“He is already betrothed.”
“Pardon me?”
“Jamie Fraser is marrying in the spring. And unless you want to start bloodshed again between the MacKintosh and the Fraser, I say it would be safer if you did nothing to interfere with that match.”
Gilbert glanced again at William, who appeared to be looking over the castle’s ledger book by the light of the fire. A light tap at the door attracted both men’s gazes, and as Symon entered carrying a pitcher of ale and two cups, the provost gestured toward the worktable. Without a word the steward turned and left the chamber, leaving the door ajar.
Gilbert was silent for a few moments before he spoke again.
“How about the MacLeans?”
William closed the ledger book and placed it in the cabinet. “What about them?”
“You and Wyntoun spent a great deal of time together at Lord Herries's holding.”
“Aye, so what of it?” William stood still, a deep frown on his face.
Gilbert waited, watching his brother’s frozen stance. “His father is getting on in years. Duart Castle is a fine holding, by all accounts. From everything I hear of him--from all that you yourself have told me, Wyntoun MacLean is a good man.”
“Aye, as far as rogues go. But he’s no marrying man, to my thinking. He certainly wouldn’t stand for an arranged match.”
“He is escorting little Miriam here. Since he is coming, it does not have to be arranged. Or at least, we won’t present it to him as such.”
William turned an accusing eye on Gilbert. “What are you going to do? Trick him into marrying the woman?”
“There will be no tricks necessary. None but Laura Percy’s natural charms.”
“You mean her biting tongue?”
“Some men find that charming, and I believe you yourself would--” Gilbert ceased, seeing the young woman standing in the doorway. She was staring at William but then looked away, and the provost smiled broadly as he extended a hand in welcome. “I’m so glad you’re here, mistress. William and I were just discussing the merits of--”
“I heard. I could not help overhearing...some of your conversation.” She stepped into the room and took the proffered chair by the worktable.
Gilbert noted with some amusement that William didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off her face, though she never spared the laird another glance.
“As you may have heard us speaking of him, Wyntoun MacLean is the man that William and I agree would be a very suitable--”
“He is not my recommendation,” the Ross laird asserted sharply.
“You were saying, provost.” Laura moved in the chair, turning away from the laird.
“Sir Wyntoun MacLean. He will one day soon be laird of Duart Castle in the Western Isles. A young man of...well, at William’s age, he is a rather accomplished fellow, educated and wealthy. He is a fairly handsome man, too, wouldn’t you say, brother?” He ignored the snort from the far side of the chamber. “As I was saying, Sir Wyntoun could be quite suitable for a lady of your background.”
She simply nodded and stared down at the fingers entwined in her lap.
“Another advantage in recommending Wyntoun is that he is the one given the charge of bringing our niece here from Hoddom Castle. So, my suggestion is this, we wait until he arrives. Since William will naturally extend his old friend an invitation to stay through Christmastide--” there was another snort that Gilbert let go by, “you’ll have ample opportunity to study the man and decide for yourself if he would prove a good match.”
Laura's violet-blue eyes lifted and watched the laird as he started pacing the far end of the chamber.
“And if your opinion is favorable--which I am certain ‘twill be--then William and I will approach Wyntoun on your behalf.”
“I’ll not be doing any approaching. Trust me on that.”
“I will speak with him if the need arises, mistress,” Gilbert said calmly, pausing to glower at his brother. “And I can tell you this, after meeting you, Sir Wyntoun will be honored to take you as his wife.”
“Aye,” William grumbled. “To add to the three or four the blackguard already has.”
The provost fought back a smile. That marriage would happen only if his thick-headed brother continued to deny the value of this precious pearl.
And that was a loss, Gilbert thought, which would suit no one.
CHAPTER 16
One look into the face of the child and William Ross knew.
He had known it before--in truth, he had known it all along--but he had never faced it. As he stood there, a nearly uncontrollable urge to leave his newly arrived guests took hold of him. All he wanted right now was to storm out of that Hall and find a place to brood in solitude. Instead, he stood his ground and scowled as Miriam studied him, her gaze doubtful and unsure.
“Uncle!” the young girl murmured softly, dropping a small curtsy to the laird.
William whirled impatiently on his approaching steward. “Where is that blasted brother of mine?”
“He is in the chapel saying Mass, m’lord. It will be some time, I fear.”
With a disgusted look he turned to Wyntoun MacLean, who was standing with a grin on his face behind the little girl. “And how was your journey?”
“It went very well, William, thank you. Except for having to leave your niece’s sick lady-in-waiting at a convent two days after we left, the journey was quite uneventful, in fact.”
“Glad to hear it. We’ll get you something to eat, and you can tell me about it in detail.” William caught a glimpse of weariness in Miriam’s face and the guilt crept back, flooding him with an icy chill. He turned to the steward. “Take her to the east wing, and tell Mistress Laura she is here. Then get the lass fed.”
Symon, nodding agreeably at the child, led her out of the Hall with young Robbie dragging a small traveling chest behind them.
“And who is this Mistress Laura?” Wyntoun asked with interest, following William to the dais before the great fireplace.
