by Sondra Grey
Like Eve in the garden, she thought. Was Calum the apple, or the serpent?
“I best check on his lairdship,” she murmured to Mrs. Allan, and the woman looked up and pinned Isla with her all-knowing grey gaze.
“Have a care for yourself,” she said, her voice pitched so that no one else could hear. “You’re a beautiful lass, Thomasina, and no doubt the Laird has his eye on you. A man would be a fool not to notice such a lovely face and figure – and Calum Grant is no fool. But you’ll not ruin yourself here, understand?”
Isla nodded again. Had Deirdre given her the advice, Isla might have scorned it, but Mrs. Allan wasn’t her mother. She knew the Laird, and knew this castle, so was best to be heeded.
CHAPTER SIX
I sla knocked on the door to the Laird’s chamber and it was Geordie who opened it. He smiled at her, but he didn’t reach his eyes. He looked harried, blond hair sticking up in several directions. From behind him she heard Calum, “Enough is enough! I can’t take the blasted knocking!”
Isla reached out and touched Geordie’s wrist in sympathy.
“I brought this fresh,” said Isla, handing the mortar full of arnica paste to Geordie. “Wash the old poultice from the wound and rub this around the swelling,” she instructed.
“He’ll not get that close to me,” said Calum, voice firm with authority. “I’ve had enough of the fool. Leave MacNair.”
Geordie smiled sympathetically at Isla and made to leave, but Isla spoke up. “You’d better stay, Geordie. I’ll be leaving soon and it would be good of you to learn how to do this.” She pitched her voice so that Calum could hear.
“Geordie MacNair, get the bloody hell out of my bedchamber and the close the damned door behind you.”
Isla turned past Geordie to stare into the room where the Laird of Dundur was now sitting up and staring moodily in their direction.
“If Geordie leaves he’s to stand outside and the door stays open,” said Isla. She knew how to handle cranky patients and spoke with a soft, firm authority. It worked, for Calum didn’t argue. Instead, he frowned at her. “Stay outside please,” Isla said to Geordie, “and send one of the cousins to Mrs. Allan and see if she’d make some willow-bark tea. She knows where I store my plants.”
Geordie nodded and left, leaving the door ajar.
Isla ignored Calum, sitting on the bed, and moved instead to the fireplace where she picked up the tin kettle and filled it with water from the washstand. She threw another log on the fire and poked at it for a minute, trying to gather her wits before facing the imposing Laird of Dundur. The silence in the room stretched awkwardly, but Isla was committed to maintaining her distance. No more personal conversations, no more mild flirtation. Mrs. Allan was right. Calum Grant was a temptation she would not be led into further.
When the kettle was close to boiling, Isla removed it from the hook above the fire and poured it into a shallow bowl. Then she turned to face the bed.
Calum was staring at her, gaze intense and hot as the fire behind her. Isla felt a responding flame quicken within her breast. Blinking, breaking his gaze, Isla moved to the bedside table, setting the bowl down, wetting a cloth, and rinsing last night’s poultice from his wound.
Rather than close his eyes, Dundur watched her, gaze burning into the side of her face as she dabbed the arnica gently onto the contusion.
“The hens are clucking, are they?” he said finally.
“Excuse me?” Isla asked, pretending she didn’t know what he meant. She shouldn’t be surprised that he was so perceptive. Calum’s dark brown eyes caught hers again, flashing once more with fiery heat. Warmth spread through Isla’s stomach, winding lower, and she put down the mortar lest he see her hands shake.
“Do they know you spent the night in my arms?” Isla gasped and stared at him in disappointment. A gentleman would not have mentioned last night. But Calum’s eyes were still smoldering, his lips quirked in amusement.
“No. They know nothing, and I’d appreciate you not informing them,” she said, but her heart hammering in her chest and her admonition lacked its usual venom.
He seemed to have nothing to say in response. Isla turned to leave, but his hand lashed out and caught her wrist, enveloping it in a hot grip. He gave a tug and she stumbled an unwilling step closer to the bed.
