by Ruth Langan
Realizing that the lad needed to be alone with his doves after having been denied them for so long, Leonora said, “Thank you for allowing me to see your doves, Rupert. I will leave you now.”
She turned and followed Dillon back inside the tower. When she glanced out the window, Rupert was still surrounded by his beloved birds. On his face was a look of radiance.
Dillon led the way down the darkened stairway toward his chambers. His thoughts were not on the darkness, but on the light and beauty cast by this complex woman.
Chapter Eleven
Leonora paced the length of Dillon’s chambers, then back. As she did, she wrinkled her nose at the odors that drifted up from the floor. Looking up at Rupert, who stood guard at the door, she asked, “How long ago were these rushes strewn?”
The lad shrugged. “I helped cut them a year ago or more.”
“A year…” She stooped and lifted a handful to her face. “They are sour. They need to be burned and replaced with fresh reeds.”
“There is no one to perform such chores, my lady. Everyone is needed to prepare for the siege.”
“And what have the servants been doing for the past year? Preparing only for sieges? Is that all your people do? Fight? Is there no time for civilized behavior? Does no one see to the running of this keep?”
He flushed clear to his throat. “Dillon has entrusted Flame to oversee Mistress MacCallum and his household. But the lass prefers riding the hills with the lads to working inside these walls, so the work goes undone. Flame calls such household chores drudgery.”
“Drudgery, is it? Then I have been performing drudgery since I was weaned from my mother’s milk. It would seem, since you and I have nothing to do for these long, endless days, Rupert, that we can give Mistress MacCallum a hand with the drudgery of household chores. At least in these chambers.” Leonora rolled up her sleeves and began to gather up the rushes into bundles. At last she had found a way to vent her anger and frustration. Hard work had always been her release. “I have never been one to sit idly by. Especially when there is a need as pressing as this.”
The lad watched in amazement as the proper English lady carried an armload of rushes to the balcony and tossed them over the edge. She was further rewarded by the sound of the guard’s curses, which could be heard from the courtyard below as the bundle dropped on his head.
“But my lady, who will cut fresh rushes?”
“You and I are young and strong.”
“You cannot leave these chambers. And I must remain here to guard you.”
Would nothing move this lad? Ah well, at least she had tried. She gave him her most innocent smile. “Then it would appear that Flame and Mistress MacCallum will have to order one of the servants to see to it. As for me…” She bent and scooped up another armload of rushes and dumped them over the balcony railing. “I shall not spend another night in a room more befitting animals than humans.”
While her young guard stood by helplessly, Leonora stripped the floors. When they were bare of rushes, she said, “You had best send for a servant, Rupert.” When the lad hesitated, she added, “Dillon Campbell did not say I could not clean his chambers. He merely commanded that I could not leave them.”
“Aye, my lady.” Reluctantly the youth hailed a passing serving wench and instructed her to send for Mistress MacCallum.
A short time later, the plump housekeeper waddled into the room, sweating profusely. It was obvious that the climb up the stairs had caused her some discomfort, and added to her dour disposition. When she caught sight of the bare floors, she turned on Rupert accusingly.
“Now what have ye done wi’ the laird’s chambers, ye young dolt?”
“’Twas not me, Mistress MacCallum.” In his agitation, Rupert’s whisper was even more pronounced. “’Twas the Englishwoman.”
With her hands on her ample hips, the housekeeper turned a suspicious eye on Leonora, who was busy shaking out the fur throws and draping them over the balcony to air out.
“What do ye think this’ll gain ye, lass?”
“A breath of fresh air.” Leonora walked to the sleeping chamber and began to strip the linens from the pallet. Bundling them into the arms of the housekeeper, she said, “I will need clean linens and freshly cut rushes for the floor.”
“I do not take orders from the likes of ye. I suggest ye take this up wi’ the laird.”