“A guest. More than that, you dog-faced scoundrel, you’d do better not knowing.”
“Will, my friend, you sound like a man who is hiding something. I’m suddenly looking forward to meeting this mystery maiden.”
******
It was impossible not to have heard the commotion surrounding the arriving company. Laura was already in the corridor by the little girl’s chamber when the steward brought Miriam up.
She was a wee thing, and young. But it was not her size or age that took Laura initially by surprise. It was the sadness that shone clearly in the beautiful blue eyes. Laura looked up and found Symon’s expression clouded with concern as well.
“Greetings, Miriam,” Laura said gently, placing a hand on the child’s shoulder as the steward and Robbie went around them with the girl’s chest. “I’m Laura Percy, and I cannot tell you how happy I am that you’re here at last.”
The girl’s chin dropped to her chest as Laura watched a couple of tears roll down incredibly long lashes onto pale cheeks.
“Are you--are you my uncle’s wife?”
“Nay! I’m only a wicked old ghost who haunts this wing.”
Miriam’s face immediately lifted in shock, and Laura smiled, crouching until they were face to face.
“I am not really.”
“I did not think so,” the young girl whispered, wiping her wet face with the back of one hand. “I don’t remember the castle too well from the last time I was here, but I would never have forgotten a ghost, wicked or not.”
“How long have you been away, Miriam?”
“They tell me about two and half years. But I’m seven now and, having been only four and half then, I’m afraid there is a great deal I’ve forgotten.”
“You are a smart girl to know how old you were two and half years ago.”
Miriam shrugged her shoulders. “It wasn’t very difficult. I asked Sir Wyntoun, and he told me.”
Laura smiled and rose to her feet, stretchi
ng a hand out to the young girl. Miriam hesitantly took it. “Well, I’ve been here less than a fortnight, and there is a great deal about this keep that I’m hoping you will be able to help me with.”
“I will if I can, mistress.” Miriam nodded and let herself be led inside the prepared bedchamber. The steward was just done tucking her belongings away, and Robbie was standing with the empty chest, eyeing the girl.
Symon herded the boy out of the room. “I’ll send Maire up with something for the lass to eat.”
Laura nodded in approval and stood by the door as the older man left the two of them alone. Miriam walked slowly around the room, touching the covering on the bed, feeling the coarseness of the large wood chest, peering out the narrow window into the growing dusk, even leaning down and checking under the bed. She finally came to a stop by Laura. “Is this where I sleep?”
The young woman nodded. “This is your room. Are you pleased?”
“Where do you sleep?”
“Next door. The last room in the corridor.”
Miriam poked her head out the doorway and glanced at the closed door of Laura's room. “Where does my uncle sleep?”
“I assume he would sleep in the laird’s chambers, though I’m certain I don’t know. You may have seen the door leading to it from the Great Hall.”
“How about the provost? He is my uncle, too, but Sir Wyntoun said ‘tis more polite if I call him ‘provost.’”
Laura could only guess at where the provost was staying. “Now that you mention it, I think the provost may be staying in the laird’s chambers.”
“What about Sir Wyntoun? Where will he be?”
Laura looked down at the deep blue eyes and found them quiet serious. “Perhaps in the Great Hall? Or with the castle’s warriors? I believe there are quarters for them above the stables.”
“And the steward?”
“In the steward’s quarters?”
“Are there any warriors that sleep in the castle?”
“Aye. Some sleep in the Great Hall, and some sleep out by the castle gate." Laura bit her bottom lip to suppress a smile and knelt again before the child. “Why not let me help you take off your traveling cloak and get out of those wet shoes, and you can tell me why ‘tis so important for you to know where everyone sleeps at Blackfearn Castle.”
Miriam paused for a moment before nodding hesitantly and letting herself be led into the middle of the room.
The wool cloak was wet through, and after removing it Laura found the child’s dress damp and cold as well. Just then Maire walked in with a tray of food, and--before Miriam had an opportunity to ask the older woman where she slept--Laura sent her out again with directions for more peat for the fire, lots of hot water, and a tub deep enough for the child to bathe in.
A short time later, sitting in the steaming water as Laura washed her hair, the young girl turned the object of her curiosity from the castle’s sleeping arrangements to Laura’s background.
“If you’re not my uncle’s wife, then are you his intended?”
“Nay, Miriam, I am not.”
“The provost’s intended?”
Laura cast a threatening glare at a chuckling Maire, who was sitting cozily before the hearth and warming a blanket to wrap the child in. “The provost is a priest, Miriam. He cannot have a wife.”
“Oh!” The young girl shook her wet hands, spraying more water on Laura's already wet dress. “Are you the steward’s wife, then?”
“I am nobody’s wife.” Laura poured some warm water on the child’s head and smiled. “I am only a guest.”
“But that’s not good.”
“And why is that?” Laura took the large blanket from Maire.
“Because it means you’ll be leaving. Just as Sir Wyntoun will be leaving.” She stood up with Laura’s encouragement and stepped out of the tub. Laura wrapped the blanket around her, patting the girl dry. “And the provost will be returning to St. Duthac’s, and I’ll be left all alone.”
