by Mia Marlowe
“Sometimes a body must simply do what she must, regardless of how things seem.” She turned to face him. “When something’s been laid upon ye, ye just have to do it.”
Something predatory and unfathomable flickered in the depths of her green eyes. Like a pike in the moat, darting out to snag one of the smaller fish in the dappled sunlight and disappearing again into the shadows before he could be sure he’d actually seen it.
Adam had rarely felt so challenged by a man’s intense gaze. Never by a woman’s. He wondered if he’d imagined that trick of light.
“Well, then I shall add ‘stubborn’ to what I know about ye.” When her brows drew together he was quick to add, “And I mean that in a good way. Knowing something must be done and doing it even when it’s hard is a commendable quality.”
She snorted. “It eases my heart to hear ye say so.”
“Sarcastic too. Not a trait often seen in wellborn women. Indicates strongly held opinions.” He had no doubt some solidly formed ones were rolling around in that very pretty head, but he didn’t want to discuss politics or religion with her. He wanted to know about the woman—the very prickly woman—herself. But he figured she’d resist direct questions. He’d have to perform a flanking maneuver. “Grant lands are far to the north. I’ve been that way a time or two. Have ye a favorite place thereabouts?”
She blinked several times. “Why would ye ask that?”
“My mother used to say if ye know the place someone loves, ye know them. So tell me. What place do ye love, Cait Grant?”
She swallowed hard, as if the question were difficult for her. “The sea,” she finally said. Her eyes took on a hazy, soft quality, and the wistfulness in the set of her lips made Adam’s chest constrict. “There’s a beach no’ far from my father’s stronghold where the waves dash upon the rocks and the mist rises to coat my cheeks and lashes till my eyes water.”
“If the place makes ye weep, that doesna sound verra pleasant.”
“Sometimes we weep when we are happy.”
“We? I’d ask if ye have a mouse in your pocket, but it seems ye have no pocket at the moment.”
She rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I, then. Maybe I went to the beach hoping for a selkie lover.”
“A what?”
A look of incredulity danced across her features and he realized when she wasn’t scowling at him, Cait Grant was really quite breathtaking.
“Have ye no’ heard the tales of the selkies then?” she asked.
“No, but I’m willing to listen.” He grinned at her. “And I’m no’ going anywhere soon.”
She flicked him an annoyed frown, but warmed to her subject in any case. “A selkie is a magical creature, ye ken. Sometimes he’s a seal and sometimes a man. When he walks on two legs he’s said to be verra fine to look upon. And a selkie husband is much to be desired because he’s always kind to his human wife.”
For a moment, Adam wondered if her churlishness toward him was due to fear. A woman couldn’t count on kindness from a husband. Well, he could dispel that notion for her. Theirs might not be a love match, but he’d never mistreat her. “And did ye ever meet a selkie in that special place of yours?”
“No. The old tales say all a maid has to do is weep seven tears into the sea and it will call one, but it didna work.” Cait shook her head slowly. “For all the times the brine made my eyes water, I ought to have had a dozen selkie men tripping over their flippers to find me.”
He laughed at the image her words conjured up. “’Tis my good fortune they didna,” he said gallantly. He noticed then that her lips were tinged with blue. “Here. Let me warm your bath for ye.”
Adam crossed to the fireplace and retrieved the kettle that was filled with boiling water. Then he returned to the bath. The bubbles parted in some places and her pale flesh wavered beneath the surface, but she’d strategically wrapped an arm across her breasts and the other hand shielded her sex.
“Dinna move,” he said. “I dinna wish to scald ye.”
He tipped the kettle and poured a stream of steaming water into the bath, near, but not too near, the dimpled knee that broke the surface of the water like a small island rising from a foamy sea.
She sighed as the water temperature rose. “Thank ye. That’s kindly done.”
“Weel, I canna be outdone by a seal for kindness now, can I?”
