“And I’m not even mentioning William’s failure to bring Thomas’s wee daughter, Miriam, back to her own clan folk.”
Gilbert sat back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully at the elderly priest. There was no purpose in arguing. Half of what the chaplain said was true. More than half. Still, though, there was no way that Gilbert could see his brother marrying.
Much to Gilbert’s chagrin, William openly preferred the company of the fallen women at the Three Cups Tavern to any lass who had been properly brought up. In fact, this past fall when he’d finally allowed Gilbert to drag him along to visit with the earl of Caithness’s daughter--under the pretense of a hunting party--William had said as much to the poor lass herself. Gilbert cringed at the memory of the young woman running, horrified, across the heather-covered meadow back to the arms of an indignant mother.
Gilbert and William were only two years apart in age while Thomas had been more than twelve years their senior. As the result of this age difference, the younger brothers had been inseparable as lads. And later on, when Gilbert had pursued a life in the church and William had been sent away to St. Andrew’s--and later to the household of Lord Herries--the two still had managed to remain close. They were not just brothers but friends as well. And it was as a friend and not as kin that Gilbert Ross had determined that his older brother was perfectly content with whom he’d become--despite the fact that he had been called upon to be laird. Changing him at this stage in his life would be as difficult as chiseling in stone with a willow branch.
“‘Tis up to you, Gilbert! You have the power and the influence to do a great deal more good than repairing an ancient chimney. St. Duthac’s will survive. You, however, have the ability to preserve the Ross name and, in so doing, save that undisciplined rogue you call brother at the same time.” Father Francis lowered his eyes to the open page of the ledger. “You have the insight to force him to settle into a calmer and more respectable life. To find the right lass. That’s what he needs, Gilbert. Just the right lass to calm his wild ways.”
Perhaps, Gilbert thought with a resigned smile. But pity the woman.
******
William Ross cursed out loud as the squirming, kicking banshee landed a solid punch to the small of his back. Who would have thought that fighting off an entire company of Sinclairs would be easier than controlling the woman he’d thrown over his shoulder?
The woman’s scream had brought all hell down around their ears. The moment he’d tried to drag her over the low wall, she’d dug in her heels, caterwauling as William had never heard before. For a wee thing she was...vigorous.
The riot that immediately ensued upturned carts and tore down tents. The Sinclairs were quick to pour into the alleyway, but the Ross farmers were equally quick to head them off once they knew the laird was involved.
Grimacing at the pain shooting through his lower back, William swung his sword at the advancing leader of the Sinclairs, and the sound of clashing steel rang out above the sounds of the shouting crowd.
Shoving the Sinclair warrior back into the tumultuous battle behind him, William once again tried to back over the low wall. As the Sinclair leader lunged at him again, the toothless old farmer from the market square tackled him with a vitality that William would have never thought he had in him, thumping the man’s head resoundingly on the frozen earth. The Sinclair sword clattered against the wall at William’s feet.
As the farmer sat up on the man’s chest and winked, the woman dangling over the laird’s shoulder dug her claws into William’s buttocks. He shifted her weight farther up over his shoulder and heard her gasp at the threat of dashing her head against the wall.
“We’re going out the south lane to a boat at the firth,” he shouted to the old farmer. “Keep these blackguards busy for me.”
“Aye,” the crofter shouted back before two brawlers came tumbling over him.
She was again using her fists on his buttocks and legs.
“Quit your squirming,” William growled, vaulting the wall and starting across the ditch. “Or I’ll ding you so hard, lass, you’ll think you’re back in England.”
“Let me go, you filthy brute, or I swear I’ll dig your ugly eyes out of their sockets with my own fingers.”
He started up the far embankment toward a stand of trees and the horses. “Is that not a wee bit violent for a mild and gentle English damsel? Nay, let me think on this again. You’ll take my eyes out so you can put them back in my face, and more to your liking. How do you sort eyes, m’lady? By color or--?”
“I’d stuff one into that gaping maw of yours if there were a chance you’d choke on it!”
“Now, there’s an arrangement I would never have thought of.” Reaching the two waiting horses, William hesitated and sheathed his sword. He could hear the brawl still going full-tilt in the market square. There was no way that the woman clawing his back was going to ride alone. Yanking free one of the tethers, he swatted the horse on the rump, sending it trotting off a ways.
Her gasp of shock at being thrown like a sack over the withers of the other horse brought a devilish smile to his lips, and he leaped onto the animal himself. As William spurred the steed into action, he took a firm hold on the cloak at the nape of her neck, keeping her draped precariously over the horse.
“I’ll kill you,” she screamed, eliciting a gruff laugh from him. “I swear I will!”
The jump over a low stone wall and down across an icy brook turned her threats into another gasping cry. Her hands clutched his boot in desperation as he looked over his shoulder. Three of the Sinclair men had broken away from the chaos and were running across the market square after them.
In a moment William and his prize had entered the scrubby pines to the south of Fearnoch, and he abruptly wheeled his charger to the west, galloping over stony, uneven ground--and away from the boat landing on the firth.
“Let me up, you blackguard,” she cried out, squirming again. “The little I had in my belly is ready to...is ready to...”