Leonora, who had been anticipating just such a response from the housekeeper, merely shrugged. “As you wish, Mistress MacCallum. Of course, I do not think Dillon Campbell will be too happy to find his floors bare of rushes and his sleeping pallet unmade when he returns tonight to his chambers.” With that, she turned away and busied herself polishing a side table, using a square of linen moistened with water from the basin.
For long moments, the housekeeper watched her, then seemed to come to a decision.
“Ye shall have ye’r rushes, my lady. But I cannot spare a servant to help ye set the laird’s chambers right. Ye and the lad here will have to see to that ye’rselves.”
“Thank you, Mistress MacCallum. We will manage very well.”
Leonora continued polishing the table, and kept her face averted until the housekeeper was gone, so that her smile of satisfaction would be hidden from view. If she could not escape the confines of this room, at least she would make it as tolerable as possible, under the circumstances.
Having found a purpose, Leonora felt a renewal of strength and spirit.
A knot of servants gathered in the hallway outside their lord’s chambers, chattering like magpies. When Gwynnith limped toward them, their voices stilled.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “If Mistress MacCallum should discover that you are not doing your chores, you will taste her anger.”
“The arrogant English lady has demanded that fresh rushes be cut for the floor of the laird’s chambers,” one of the servants said, standing beside a cart laden with freshly chopped reeds. “I had to go into the forest and cut rushes and evergreen boughs.”
“And I had to wash and hang bedding for the laird’s pallet,” another added, displaying an armload of crisp linens.
“Aye,” piped in another, “and I had to gather beeswax.”
“I had to pick sage and thyme from the garden,” said one servant with a nervous laugh.
“And what has Mistress MacCallum said about these requests?” Gwynnith asked.
“She ordered us to comply with all the lady’s wishes.”
“Then see to it,” Gwynnith said briskly. “Why are you standing about? Take them into the laird’s chambers.”
“But we cannot,” one of the servants said with alarm.
“And why is that?” Gwynnith folded her arms across her chest.
“Because,” the servant whispered, “she is English. Evil. If we are in her presence, she can cast a spell upon us, and we will be helpless to protect ourselves.”
The young serving wench put her hands on her hips in imitation of Mistress MacCallum. “Where did you learn such nonsense?”
“For what other purpose would she want sage and thyme except to cast a spell?” asked one servant.
The others nodded and murmured.
“Foolishness,” Gwynnith responded.
“’Tis true,” one of the others said, her eyes wide with fear. “It is said the English parents cut out the hearts of their enemies and give them to their children to eat. What if the English lady has eaten the hearts of our fathers?”
Without a word, Gwynnith knocked on the door of Dillon’s chambers. Rupert opened the door wider and stood aside to allow the servants to enter. Leonora, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her face flushed from her activities, hurried toward them. At once the servants fell back in fear. Seeing this, Leonora looked from Rupert to Gwynnith.
It was Gwynnith who found herself explaining, “They are afraid, my lady.”
“Afraid of what?” Leonora asked in puzzlement.
“Of you,” Gwynnith said softly. “The
y have heard that—” she licked her lips before continuing “—the English eat the hearts of their enemies.”
Leonora thought of her old nurse, Moira, and the stories she had repeated about the Highlanders. “I have heard similar stories about your people,” she said gently.
They all looked shocked at her admission.
To the servants, who cowered just beyond the doorway, Leonora said, “I see you have brought the things I asked for. I am grateful.” She walked to the far side of the room to allay their fears, calling over her shoulder, “You may set them anywhere and leave. Rupert and I shall see to them ourselves.”
Keeping a close watch on her, the servants hurriedly deposited the things they had brought and fled.
When Leonora turned, only Gwynnith remained.
“Are you not afraid of me also?” Leonora asked.
“Nay.” The young servant stood just inside the doorway, looking unsure whether to stay or flee.
“And why is that?”
“Rupert is here to protect me.”