“Ye’d do well not to aspire to the life of a selkie husband,” she said. “The tales always end badly. His wife has to hide his sealskin, ye see, so he willna return to the sea, but invariably, he always finds it and has to leave. They canna bide together long.”
“Weel, we dinna have to fret over that, lass,” Adam said. “As ye said, we’ll have till death parts us.”
She shivered.
“Are ye still cold?”
She shook her head, not meeting his gaze.
When he’d agreed to take Grant’s daughter to wife, he hadn’t expected much from the arrangement. A little respite from the political wrangling. The promise of peace, but nothing personal beyond the vague hope of an heir someday.
He realized now that he could have done far worse for a bride. Cait Grant was pretty, intelligent, and she knew some engaging stories. All fine things for warming a man’s winter evenings. His gaze dipped lower, marking the way a pert nipple was peeking between her fingers. She’d warm his bed well all year round. Even if he’d chosen a wife for himself, he could hardly have done better.
She, however, didn’t seem too pleased with her side of the bargain. Her father had been his enemy for so long, she’d probably heard tales about him that were giving her pause.
Time to rectify that.
“Lass, I want to put your mind at ease. Ye have no reason to fear me, and I’ll see that ye never do.”
She met his gaze then, her eyes enormous. “Maybe ye should fear me,” she said in a small voice.
Adam laughed again, a little surprised by the number of times she’d managed to make him do that in the space of their short acquaintance. “Maybe I should, but I dinna think I will.”
He cupped the back of her head and bent to kiss her lips.
At first, he meant to only brush her mouth with his, but her lips were so soft, he lingered. She stiffened, but didn’t object. Then he felt her melt. Her lips parted and he dived into the warm wetness of her mouth.
Aye, she’d serve him well, and he’d endeavor to return the favor.
Cait’s world went wet and languid and almost unbearably sweet. When his tongue softly invaded her mouth, she welcomed it. She sensed he was bridling himself and an impatient part of her wished she could brush his caution away. It wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed before.
She supposed she had acted skittish. He probably figured there was no need to scare her off first thing.
She ought to be the one doing the scaring.
Go away, Adam Cameron, she thought vehemently. Can ye no’ feel the harm I intend toward ye?
Despite her furious thoughts of warning, her hands somehow found the linen of his shirt and tugged him closer. He deepened their kiss and set her insides dancing.
She ought not to let him kiss her. She ought to make him keep his distance. They ought not to even have speech with each other before the ceremony that would bind them together before God and man. There was no need for him to know her or her to know him. Even once they were wed, she’d counted on the candles being snuffed and the wedding night necessities being reduced to no more than a quick fumble in the dark.
An anonymous quick fumble. A joining of body parts with no corresponding meeting of hearts, minds, or souls.
That hope dissolved as Cait chased his tongue back into his mouth and he groaned with need. She let go of his shirt with one hand and reached up to stroke his hair. It was thick and abundant and soft as . . .
Oh, why had she told him about the selkies? That was such an old fantasy of hers, Cait had no idea why it had popped back into her head. It had been foolish then. It was even mor
e ludicrous now.
She’d been so very young when she started dreaming of a selkie who would come for her and take her away from the Grant stronghold. Away from the angry voice of her father. Away from the muffled sobs of her mother. Away from the puffy lips and swollen eyes and the constant whispers about how clumsy the lady must be since she tripped and hurt herself so often.
Cait never saw her mother fall. She always moved with quiet grace and dignity. Her mother hid her bruises, but she couldn’t hide the winces of pain if Cait happened to touch her arm or try to give her a hug.
A selkie would never let his wife injure herself like that.
When her mother died, Cait had crept away to that place by the sea whenever she could. At first she wept every day, hoping a selkie would come for her. Finally, she gave up hoping and just let the stark beauty of the place fill up the empty space in her soul.
And spent the rest of her days slavishly devoted to pleasing her father, the only parent left to her, and the one she never seemed able to satisfy.