Hand firmly grasped about her wrist, he turned her palm over in his hand and stared at it. “So, these are healer’s hands?” he murmured, drawing finger down the center. Goosebumps erupted along Isla’s spine, and she shivered.
“Geordie is outside,” she said, her voice husky with unconcealed desire. Oh, where was her steel now? Where was her self-control?
“Geordie can’t hear us from here, and all he sees is you standing over me,” said the laird with a small smile. “You can make a scene if you’d like.”
At that, Isla tugged her hand but the laird held fast to it. “I’m bored Thomasina. And you’re lovely entertainment. You’ll dine with me tonight. And you’ll play chess. We’ll bring the board in from the sitting room.”
“I have another patient to see to, and I’ll not be ordered about because you’re bored.”
He thought about that for a moment and he inclined his head in ascent. “You are absolutely right. Thomasina, angel on earth possessing Satan’s own tongue, will you do me the honor of keeping me company for dinner tonight and amusing me with a game a chest. I find I am churlish and bored and…aching for your company.”
She tried to understand what he meant by aching. He’d placed such emphasis on the word and his amused smile told her that she was being made fun of. Satan’s own tongue? Did he think he was Eve in this scenario?
“We shall see,” she said, tartly. This time, when she tugged her hand, he let her go.
She had no intention of going back to Calum’s rooms that evening. Though he had an impressive knot on his head and a good gash near his hairline, he’d recover in a day or so. Geordie could tend to him. Mrs. Allan was right: unless she was planning on staying here, it would do no good to make a paramour of the Laird of Dundur.
Isla was popular at dinner that evening. Most of the clansmen wanting an update on their Chieftain and took turns sitting next to Isla and peppering her with questions.
“He’s been in a foul mood all day,” said Allan, coming in to eat dinner when it was nearly finished. He sat down beside his wife, and it was clear that he’d been with the Laird that afternoon, since he harried and exasperated.
“That bad, then?” asked his wife.
“He’s a bear when he’d hurt. Remember when he fell from thatching the village crofts? Twisted his knee? When was that? A few months ago?”
“A few years,” Responded his wife.
“Well it feels like yesterday,” muttered Allan darkly. “And he’s asking for you,” he said, pinning Isla with a look that somehow blamed her for his Laird’s foul mood.
“He doesn’t need me,” said Isla. “And it’s not my fault he’s cranky. Blame the horse that kicked him.”
Allan grumbled and took a long draught of ale, then signaled for more.
Mrs. Allan shook her head. “It’s the laird’s own fault he’s hurt. He might have let Campbell fend for himself. But our Calum has always taken matters into his own hands. Even as a boy. His father would tell him to do something, and if Calum thought it best, he might do it. But if it didn’t suit him, he’d do as he pleased. Made the old Laird furious. Calum’s brother would bend to his father’s wishes, but Calum went his own way.”
“Hmph,” said Allan, as if that were putting it mildly. “And got himself into quite a few scrapes while he was at it.”
“What happened to his brother?” asked Isla, remembering that she’d meant to find out.
Mrs. Allan pressed her lips together and shot her husband an unreadable look. If she was looking to Allan to for permission or censure, she received nothing but a bland stare. She pitched her voice low. “The boys weren’t the closest. Lachlan Grant liked to pit the boys ag
ainst each other, which caused no small amount of strife. Graeme was a serious, biddable boy. And anything that Graeme did, Calum strove to do the opposite. There was a clash nearly eight years back, between the Campbells and the Lamont’s. Maire was fresh married to The Campbell’s son and so the Grants went to aid them. Graeme was never as good as Calum with a broadsword. He was slain in the battle. Lachlan blamed the younger for not defending the elder, and even went so far as to accuse Calum of plotting with the Lamont’s to kill Graeme. He banished Calum from the lands.”
Isla shook her head, awed at such a terrible story, full of questions, “How long was he banished for?”
“Two years. Until the old man was on his death bed. Lachlan called his son back just so that Calum could watch Lachlan name Fergus as his successor.
Isla gasped audibly, and Mrs. Allan nodded her head. “Oh yes.”
“But how then is Fergus not chieftain?”
