“All barbaric Highlanders,” he interjected provocatively.
“Aye, then,” she retorted. “I thought that all such persons spoke a language they call the Gaelic. But you speak Scots as if you had always done so.”
“Two of my kinsmen studied at St. Andrews with Bishop Traill shortly before Bishop Wardlaw founded the university there. They taught me and some of my cousins to speak Scots, believing the language might help us communicate better with men we meet in battle or who lead us into battle. One such is a cousin of his grace’s, once known as the Lord of the North but now called Mar.”
“I have met Alexander Stewart, Earl of Mar,” Fiona murmured.
“I, too,” he said, shifting his attention to the dog still standing patiently before him. Patting it on the head, he said, “Good lad.” Straightening again, he said, “That cloak must be damp now, my lady, so come along. I’ll take you home.”
To avoid debate, albeit certain that he would object to leaving her at the garden hedge, she said as they began walking, “Why did you look at me as you did whilst we were talking about your dog having the same name as Orion’s dog?”
“I was surprised that you knew the name Sirius. My foster mother names her dogs after legendary creatures, so I did, too. But I know few others who do.”
“My father’s chaplain educated my brothers,” she explained. “And Father is fond of retelling his favorite ancient myths. But, pray go on into town now, sir,” she added firmly. “I will go back in, I promise. But you need not escort me.”
“Nevertheless, I will do so,” he said with an audible edge to his voice. “I cannot leave you here, because I doubt I can trust you to go home if I do.”
Straightening her shoulders, she gave him look for look, meeting his calm but still intense gaze with more ease than she had expected. “I believe your motives are honorable,” she said. “But others may think that I made a tryst with you. Talk of such behavior would do us both harm, so I must return on my own.”
Although his expression revealed only a twitch of his dark eyebrows, she felt the strengthening undercurrent of his irritation as easily as she could sense the river’s current, no matter how calm its surface looked.
When he sighed, she felt a prickle of unease but had time for no more before he picked her up as if she had been a sack of oatmeal and slung her, face down, over his left shoulder. Despite the woolen cloth over that shoulder, it was bone hard, and landing on it hurt her ribs and snatched her breath away.
Then, clicking his tongue loudly, he began to stride toward the town. She saw that both the dog and the horse followed obediently.
“Put me down,” she muttered when she could talk. “You have no right to treat me so! Faith, sir, stop! You cannot parade me through the town like this!”
“I’ll put you down when you agree to behave and go with me peacefully.”
Her response, although she did her best to stifle it, was a half-shriek, half-growl of pure fury. She tried to kick him, but he’d clamped his left arm tightly over her cloak and across her knees, so her efforts only made her ribs ache more.
Even so, she could not let him take her into town. “I pray you, sir, listen to me. We must not create such a scene as this in town! I do not go that way!”
Àdham allowed himself a smile. He did not mind carrying the saucy wench, nor was she much of a burden. The way she had so swiftly stifled her outrage assured him that her father would thank him rather than rebuke him for refusing to leave her on the riverbank alone.
A snarl from nearby shrubbery erased his smile. But, before he could collect his wits to identify its source, a furry missile shot to his wet tunic-clad upper right arm and four sharp-clawed paws dug painfully into it.
Awkwardly reaching his right hand toward the wee cat—for such it was—he tried to slap it away, only to have sharp teeth catch hold of his hand. Still snarling, the cat dug its claws deeper.
Beside him, Sirius growled and shot Àdham a worried look.
Snatching his hand free, Àdham reached again for the cat.
“Don’t hurt her!” the lady Fiona cried out. “She is protecting me. Prithee, put me down, sir,” she added more calmly. “I’ll take her. And I’ll behave, I swear.”
Believing her, he set her on her feet and watched her gently unhook the cat from his arm. That wee black beast, white-tipped ears flattened against its head and its tail atwitch, continued to growl at him even as she cradled it in her arms. In truth, though, the little cat had reminded him that he had no right to treat the lass so.
Irked by her insistence upon having her own way, he had briefly forgotten that she was a noblewoman, a lady, and he a knight sworn to behave honorably. Instead, he had behaved as he might toward one of his saucier younger cousins.
“There, there, Donsie-lass,” she murmured. “I’m safe. Hush now.”
Àdham saw spots of blood oozing from his injured hand. Sucking it, he was sure that more oozed from his arm to his tunic sleeve. “Donsie’s a good name for that wee harpy,” he said. “She’s as hot-skinned as any demon.”
“I have never seen her go for someone like that before,” Lady Fiona said ruefully. “I apologize, sir. Had I known she was there, or that she might attack . . .”