“You will no longer be alone, Miriam. You’ll be living with your uncle. Blackfearn Castle is your home.”
Tears pooled again in the blue eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Laura gathered the young child into her arms.
“My uncle!” Miriam hiccuped softly. “I do not think he wants me be staying here with him.”
“Of course he does.”
She shook her head adamantly. “I know it. Today when we arrived, he couldn’t even bear to look at me. He doesn’t want me, just as my grandsire did not want me.”
“Nay, ‘tis not true. None of it.” Laura's comforting hush did nothing to stem the flow of tears. She placed a soft kiss on the girl’s temple. But the soft sobs continued. Maire shook her graying head ruefully as she stood up and hurried from the room, and Laura had a sickening feeling that there was perhaps some truth in what Miriam had said.
*****
The large fire in the hearth seemed to be sucking every breath of air out of the laird’s work room. William glanced at the open window.
The visitor continued to ramble on with his news of Hoddom Castle and the disharmony that seemed to be tearing the ancient holding apart. Lord Herries, old and infirm, hadn’t the strength to keep his distant relatives in line, and they had already begun growling and snapping like animals, waiting for the old laird to die.
Wyntoun lowered his voice. He knew that the old man was concerned that more than one of the jackals might take it into his head that controlling the granddaughter would mean controlling Hoddom Castle and its vast holdings.
Wyntoun MacLean continued to talk. Gilbert continued to listen. William continued to scowl at the two knaves sitting with him.
The no-good provost--damned do-gooder priest and treacherous brother that he was--had mentioned Laura’s name seven times in the course of the short conversation already. Seven times!
William tore his scorching gaze off of Gilbert. Related by blood, there was only so much harm he could bring on the son of a bitch.
Sir Wyntoun MacLean was a different matter. The laird’s scowl darkened as he assessed his foe--his former friend--more closely.
The filthy cur was an educated man. But William knew he could hold his own when it came to learning. After all, the two first met at St. Andrews before going together to Hoddom Castle.
The bastard was also a well-spoken man. William decided that he could be, too--depending on the circumstance and whether he put his mind to the task and if he didn’t lose his patience.
The miserable bugger could probably be considered a patient man. And an orderly man. And a planner by nature. William frowned more deeply.
But the worst was that in the eyes of an innocent, unsuspecting lass, Wyntoun MacLean would probably be considered a handsome man. Green eyes. Short hair the color of night. A lean, muscular face unmarked by scars.
So far. But it was still early in the day.
William felt anger prickling beneath his skin as the thought presented itself how damned suitable a couple Laura and Wyntoun would make, regardless of their flaws.
He rose restlessly to his feet and stalked toward the window, leaning against it and watching Gilbert and the visitor. Casually, he measured his enemy.
The next MacLean laird was a tall man, but William was taller. And the laird knew he was fast. William, however, had always been faster. He was lethal with a sword, but William was more than ready to match his own skills with Wyntoun’s.
“As I was saying before, there is so much of a resemblance between Miriam’s situation and what Laura Percy left behind--”
Eight times. “Ready to go out into the training yard?”
Gilbert’s brow shot up in confusion.
Wyntoun’s head turned in surprise. “The training yard?”
“Aye. You’ve done nothing but sit on your lazy arse for God knows how long. You must be aching for action. A good fight. Something to cleanse the body and soul and harden up the paunch you’ve started to show.”
The note of ch
allenge was evident in William’s voice. Their guest rose to his feet with a hearty laugh. “I can see you’re hungry for more of the battering I used to give you in the old days.”
“‘Twas the other way around, you blackguard, if I remember rightly.”
“‘Tis no surprise you don’t remember, considering all the dings you took to the head. Why, I--”
“Stop right there,” Gilbert ordered, jumping to his feet. “The two of you can stop right now. I have asked Mistress Laura to join us.”
Nine times.
“Right now, you pock-faced baboon.” The laird slapped his guest’s shoulder a little more soundly than hospitality normally called for. “Unless, of course, you’ve become too fragile in your old age and cannot stomach a good brawl in the yard.”
“This cattle-thieving, whore-mongering brother of yours is giving me no other choice, provost.”
“William,” Gilbert stormed, “can this not wait for later? Mistress Laura should be down--”
“On your way, snake.” Ignoring his brother’s distress, William gave the knight a "friendly" shove toward the door. “And I promise to take it easy on you this morning.”
Of course, William thought, nothing would give him more pleasure than breaking that straight nose of his old friend. Except perhaps planting a few bruises in the man’s brown and handsome face. Or, perhaps, simply hammering the powerful body of his opponent to a bloody pulp.
As the two strode across the Great Hall with Gilbert sputtering from behind, William realized that he was planning. Certainly, Laura would approve of that.
True, he was planning to be perfectly vile to his guest. And it was also true that once he was done giving Wyntoun MacLean a severe beating, he planned to be totally inhospitable. But at least, William thought grimly, he was planning. And the sooner Sir Wyntoun MacLean carried through on his plans to leave Blackfearn Castle for the Western Isles, the better.
William Ross was tired of entertaining.
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