had she ever heard such silence?
Adrienne drew a ragged breath and willed her heart to slow.
She tossed on the lumpy tick. Was this how insanity occurred? Started with a vague inkling of unease, a dreadful sense of being watched, then escalated rapidly into full blown madness, only to culminate in a nightmare where a smelly, hairy beast announced her impending nuptials?
Adrienne squeezed her eyes even more tightly shut, willing her return to sanity. The silhouette of a chess set loomed in her mind; battle-ready rooks and bitter queens etched in stark relief against the insides of her eyelids, and it seemed that there was something urgent she needed to remember. What had she been doing?
Her head hurt. It was a dull kind of ache, accompanied by the bitter taste of old pennies in the back of her throat. For a moment she struggled against it, but the throbbing intensified. The chess set danced elusively in shades of black and white, then dissolved into a distant nagging detail. It couldn’t have been too important.
Adrienne had more pressing things to worry about—where in the blue blazes was she?
She kept her eyes closed and waited. A few moments more and she would hear the purr of a BMW tooling sleekly down Coattail Lane or her phone would peal angrily….
A rooster did not just crow.
Another minute and she’d hear Moonie’s questioning mer-ooow, and feel her tail swish past her face as she leapt up on the bed.
She did not hear the grate of squeaky hinges, the scrape of a door cut too long against a stone threshold.
“Milady, I know you’re awake.”
Her eyes sprang open to find a portly woman with silver-brown hair and rosy cheeks, wringing her hands as she stood at the foot of the bed. “Who are you?” Adrienne asked warily, refusing to look at any more of the room than the immediate spot that contained this latest apparition.
“Bah! Who am I she asks? The lass who pops out of nowhere, lickety-split, like a witch if you please, is wishing to know who I am? Hmmph!”
With that, the woman placed a platter of peculiar-smelling food on a nearby table, and forced Adrienne up by plumping the pillows behind her back.
“I’m Talia. I’ve been sent to see to your care. Eat up. You’ll never be strong enough to face wedding him if you doona be eating,” she chided.
With those words and a full glimpse of the stone walls hung with vividly colored tapestries depicting hunts and orgies, Adrienne fainted again—this time, with relish.
Adrienne awoke again to a score of maids bearing undergarments, stockings, and a wedding dress.
The women bathed her in scented water before a massive stone fireplace. While she huddled submerged in the deep wooden tub, Adrienne examined every inch of the room. How could a dream be so vivid, so rich with scent and touch and sound? The bathwater smelled of fresh heather and lilac. The maids chatted lightly as they bathed her. The stone fireplace was easily as tall as three men—it rose up to kiss the ceiling and sprawled along half the width of the east wall. It was bedecked with an array of artistic silver-work; delicately filigreed baskets, cunningly handcrafted roses that gleamed like molten silver, yet each petal distinct and looking somehow velvety. Above the great mantel, rough-hewn of honey oak, hung a hunt scene depicting a bloody victory.
Her study was cut short by the screech of the door. Shocked gasps and immediately hushed voices compelled her gaze over one bare shoulder, and she, too, gasped aloud. The villain with the matted rug upon his face! Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment and she sunk deeper into the tub.
“Milord, ’tis no place for you—” a maid began.
The slap ricocheted through the room, silencing the maid’s protest and halting anyone else’s before they even considered beginning. The great greasy beast from earlier in her nightmare sunk down on his haunches before the steaming tub, a leer on his face. Slitted blue eyes met steely gray as Adrienne held his rude stare levelly.
His eyes dropped from hers, searched the water line and probed below it. He grinned at the sight of her rosy nipples before she crossed her arms and hugged herself tightly.
“Methinks he doesn’t do so badly for himself,” the man murmured. Then, dragging his eyes from the water to her flushed face, he commanded, “From this moment forth, your name is Janet Comyn.”
Adrienne shot him a haughty look. “My name,” she snapped, “is Adrienne de Simone.”
Crack!
She raised a hand to her cheek in disbelief. A maid cried out a muffled warning.
“Try it again,” he counseled softly, and as soft as his words were, his blue eyes were dangerously hard.
Adrienne rubbed her stinging cheek in silence.
And his hand rose and fell again.
“Milady! We implore you!” A petite maid dropped to her knees beside the tub, placing a hand upon Adrienne’s bare shoulder.
“That’s right, give her counsel, Bess. You know what becomes of a lass foolish enough to deny me. Say it,” he repeated to Adrienne. “Tell me your name is Janet Comyn.”
When his beefy hand rose and fell again, it came down on Bess’s face with fury. Adrienne screamed as he struck the maid repeatedly.
“Stop!” she cried.
“Say it!” he commanded as his hand rose and fell again. Bess sobbed as she crumpled to the floor, but the man went down after her, his hand now a fist.
“My name is Janet Comyn!” Adrienne cried, half rising from the tub.
The Comyn’s fist halted in midair, and he sank back on his haunches, the light of victory gleaming in his eyes. Victory—and that disgusting slow perusal of her flesh.
Adrienne flushed under the sheer lechery of his pale eyes, and plunged her upper body back into the water.