“Feel free, lass. ‘Twould be far better to get rid of it down there than in my lap.”
In a few minutes of hard riding, they broke out of a patch of trees and onto a well-traveled road that led from the town along the line of hills to the west.
The woman was now groaning at every dip and turn in the road, but William was not ready to slow their flight. When the road turned southward again toward Fearnoch Firth, the Ross laird reined his horse sharply to the right, leaving the main road and continuing west through thick groves of pine.
Looking back over his shoulder again, William could see no sign of the Sinclair men. They were on foot and heading south toward the firth. It would be far too late once they realized their mistake. The pursuers would never catch them now.
Swerving just in time to dodge a low-hanging branch, he shoved the woman’s head hard against the flank of his horse to avoid her face being whipped by the lower branches.
After a few more jumps over fallen trees, they splashed through a half-frozen stream. Slowing on the far bank, he peered down at her. She was no longer squirming or even groaning.
William eased the pressure on the back of her neck and raised her face a bit. It was a rather odd shade of green, he thought. Well, she hadn’t been exaggerating about being ill. His horse’s shoulder and forearm showed signs of the woman’s breakfast.
At the foot of a stone ledge beside the stream, the Highlander reined his horse to a stop and climbed off. The sight of her, draped like a rag across the withers of the horse, brought a frown to his face. He reached across the animal and dragged the Englishwoman toward him. His frown deepened as she drooped over his arm in a dead faint. He crouched on the gravel of the bank and cradled her in his arms.
Pushing the hood of her heavy cloak over her head, William stared at the woman. Something tightened in his chest at the sight of her pale and disheveled condition. Her black hair had for the most part escaped its braid and now was lying in a tantalizing array around a pe
rfectly formed face. Her eyes were half closed and her full lips were parted, her breaths unsteady. Even in her tousled condition--nay, perhaps because of it--William knew that she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
Shaking off such thoughts with a snort, he pulled at the tie that bound the cloak at her throat. With little help the outer garment dropped away, revealing the careful embroidery work in the soft gray wool of her dress. A pulse fluttered at the base of her ivory throat, and William’s gaze swept downward over womanly curves not even her demure dress could hide. He looked away at the gurgling stream, feeling a sudden ache in his loins at the sight of a woman so beautiful...and so vulnerable.
“Easy does it, Will,” he murmured to himself. “This is not the lass for you.”
When he looked back at her a trice later, her eyes were just beginning to focus. The violet blue orbs gazed up into his face without recognition for a long moment, and then suddenly narrowed. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he quickly subdued it and looked away from her face. Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he stood her up, gently leading her to the edge of the stream.
“I can see you’re not much for riding.”
“I hate you!” Her voice was a mere whisper.
“Nay, you do not.” Seating her on the ground by the running water, William dipped his hand in the icy water and wiped her chin, the silky softness of her cheeks and brow. “You are grateful to me. For saving your life. For rescuing you from those rascals.”
Her eyes were fixed on his face, and when he glanced at them, he could see the anger blazing in their depths. She slapped his hand away from her face, and he sent a silent prayer of relief heavenward. He didn’t need to be touching that face right now.
Rising to his feet, the Highlander took a step back. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her slender back as she leaned over the water, washing her face and drinking from the icy brook.
A long moment passed. The woman was kneeling beside the water, tidying her hair with her back to him. Suddenly William realized she must be cold. Striding across the loose gravel, he was reaching down to pick up her cloak when another thought struck him. Despite being a captive for months and despite what he’d gone through to save her life, she was still no more than a pampered court lady. And an English one, even worse!
“Are you a madman?”
She was standing up and facing him, her hands on her hips and eyes flashing. He threw the cloak at her, and she caught it. Yanking it around her shoulders, she quickly fastened the ties at her throat. She looked like a warrior donning armor for battle.
“Mad? Nay, I am a Ross.”
The anger in her gaze flickered with uncertainty, a frown replacing the glare for just an instant before a very tantalizing half smile broke out on the corner of her lips. Shaking her head slightly, she turned away, using the corner of her cloak to dry her face. It took great willpower on his part not to close the distance between them and take over the task himself. If she was not who she was, he would easily give up a night’s sleep kissing away those droplets, drying each glistening bead with the soft touch of his mouth.
“I don’t know enough of the clans and the ways of you Highlanders. Am I to understand that being a madman and being a Ross are the same thing?”
“Mind your tongue.”
She carefully tucked a loose strand of hair into her braid and glanced at him, catching him staring. He scowled at her and looked over at his horse.
“Why did you take me from the village?”
“I--I did not take you. I rescued you.” He shook his head and cast a quick look at her, grumbling, “Most likely saved your life.”
She rolled her eyes in disbelief and pulled the heavy hood over her hair.
“Och,” William uttered under his breath. He was a fool to think she’d actually appreciate what he had done. “‘Twas not my choosing to come after you. And if you give me trouble, woman...”
“Do you intend to do me harm?”
The Highlander grunted an obscenity and, turning around, whistled for his horse. “So like the rest of them!”
“The rest of whom?”