Until she’d agreed to wed and then murder the laird of Bonniebroch.
Adam Cameron’s mouth slanted over hers. The kiss was a question and he made her body answer. A hot rush of something dark and delicious warmed her belly.
Damn the man. She shouldn’t have given him a glimpse into her secret place by the sea. She shouldn’t have told him about the selkies. She shouldn’t let his breath take up residence in her body and wrap itself around her insides.
She’d come to Bonniebroch to do the man to death. She couldn’t afford to let honeyed kisses or that strange warmth pooling between her legs distract her.
Cait released the shirt she’d bunched in her fists and shoved against his chest with all her might.
Adam kissed her lips once more, a gentle probing touch, and pulled back, but not nearly far enough. He cupped her cheek, running a thumb over her lips. Cait was distressed to discover she was trembling and not from cold.
“Someday,” he said, his tone soft and rough at the same time, “we’ll go north and ye’ll show me this place where ye waited for your selkie.”
Cait pulled her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. She didn’t trust her voice. She didn’t know how to say what she was thinking even if she could make a sound.
No, we won’t go north. Ye’ll be the only one going anywhere, Adam Cameron. I mean to see ye straight to hell. I have to. I swore an oath on my own blood. ’Tis my bounden duty.
He ran a hand over the crown of her head, a tender gesture. Almost more intimate than their kiss had been. It made her want to scream.
“I’ll see ye at the supper then.” He stood, and she felt the pressure of his eyes on her even though she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “We’ll be good for each other, Cait Grant. Ye’ll see. I’ll do even better by ye than your selkie man might have. Ye have my word.”
Cait didn’t glance his way until she heard the door latch behind him. She stared unmoving after him then, even though the water was getting colder by the minute.
“I tried to warn ye, Adam Cameron,” she said through chattering teeth. “A selkie tale always ends badly.”
Chapter 4
“When a man plays at magic, it leaves a mark.
Perhaps not one clearly visible to most observers, but certainly discernible enough so that another practitioner can recognize his fellow dabblers.
So far the household that bides in Bonniebroch seems to be clean. All except that Morgan MacRath who arrived with Mistress Grant. Invisible tendrils as long as his arms trail behind him and a spider’s web of spells encircles his head.”
From the journal of Callum Farquhar,
explorer, imbiber, and touched by just enough
magic to make a body wonder what I’m up to.
Callum Farquhar suspected the quality of Bonniebroch’s wine cellar was spectacular. The butler poured Rheinish wine into the dear Frankish goblets that graced the table on the dais reserved for the laird and his lady. The pale liquid glimmered in the torchlight as if it were living gold.
Everyone else in the hall was served ale. It was rich, dark, and yeasty, but it wasn’t wine.
The laird had seemed to forget all about Farquhar. Callum didn’t really blame him, given that Lord Bonniebroch had his prospective bride to attend.
The board at Bonniebroch was rippingly fine. Certainly better than the tavern fare he’d endured on his way to the castle and infinitely better than the rough bread he’d begged at crofters’ cottages when his traveling money ran out.
Farquhar kept half an eye on his new employer while he ate, noting that the laird seemed to be doing everything possible to please the lady. Adam leaned toward Cait and spoke softly enough so no one could overhear them through the din of a myriad other conversations. The laird made sure her goblet stayed filled and offered her the choicest tidbits from his own trencher.
Mistress Grant didn’t seem impressed. She stared straight ahead most of the time or fidgeted with her goblet without actually drinking much from it.
Not the actions of a happy bride. Farquhar puzzled over this while he absorbed as many of the conversations going on around him as possible. Surprisingly enough, the same folk who’d pelted him with offal when his ear had been nailed to the pillory were chatty and gregarious now that he’d been pardoned by their laird. Only Mr. Shaw, the steward, kept sending fiery darts his way in the form of glares and frowns.
Farquhar fiddled with the piece of twine he’d run through the hole in the upper flange of his ear. He’d decided to keep it open until he could afford to fill it with a truly garish ring.