When her words trailed to silence, Àdham said with a wry smile, “Do not say that you would have warned me. I would not believe you.”
To his surprise, the mischievous look he’d seen earlier lit her eyes, and she grinned. “I reclaim my apology,” she said. “It serves you right for treating me so.”
That mischievous grin was too contagious. He allowed himself a more natural smile but shook his head at her. Although he could not approve of her behavior, she was certainly beginning to intrigue him.
She set the cat down and seemed as astonished as he was when it strode up to Sirius, who was many times its size, and hissed. When the dog cocked its head, the little cat humped its back and spat.
At that, with no more protest than a low, throaty moan, Sirius moved out of Donsie’s way and watched warily as she stalked past him, tail high and straight, and went on her way across the field.
Patting the dog, Àdham said, “I dinna blame ye, lad. ’Tis a fierce one, that.”
Lady Fiona chuckled. “Perhaps I should have used my claws.”
Her chuckle was even more contagious than her grin, but he forced what he hoped was credible sternness into his tone and said, “D’ye think so?”
Evidently the tone failed, because she grinned again, unchastened.
Then, sobering, she said, “If you are determined to escort me, sir, I’ll allow it. But we cannot go into town.”
“Faith, how did you come here if not through the town gate?”
“I walked across the Inch, of course.” She pointed the way the cat had gone.
“Then this is the famous North Inch where the great clan battle took place.” He looked around with deeper interest, the moonlight making the area brighter than ever. “So, the north gate . . . that is, the north port . . . lies yonder, aye? I am supposed to find my people in the High Street.”
“The north port lies at this end of the west-facing wall. But this path will take you a shorter way through a narrow port by that old tower ahead. ’Tis called the red port because of the wee bridge across the mill lade there. Long ago, the bridge was red, so townsfolk still call it the red bridge to distinguish it from others. Thus did the narrow port become the ‘red port.’ From there, you go—”
“I’ll not go until I’ve seen you safely inside,” he reminded her.
“But I shall be inside by then,” she said, her eyes still twinkling. “I reside at the House of the Blackfriars. And Blackfriars Wynd leads to the red port.”
“Don’t prate such blethers to me,” he said grimly. “The Blackfriars are monks, men. I did hear that his grace stays with them when he visits Perth. But�
��”
“They are not monks but mendicant friars,” she interjected. “At present, her grace, Queen Joanna, is with the King, their retinues likewise. And I have the honor to serve her grace as a maid of honor.”
“So, if you had whistled, who would have come?” he asked curiously.
“There are royal guards, of course,” she said, glancing at him, her eyes still alight. “Several of them would have heard me whistle or scream.”
“I see,” he said. “Even so, my lady, your behavior was unwise.”
She sobered then. “Perhaps, but you must also see that as Father Prior and his people are our hosts, if Brother Porter sees you escort me to the entrance . . .”
“He will suspect a tryst, aye,” Àdham said with a sigh when she paused. He realized then that he had been unwise not to give more heed to her earlier warning. “Very well, then. I’ll stop where I can see you go in, though.”
“You have not said if you mean to betray me,” she said anxiously.
“I’d not do so a-purpose,” he replied. “But neither will I lie for you.”
“Then do not let him see you. If I’m quick, he won’t catch sight of us together,” she added. “As it is, I fear I’ve been out longer than I said I would be.”
He shook his head at what was certainly an understatement but kept silent.
As they continued across the field, Àdham led the horse, and Sirius walked beside him. To keep his thoughts off her ladyship’s shapely backside, fine bosom, lovely face, and intriguingly plump lips, he fixed his gaze on the monastery ahead.
It certainly looked grander than any other religious house he had seen.
The open gate between its two towers provided a fine view of the residence beyond. A broad, torchlit, flagstone courtyard led to a column-framed entry, its peaked portico topped by a weather vane that moonlight had turned silvery. The place more nearly suited Àdham’s notion of a royal palace than a monastery.
That thought no sooner occurred to him than, hearing her sharply indrawn breath, he saw her hesitate, mouth agape. She was staring straight ahead.
Following her startled gaze, he saw that the monastery’s front door had opened and a man filled the doorway, arms akimbo. Flickering torchlight distorted his features, but his pose and stiffened body made his feelings plain.
With a sudden if hastily stifled impulse to remove himself as far from the lass as he could go, Àdham said, “Who is that?”
“My lord father,” she said, confirming the wisdom of his instincts.
Overcoming her own impulse to avoid the inevitable confrontation, Fiona drew a breath, let it out, and forced herself to keep walking. Even so, she felt relief when Ormiston pulled the door shut behind him before he strode to meet them.