“The Grant himself, the Red Bard, forbade it. He even rode down to insure the exchange of power. And there were enough clansmen here who supported Calum over Fergus.”
“Which explains the tension between them,” murmured Isla, bewildered.
“Oh ho, it goes deeper than that,” said Allan darkly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Mrs. Allan looked about her to make sure no one was listening, and she leaned in close. “It’s not just the Chieftainship between the cousins. Around the time of his brother death, Calum was courting Greer Muir. But then Calum was banished, and when Lachlan named Fergus successor, Greer pledged her troth to Fergus. Once The Red Bard came in and gave the lairdship back to Calum…” Mrs. Allan shook her head. “Well, it’s not known for sure, but it’s rumored that Greer tried to make amends and he cast her naked from his chambers.”
Isla’s eyes grew wide. How terrible. How fantastic. At least the tension between Calum and his cousin made sense now, as did Greer’s animosity towards Isla. From her observances of the woman, Isla knew she was still in love with Calum. She was willing to bet Greer had been in love with Calum then, too, but had leapt at the chance to be a Lady. “What a fantastic story.”
“Well, we can smile about it now,” said Mrs. Allan, shrugging her shoulders. “At the time, it was terribly tense here. Fergus refused leave the castle, which was a surprise. And the Laird has given him partial stewardship duties – but I don’t think either man trusts the other.” She looked up the table to where Fergus sat a few seats down from the head, his wife at his side.
“WHERE’S THE HEALER-LASS?”
Lady Campbell’s boisterous boom cracked across the great hall, and Isla winced. The Laird’s sister stood at the entrance to the great hall, hands on her wide hips, dark eyes scanning the room until they came to rest on Isla.
“Best get up, Lass,” muttered Allan, smiling into his mug.
Mrs. Allan stared at Lady Campbell, looking worried. “You’d best go before she makes more of a scene. I’ll go and brew a cup of the willow bark tea, and bring it up shortly.”
“My thanks,” said Isla, standing up from the table and heading towards where Lady Campbell waited with mock sternness.
“What sort of healer ignores her patients, eh?” said the Lady loudly, winking at Isla. She was not drunk, Isla noted – thank goodness. She was just in good spirits.
“The hungry sort,” said Isla, following as the larger woman lead her to the stairs, “The sort with a modicum of self-preservation.”
“Yes,” said Lady Campbell, “My brother can be a terror when he’s injured. But it’s nothing the company of a pretty lass won’t cure.”
Isla pursed her lips but said nothing. It seemed whether they meant to or not, the whole castle was intent on ruining her reputation. She doubted there’d be this much to do about visiting the Laird’s chamber if she’d been hideous. The thought gave her some succor. She needed to remember that she did have a bit of power of her own. Deirdre used to tell her, “If you stop that tongue of yours, there’s not a man in Elleric wouldn’t lay down in the mud to let you walk atop him.”
When they arrived at Calum’s door, the Laird smiled, eyeing Isla with an almost child-like smugness.
Isla inclined her head. Her eyes lit on Geordie as he hauled a large wooden table into the room, placing it near the bed. He looked tired and worried. Isla cocked her head at him in silent invitation, but he shook his once. Either he didn’t want to speak in front of the Laird or he didn’t want to speak at all.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to bore the lass by playing chess?” demanded Lady Campbell from the doorway.
“What did you think we were going to do Maire? There’s naught more she can do for my head but lop it from my shoulders.” The Laird grimaced. Someone (Isla wondered who) had plaited his dark hair loosely back from his face, revealing the extent of his injury. The welt and the bruising were brutal in their starkness. With the injury and the scowl, he looked more forbidding than usual.
Isla headed into the solar, trying not to gawp at the beautiful rug on the floor, or the large, ornately carved and polished desk by the corner windows. Geordie had taken the chess set off the table when he moved it, and Isla picked up the wooden box from the floor, grunting a bit at its unexpected weight. What were the pieces made of? Stone?
As she re-entered the room Geordie was leaving, and Lady Campbell was still standing in the door, grinning widely at her brother. “I don’t think I will return home. I think I’ll wait to see the MacLeod’s when they come.”