“Nay, he doesn’t get a bad bargain at all. You are much more comely than mine own Janet.” His mouth twisted into a smile. “Would that I had leisure to taste such plump pillows myself, but you came just in the nick of time.”
“Came where?”
“Came from where is my question,” he countered. Adrienne realized in that instant that to underestimate this brutish man would be a grave mistake. For behind the slovenly manners and the unkempt appearance was steely mettle and rapier sharp wit. The flabby arm that had felled the blows couched muscle. The pale slitted eyes that wandered restlessly didn’t miss a beat. He hadn’t punished Bess in rage. He’d beat her in a cold, calculated act to get what he wanted from Adrienne.
She shook her head, her eyes wide with confusion. “Really, I haven’t the faintest idea how I got here.”
“You don’t know where you came from?”
Bess was sobbing softly, and Adrienne’s eyes darkened as she watched the maid curl into a ball and surreptitiously try to inch away from the Comyn. His hand shot out and fastened on the maid’s ankle. Bess whimpered hopelessly.
“Oh nay, my pretty. I may need you yet.” His eyes swept her shuddering form with a possessive leer. Adrienne gasped when he ripped Bess’s gown and proceeded to shred it from her body. Adrienne’s
stomach churned in agony when she saw the great welts rising from the maid’s pale flanks and thighs. Cruel, biting welts from a belt or a whip.
The other maids fled the room, leaving her alone with the weeping Bess and the madman.
“This is my world, Adrienne de Simone,” he intoned, and Adrienne had a premonition that the words he was about to utter would be carved deeply into her mind for a long time to come. He stroked Bess’s quivering thigh lightly. “My rules. My people. My will to command life or death. Yours and hers. ’Tis a simple thing I want of you. If you don’t cooperate, she dies. Then another and still another. I will find the very core of that foolish compassion you wear like a shroud. It makes you so easy to use. But women are that way. Weak.”
Adrienne sat hunched in silence, her labored breathing an accompaniment to Bess’s weary sobs.
“Quiet, lass!” He slapped the maid’s face, and she curled into a tighter ball, weeping into her hands to smother the sound.
One day I will kill him with my bare hands, Adrienne vowed silently.
“I don’t know how you came to be here or who you are, and frankly, I don’t care. I have a problem, and you’re going to fix it. If you ever forget what I am about to tell you, if you ever slip, if you ever betray me, I will kill you after I’ve destroyed everything you care about.”
“Where am I?” she asked tonelessly, reluctantly voicing one of the questions that had been bothering her. She was afraid that once she started asking questions, she might discover this really wasn’t a dream after all.
“I don’t care if you’re mad,” he chuckled appreciatively. “Fact is, I rather relish the thought that you might have bats flapping in your belfry. God knows, my Janet did. ’Tis no more or less than he deserves.”
“Where am I?” she insisted.
“Janet had a difficult time remembering that, too.”
“So, where am I?”
The Comyn studied her, then shrugged. “Scotland. Comyn keep—my keep.”
Her heart stopped beating within her breast. It was not possible. Had she truly gone mad? Adrienne steeled her will to ask the next question—the obvious question, the terrifying question she’d been studiously avoiding since she’d first awoken. She’d learned that sometimes it was safer not to ask too many questions—the answers could be downright unnerving. Obtaining the answer to this question could tamper with her fragile grasp on reason; Adrienne had a suspicion that where she was wasn’t quite the only problem she had. Drawing a deep breath, she asked carefully, “What year is it?”
The Comyn guffawed. “You really are a wee bit daft, aren’t you lass?”
Adrienne glared at him in silence.
He shrugged again. “’Tis fifteen hundred and thirteen.”
“Oh,” Adrienne said faintly. Ohmygodohmygod, she wailed in the confines of her reeling mind. She took a deep, slow breath, and told herself to start at the beginning of this mystery; perhaps it could be unraveled. “And who exactly are you?”
“For all intents and purposes, I am your father, lass. That’s the first of many things you must never forget.”
A broken sob temporarily distracted Adrienne from her problems. Poor abused Bess; Adrienne could not bear a person in pain, not if she could do something about it. This man wanted something from her; maybe she could bargain for something in exchange. “Let Bess go,” she said.
“Do you pledge your fealty to me in this matter?” He had the flat eyes of a snake, Adrienne realized. Like the python in the Seattle zoo.
“Let her go from this keep. Give her her freedom,” she clarified.
“Nay, milady!” Bess shrieked, and the beast chuckled warmly.
His eyes were thoughtful as he stroked Bess’s leg. “Me-thinks, Janet Comyn, you don’t understand much of this world. Free her from me and you condemn her to death by starvation, rape, or worse. Free her from my ‘loving attentions’ and the next man may not be so loving. Your own husband may not be so loving.”
Adrienne shivered violently as she struggled to tear her gaze from the plump white hand stroking rhythmically. The source of Bess’s pain was the same hand that fed her. “Protected” her. Bile rose in Adrienne’s throat, almost choking her.