Leonora suddenly laughed at the absurdity of it all. She was a prisoner in a Highlander fortress. Held against her will by a wild, dangerous warrior. Guarded by a giant of a youth. And the servants saw her as the object to be feared.
The sound of her laughter brought a smile to the lips of the lad and lass who faced her. This Englishwoman, described by the servants as dangerous and arrogant, was wearing a peasant gown, her hair a bit mussed, a smudge of dirt on her nose. In such circumstances, she seemed far less formidable. In fact, she seemed almost like one of them.
“Would you like some help, my lady?” Gwynnith asked shyly.
Taken by surprise, Leonora arched a brow. “I would not take you away from your chores, Gwynnith. You might incur Mistress MacCallum’s wrath.”
“Aye, lass,” Rupert said. “You’d best leave us now so you can help prepare for the midday meal.”
Gwynnith nodded and said, “If you need anything else, my lady, you need only ask and I will see to it.”
“Thank you, Gwynnith. I am grateful for your help.”
When they were alone, Leonora began removing rushes from the cart and spreading them over the floor. Along with the rushes she added the aromatic herbs to give the room a pleasant fragrance.
From his position at the door, Rupert watched as the lady moved across the floor on her knees, laying the rushes in a crisscross pattern as intricate as any woven tapestry. Though her muscles must have been protesting, she never stopped or rested. When she turned to retrieve another armload of rushes, she was surprised to see Rupert standing behind her, removing the branches from the cart.
As he handed them to her, she gave him a smile. “Thank you, Rupert.”
“You are most welcome, my lady.”
Each time she used up the pile of rushes, she would find a fresh pile beside her. She continued working without rest until the floors in both the sitting chamber and the sleeping chamber were completed. Then, while Rupert again took up his position in front of the door, she polished the tables to a high shine, and made up the sleeping pallet with fresh clean linens.
Rupert had never seen a room shine so. He breathed deeply, inhaling the fragrance of herbs and freshly cut rushes. In the space of a few hours, this Englishwoman had transformed the laird’s chambers. The laird. Rupert frowned, wondering what Dillon Campbell would say about all this.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the door suddenly burst open and Dillon filled the doorway.
Leonora, on her knees in front of the fireplace where she was polishing the sooty stones, looked up in surprise.
“What have you done to set off Mistress MacCallum?” he thundered. “The poor woman was ranting about evil spells and the servants fearing you would eat their hearts.”
“They need not fear,” Leonora said, getting swiftly to her feet. “It is not their hearts I intend to eat, Dillon Campbell. It is yours.”
Behind him, Rupert swallowed back the smile that threatened. It seemed impossible that this gentle woman, who had just spent hours on her knees, could be transformed into a wildcat in the blink of an eye. Yet here she was, facing down the Campbell himself as though she were a warrior going into battle.
“What have you done in here?” Dillon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Turning on Rupert, he demanded, “Did you disobey me, lad? Has the woman left these rooms?”
“Nay, my laird.” Rupert pulled himself to his full height, standing as stiff and tall as a giant oak. “You know I would die before I would disobey you.”
“Then what is all the fuss? What has my captive done to Mistress MacCallum and the servants to cause such a stir?” Dillon breathed in deeply, aware of an odd, sweet fragrance in the air. He glanced around the room, seeing the sunlight reflecting off highly polished wood. The rushes beneath his feet were soft and springy, and gave off a most delicious evergreen aroma.
“The lady has done nothing, except clean your chambers.”
“Clean?” Dillon crossed to where Leonora had been kneeling before the fire, pushed her aside and examined the stones. They were so clean, the firelight’s gleam could be seen reflected in them.
“What trickery is this?” he demanded.
Leonora’s temper, which she had kept bottled up for so long, exploded.
“Trickery? Trickery?” With her hands on her hips and a look of fury in her eyes, she advanced on him, uncaring that a matching blaze of fury burned in his eyes. “It is bad enough that I am here against my will, and that I have been forbidden to leave these filthy chambers.”