“The rest of your type! Selfish! That’s the whole lot of you. ‘Tis bred into you and nurtured at every turn. And ungrateful, too. You’ll bite the hand that feeds you! Of that I’ve no doubt.”
“Ungrateful?”
He led his horse back to the brook. He could hear her approaching behind him. Ignoring her, he crouched down beside his horse and started rinsing off the steed’s shoulder and leg.
“I’m supposed to be grateful because you turned a peaceful market square into a battleground in a matter of moments? Because you took me, against my will, from the people who--?”
“I am finished talking to you, woman. The sooner I’m rid of you, the better.” He stood up beside the horse. “If you give your word to behave, I’ll let you ride behind me this time. Gilbert is no doubt thinking I--”
The blow to his head was sharp and heavy, and William stumbled forward against his horse. The flashes of a thousand suns exploded in front of his eyes, but the Highlander half turned in an attempt to see the woman behind him.
“Wh...yer...message...”
He tried to take a step toward her as she swung the rock again. He watched, unable to lift his arm and ward off the blow.
“Sis...ter.”
And then, suddenly, he was falling. The woman disappeared from his sight. The flashing suns disappeared. Even the gravel of the streambed disappeared, and an abyss opened beneath him, as black and silent as a grave.
CHAPTER 3
“She may be the gentlest creature I’ve ever known.” The old nun pursed her wrinkled lips. “She is certainly the smartest and the most agreeable woman her age I’ve ever met. Oui, I tell you, Laura Percy was an angel sent from God above to help us in a time of greatest need.”
The wiry, squint-eyed monk motioned to the three burly Lowlanders to remain in the corridor as he followed the aging nun into the cold work room. Peering critically about the sparsely furnished room, the clergyman’s gaze came to rest on the tiny fire burning in the hearth.
The nun gestured toward a pair of low three-legged stools set by the hearth, and the monk wordlessly removed a small basket filled with spools of fine colored thread from one. The old woman sat on the other and picked up a stretcher of half-embroidered linen, waiting for the monk to continue.
“So then, it must be at least three months that she’s been here.”
She nodded. “She arrived here at a most critical time. I had been bedridden with the flux for days. My own nuns were distraught at the thought of me dying and leaving them to fend for themselves. What with our little bit of planted ground ready for harvest, and the linens we’d completed needing to be taken to harvest markets-- ‘twas all too much for them, I’m afraid. And then...well, suffice it to say that we were in great, great need.”
The monk idly picked up a rough-cut block of peat from the floor beside the hearth and examined it. “I assume she arrived by boat?”
“Oui,” she said in response, her hands deftly working the intricate design with her needle. “I was far too ill to notice, but from what my nuns have told me, the same storm that flattened our flax field beside the storage shed brought her to us. ‘Twas a fierce storm, they tell me, and the ship bringing Laura north was forced to take shelter here at Loch Fleet rather than try to make the journey back into Fearnoch Firth. Of course, I did not learn of the details until I began to recover weeks later. By the grace of God, Laura simply took over, calming my nuns and managing to bring about order again. Why, the child even took charge of my care.”
The mother superior’s hands paused in their rapid movements, and her dark eyes focused on the monk.
“Some of my nuns believe that ‘twas their prayers that directed the storm’s winds--and that ship bearing Laura--to our little bit of coast.”
The monk stared at the woman a moment, and then thr
ew the block of peat into the fire.
“Aye, no doubt,” he growled. “And you say you are expecting her back anytime now?”
“Oui.” The woman’s busy hands returned to their work. “Before dark, to be sure. But first, I must tell you as much as I can about all the good deeds that Laura Percy has done around here. Since you have the privilege of escorting her back to her mother, I want you to have all the details. You must compliment Lady...Lady...what was her name again?”
“Percy!” the monk grunted, tossing another block of peat on the fire.
“But wasn’t she a Scottish lass? From what Laura has said...”
“Aye, Nichola Erskine Percy. She is Scottish.”
“Oui! Lady Erskine!” The nun nodded agreeably, ignoring the growing note of irritation evident in the monk’s tone. “She has done a very fine job of raising her daughter.”
The monk came restlessly to his feet and walked to the small window that looked out over the road from Fearnoch. “I’ll tell Lady Nichola.”
“Laura has a gift, I believe, for managing things. All it takes her is one look at things and then--”
“How many went to Fearnoch with her this day?”
The nun paused, surprised at the monk’s question. “Ah! Well, you are correct in assuming that we don’t send her there all alone. With our little Convent of St. Agnes on the road from Rumster Castle, I could see no sense in risking her life. I simply asked a favor of Sir Walter, our benefactor, and he happily agreed to it.”
“What kind of favor?” The monk half turned toward the nun, rubbing his hand over his grizzled chin.
“The favor of an escort on market days, of course. Since Laura is half English...and a pretty thing, at that...” The nun’s hands paused again mid-stitch. “I thought it best for everyone involved. From what I hear, Sir Walter’s men have become quite protective of her over these months. With so many rogues traveling along these coasts, ‘tis quite important to protect a thing as precious as our Laura.”
The Enchantress Page 2