“Fortunately, he already thinks you’re mad, so you may talk as you will after this day. But for this day from dawn till dusk, you will swear that you are Janet Comyn, only blood daughter of the mighty Red Comyn, sworn bride of Sidheach Douglas. You will see this day through as I tell you—”
“But what of the real Janet?” she couldn’t help but ask.
Slap! How had the man managed to hit her before she could so much as blink? As he stood quivering with rage above her, he said, “The next blows won’t be to your face, bitch, for the gown won’t cover there. But there are ways to hit that hurt the most, and leave no mark. Don’t push me.”
Adrienne was silent and obedient through all the things he told her then. His message was plain. If she was silent and obedient, she would stay alive. Dream or no dream, the blows hurt here, and she had a feeling that dying might just hurt here too.
He told her things then. Hundreds of details he expected her to commit to memory. She did so with determination; it temporarily prevented her from contemplating the full extent of her apparent insanity. She repeated each detail, each name, each memory that was not hers. From careful observation of her “father,” she was able to guess at many of the memories that had belonged to the woman whose identity she was now to assume.
And all the while a soft mantra hummed through the back of her mind. This cannot be happening. This is not possible. This cannot be happening. Yet in the forefront of her mind, realist that she was, she understood that the words can’t and impossible had no bearing when the impossible was indeed happening.
Unless she woke up soon from a nightmarish and vivid dream, she was in Scotland, the was year 1513, and she was indeed getting married.
CHAPTER 4
“SHE’S TALL AS JANET.”
“Not many as tall as she.”
“Hush! She is Janet! Else he’ll have our heads on serving platters.”
“What happened to Janet?” Adrienne asked softly. She wasn’t surprised when the mouths of a half-dozen maids clamped shut and they turned their complete attention to dressing her in stalwart silence.
Adrienne rolled her eyes. If they wouldn’t tell her a thing about Janet, perhaps they’d talk about her bridegroom.
“So, who is this man I am to wed?” Sidhawk Douglas. What kind of name was Sidhawk anyway?
The maids tittered like a covey of startled quail.
“Truth of it is, milady, we’ve only heard tales of him. This betrothal was commanded by King James himself.”
“What are the tales?” Adrienne asked wryly.
“His exploits are legendary!”
“His conquests are legion. ’Tis rumored he’s traveled the world accompanied by only the most beautiful lasses.”
“’Tis said there isna a comely lass in all of Scotia he hasna tumbled—”
“—in England, too!”
“—and he canna recall any of their names.”
“He is said to have godlike beauty, and a practiced hand in the fine art of seduction.”
“He is fabulously wealthy and rumors say his castle is luxurious beyond compare.”
Adrienne blinked. “Wonderful. A materialistic, unfaithful, beautiful playboy of a self-indulged, inconsiderate man with a bad memory. And he’s all mine. Dear sweet God, what have I done to deserve this?” she wondered aloud. Twice, she brooded privately.
Lisbelle looked at her curiously. “But the rumors tell he is a magnificent lover and most comely to look upon, milady. What could be wrong with that?”
Methinks you don’t understand this world, Janet Comyn. Perhaps he was right. “Does he beat his women?”
“He doesn’t keep them long enough, or so they say.”
“Although, I hear tell one of his women tried to kill him recently. I can’t imagin
e why,” the maid added, genuinely puzzled. “’Tis said he is more than generous with his mistresses when he’s done with them.”
“I can imagine why,” Adrienne grumbled irritably, suddenly impatient with all the plucking, fastening, adorning, and arranging hands on her body. “Stop, stop.” She lightly slapped Lisbelle’s hands from her hair, which had been washed, combed mercilessly, and teased torturously for what felt like years.
“But milady, we must do something with this hair. ’Tis so straight! You must look your best—”
“Personally, I’d prefer to look like something the cat dragged in. Wet, bedraggled, and smelling like a ripe dungheap.”
Gasps resounded. “Lass, he will be your husband, and you could do far worse,” a stern voice cut across the room. Adrienne turned slowly and met the worldly-wise gaze of a woman with whom she felt an instant kinship. “You could have mine, for lack of a better example.”
Adrienne sucked in a harsh breath. “The Laird Comyn?”
“Your father, my darling daughter,” Lady Althea Comyn said with an acid smile. “Begone—all of you.” She ushered the maids from the room with a regal hand, her eyes lingering overlong on Bess. “He’ll kill the lass one day, he will,” she said softly. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly for a long moment.
“He explained what you must do?”
Adrienne nodded.
“And you will do it?”
Again she nodded. The Lady Comyn expelled a sigh of relief.
“If there is aught a time I may repay the kindness—”
“It’s not a kindness. It’s to save my life.”
“—you need only ask. For it saves mine own.”
Adrienne stood tall before the man of the cloth, fulfilling her part of the farce. “I am Janet Comyn,” she proclaimed loudly. God’s man paled visibly and clutched his Bible until his knuckles looked to split at the seams. So he knows I’m not, she mused. What on earth is really going on here?
She felt a presence near her left shoulder, and turned reluctantly to face the man she was to wed. Her eyes met the area slightly below his breastbone and every inch of it was encased in steel.
Beyond the Highland Mist Page 3