That should irritate Shaw even further, he thought with a smile. And make me look like an old pirate in the process!
“I’m impressed the castle’s kitchens were able to put together a feast like this to honor the new lady on such short notice,” Farquhar said to the beefy man-at-arms on his right.
The man grunted. “’Tis no feast. Our laird is a man of liberality and insists the folk of the castle eat well every day. A man attached to Bonniebroch will ne’er feel his stomach knocking on his backbone. That’s for sure. More bread?”
Farquhar accepted the basket filled with bannocks and secreted a couple in his sporran, just in case the man was exaggerating about the laird’s generosity.
One thing Lord Bonniebroch wasn’t sharing was that wine. And Farquhar had a weakness for the fruit of the vine that bordered on sickness. Ale was all well and good, and would do in a pinch, but there was nothing like a fine vintage to make a man feel utterly civilized and slightly superior to the rest of the world while he drank himself into a stupor.
He’d been given the run of the place. While everyone else was eating their fill in the Great Hall, what was to stop Farquhar from doing a bit of reconnoitering? Who knew? He might accidentally discover the whereabouts of the rest of the laird’s stock of Rheinish.
When a young boy started wheezing a particularly unmelodious tune on a set of pipes, Farquhar decided absolutely nothing was stopping him.
He rose and slipped out of the Great Hall without exciting any notice.
Sometimes there was enough moonlight fingering its way through the arrow loops to see the chambers he passed through, but when he came upon a torch sputtering in a wall sconce, he liberated it. The smell of burning pitch assaulted his nostrils, but it was better than groping in the semidarkness.
Finally, he spied a set of stairs leading downward and decided to take them. A wine cellar would undoubtedly be below ground. Someplace cool and dark and vaguely mushroom-ish. With any luck, perhaps he’d discover the cool larder as well, where wheels of cheese might be aging. He’d cut himself a nice little sliver of fromage to go with the bottle of Rheinish he intended to pilfer.
With such felonious thoughts to keep him company, he was a little aghast when he stumbled into a room that could only be the dungeon. Three barred cells opened off the main chamber. Thankfully, they all seemed to be empty. The air was musty and s
till as though the place hadn’t seen much use for a long time, but a note of rusting iron and ancient misery crept into him with each breath.
There were a number of evil-looking devices spread about the space—a gibbet that was mercifully unoccupied in the corner, a cold hearth that had probably heated its share of hot pincers, and an assortment of manacles still affixed to the stone walls. The one thing that surprised him was a long looking glass suspended from the heavily beamed ceiling in the center of the chamber.
Something about it made the hair on his scalp prickle. He approached it with caution, trying to walk on the balls of his feet, making as little noise as possible. The silvered glass was age-spotted. Another surprise. Making a mirror by affixing a thin layer of metal behind glass was a fairly new method. This looking glass seemed to be of both new design and extreme age. And in all his travels, he’d never seen one quite this large.
His reflection was only slightly distorted, but there was another type of energy emanating from the glass along with his image. The mirror was lousy with magic. If spells were lice, the slick surface would be crawling.
He shivered and made the sign against evil with his thumb and forefinger.
“So, ye feel it too.” A voice came from behind him in the dark.
Farquhar whirled around to find Morgan MacRath stepping from the shadows.
He swallowed hard. When he first met Mistress Grant’s factor, he’d felt a strange ripple of power emanating from the man. Now he knew why.
MacRath must know as much about the castle’s affinity for magic as I do. Maybe more.
“I . . . dinna ken what ye mean,” Farquhar said. “I’m only after finding the wine cellar.”
One corner of MacRath’s mouth quirked up. “Let us not dissemble, ye and I. We are both men of power. I see it on ye and no doubt ye’ve been aware of me since our first meeting. What I’m really interested in is what ye seek here in Bonniebroch.”
“I seek to serve its laird.”