“You’ll do no such thing or you’ll be sleeping in the stables. I’ll house Leith and his lads in the fine rooms, and I’ll send you and Jon to sleep in the stalls next to my horse.”
Lady Campbell sucked air between her teeth, “Ooo you’re a nasty piece of work, Calum Grant. You see if I don’t stay.” But she was chuckling to herself as she walked out.
“She won’t stay,” said Calum, though Isla couldn’t tell if he was speaking to himself or to her. He turned to look at her then, but whatever heat she’d seen in his gaze earlier in the day had been banked. He looked weary now, with deep lines beneath his eyes that hadn’t been there a day or two ago. “She’ll go back to take care of her daughters. She can’t stand to be away from them long, much as she threatens to remain and torment me.”
Isla hefted the box onto the heavy round table now placed near the bed. Opening the box revealed a series of pieces carved from marble. Isla picked up the queen, marveling at the detail, at the black veins in the white surface. She thought it strange how the castle itself was modestly outfitted with well made, but well-worn furniture and tapestries, yet within these chambers were touches of real finery. The chess set was an extravagant one. The rug in the solar was unlike anything Isla had ever seen.
Isla set the board up, thinking to herself that she’d prefer to play with the pieces on the warn chess set in the corner. She was worried she might knock one of the pieces down and break it.
As if he could hear her thoughts, Calum said, “’Twas a gift, from the Clan Chief’s son.”
“Are you close with your clan Chief then?” Isla was going to be polite. No snide remarks. No flirting. She was going to be uninteresting as a stone on a mountain.
“No, The Lord of Freuchie and I are quite close. I spent two years in castle Grant with his son James. Overrun with daughters, The Red Bard is. He was pleased that my presence evened the numbers. You may make the first move.”
“Thank you,” said Isla, who moved a pawn forward without much thought.
“Ah,” said Dundur, as if that move had revealed something important. “Take the second pawn from the right and move it one space forward.”
They played in silence for a few minutes, enough for Isla to understand that she was desperately outmatched.
When Mrs. Allan came in with the tea, Isla barely registered her appearance. When the woman set it down on the nightstand and the laird lifted it to drink, Isla hoped the pain alleviant muddled his wits. At this rate, the game would not last the hour.
Thirty minutes later Isla was trapped, two moves away from annihilation, and she was fuming.
“Would you like a bit of advice?” asked Calum dryly. Minutes had passed with Isla making no moves what-so-ever.
She ignored him and continued to stare at the board. She hated being bested. Whenever Gavin beat her, it would take him hours, and there were even a few times when she’d managed to win, herself.
Calum began tapping his fingers on the bedside table, and Isla glared at him. His response was a wolfish smile. He knew there was no way out for her.
“Take her then,” said Isla, flicking over her queen with bad grace. She hoped the damn marble cracked. It didn’t.
Calum let out a laugh and then abruptly stopped, hand coming up to his head as though to protect it. When he lowered his hand, he was still smiling. “I thought you might be a sore loser and I am justified in my early judgement. Thank you for the win and the satisfaction.”
He was gloating and, in that moment, she hated him. So, she was predictable, was she? Isla got up and walked the length of the room. She was coming to a disturbing realization: Either Gavin hadn’t been that brilliant of a chess player, or he’d been letting her win.
She’d no doubt that Gavin Stewart was not as canny as Malcolm Grant, but she’d a sneaking suspicion that Gavin had also been letting her win. He’d let her believe she was savvier than she was, either to allow them more time to spend together, or to keep her from becoming enraged. Either way, that the Laird had guessed she be a sore loser made things all the worse.
Making a decision, Isla whirled to face him. He was watching her, laughing no longer. Instead he looked predatory, as wolfish as his title suggested: Intent, eyes focused, nostrils flaring slightly as if he scented prey.
Isla swallowed and straightened her spine. Ignoring his reaction to her. “All right,” she said. “Teach me to play better.”
That she surprised him was evident, but he recovered quickly and waved her magnanimously back to the board. Isla strode over. Sweeping her skirts out of the way, she plopped down into the chair.