“Filthy—”
“Aye, filthy. If this is to be my prison, I will at least make it tolerable. Perhaps a Highland warrior cares not whether his chambers are fit for nothing more than wild creatures, but an English lady expects better.”
Without turning away from her, Dillon said, “Rupert, leave us.”
“Aye.” The lad, who had been watching wide-eyed, felt a twinge of disappointment. Never had he heard anyone speak to the laird in such a manner and live. Though he had no doubt that Dillon could best any man in the land, he would not like to make a wager on the outcome of this battle with this small female. He turned away reluctantly. He would give the Englishwoman this—she had spirit.
As the door closed behind him, Dillon turned on her with all the fury of a wounded boar. “Woman, you are not in England now, living the life of a spoiled, pampered nobleman’s daughter. In my home, I am lord and master. What I command is done instantly. And if I so order it, your very life will be forfeited.”
She faced him, lifting her chin in a haughty manner that further added to his fury. “I do not fear you, Dillon Campbell. You cannot order my death until you learn the fate of your brothers.”
“Aye.” His hand shot out and closed around her throat.
He saw her eyes widen in surprise and felt a small victory. At least, for the moment, he had her attention.
In the garb of a peasant, with her hair loose and streaming down her back in a riot of damp curls, she appeared younger, more vulnerable. Up close he caught sight of the dirty smudges on one cheek and the tip of her nose.
More than anything, he wanted to kiss them away.
The thought was like a blow to the midsection. From what source had such a thought come? She was nothing more to him than a pawn in a deadly game. He must never forget that fact. Still, this was precisely why he had been avoiding her. Being forced to lie beside her each night without touching her was the worst sort of torture. Yet he knew that if he despoiled this woman, his cause was lost.
Angry at the sudden lapse in his composure, he tightened his fingers around her throat and met her defiant gaze with a look of contempt.
“Be warned. There are far worse things than dying, my lady.” He saw the flicker of fear and knew that he had made his point. To underscore it, he whispered, “So, while you are under my roof, you would be advised to hold that wicked tongue of yours. Woe to you if you should push me beyond my l
imit.”
She pulled herself free of his grasp and took a quick step back. She had seen the way his gaze had burned over her mouth and had felt the tensing of his fingers. He had come very close to kissing her again. That she must never allow.
The man was dangerous. When he touched her, strange things happened to her heart. Even though she knew he was the enemy, he had a way of making her forget everything except the pleasure of the moment.
Even now her heart was racing. Her throat had gone dry. all the work in the world would not be enough to help her forget how tenuous was her position here. She must find a way to hold this savage at arm’s length, if she were to survive this captivity…intact.
Chapter Twelve
“Mistress MacCallum has prepared a midday meal. Wash yourself,” Dillon commanded curtly.
As he turned away, he noted that his hand trembled slightly. It was not the thought of kissing the woman, he told himself. It was the fury she always managed to arouse in him. He thought of several rich ripe curses that would bring a flood of color to her cheeks if he were to utter them in her presence.
Delighted at this unexpected release from her prison, Leonora filled a basin with water and began to wash.
Dillon stared around the room, marveling at the transformation. How could one small female have made such a difference? Sunlight danced on freshly polished wood. Even the fireplace, which had been layered with the soot of a hundred fires, now sparkled. The room smelled as clean as the forest.
His gaze settled on the woman, who, having washed all trace of grime from her hands and face, was busy trying to comb the tangles from her hair. When she had succeeded, she smoothed down her skirts before turning to face him.
He experienced the sudden jolt he always felt whenever he caught sight of her. Though she was dressed in a coarse peasant gown of unbleached wool, and wore no adornment, she still bore the unmistakable manner of a gently bred English noble. She was so beautiful she took his breath away.
“Come. We have wasted enough time.” To cover his feelings, he crossed the room and tore open the door.