She did not want Brother Porter to witness whatever was to come, not that she knew what that might be. Although Ormiston rarely lost his temper, he could be coldly cutting when he was displeased. Without looking at MacFinlagh, she said, “If you want to escape, sir, you should go now.”
“I am not leaving,” he replied grimly.
Oddly reassured but unable to bear the silence while one angry man crossed the entry court toward her and another radiated displeasure beside her, she looked at her companion and tried to think of something sensible to say.
“How angry will he be?” MacFinlagh murmured.
“He looks furious. But this has never happened before, so I do not know.”
“Might he beat you?”
A shiver shot through her at the thought, but she dismissed it. “I hope not,” she said. Then, hastily, she added, “Hush now. His hearing is most acute.”
She could hear Ormiston’s footsteps, soft whispers on the flagstones, and she could see his features clearly. His eyebrows were closer together than usual, his expression set. He was definitely angry and likely, before long, to be furious.
She prayed that Brother Porter had not betrayed her—and would not. He had not done so the one previous time she had come out to walk by the river.
Then her father was upon them, and she faced him silently.
His frown had deepened, making her feel as if she ought to curtsy as low before him as she did before Jamie Stewart.
When he did not speak, she said nervously, “I bid you good even, sir. I expect you were with his grace, and you must think—”
A slight shake of his head silenced her. His gaze shifted to her companion as he said with what she suspected was forced calm, “You can know naught of what I am thinking, daughter. Prithee, present your escort to me . . . if you can.”
Heat flooded her cheeks at the proviso. But she managed to retain composure enough to say, “I beg your pardon, my lord. This is Àdham MacFinlagh of . . .”
“Of Strathnairn, your lordship,” MacFinlagh said helpfully when Fiona’s memory refused to produce the unfamiliar place name.
“MacFinlagh, eh? You belong to the Clan Chattan Confederation then, aye?”
“I do have that honor,” MacFinlagh agreed.
“I have heard his grace speak of one MacFinlagh of Strathnairn,” Ormiston said in the chilly, cutting way that sent icicles up Fiona’s spine and made her wonder what that MacFinlagh had done to displease him so.
The man beside her remained silent long enough to make her look up at him, sensing that her father expected him to say more.
“It is Sir Àdham, is it not?” Ormiston prompted with an enigmatic, even more chilling note in his voice.
Apparently undaunted by that tone but eluding Fiona’s astonished gaze, MacFinlagh said, “I am that MacFinlagh, aye, sir.”
Nodding, Ormiston said, “We will see you safely inside now, daughter, but you and I will talk more at the house tomorrow. After you see to your morning duties, and when it is convenient for her grace to dispense with you for a time, you will beg her mistress of robes to dispatch a page to inform me. I shall be with the King then, wherever he might be. At present, you will go straight to bed.”
“Aye, sir,” she said, knowing he would accept no other reply. As it was, she was grateful that he had not immediately taken her to task, as Davy or one of her other two older brothers or her sister would have done, audience or none.
As she walked with the two silent men toward the gateway, she stole a look up at Sir Àdham MacFinlagh’s set face and wished fervently that she knew of a way to protect him from her father’s wrath.
As one of Scotland’s most powerful and influential men, and one who had the ear of the King, Ormiston could be more dangerous when he remained calm than when he did lose his temper. Although he would likely blame her as much as, or more than, Sir Àdham for what he suspected of them, he could certainly make Sir Àdham’s life most unpleasant if he decided to do so.
Ormiston’s words and stern tone stirred a twinge of sympathy in Àdham that under other circumstances might have led him to speak for her ladyship, but he resisted the impulse. Any sister, cousin, or, in due time, any daughter of his who slipped away from her protectors as her ladyship had done would deserve strict censure. By what he read in Ormiston’s tone and expression, his lordship agreed with him. Lady Fiona would suffer a severe scolding, or worse, come morning.
After she was safely inside, Àdham expected to receive his share of that censure and wondered if Ormiston would believe aught he said to him. The man’s scornful emphasis on “Sir Àdham,” had surely stemmed from an outraged belief that he had arranged a tryst with the lady Fiona, thereby breaking his code of honor.
Both men were silent as they followed the wynd outside the monastery toward the town gate until Ormiston said grimly, “I do want answers from you, sir, and my house lies just inside the wall. I expect that you have lodgings in town, too, aye?”
“I arrived at the Inch from the north less than a half hour ago, your lordship,” Àdham replied. “Moreover, I can assure you that I did naught to
harm—”
“We will not pursue that topic in the street at such a quiet hour,” Ormiston interjected curtly. “Do you mean to say that you do not have lodgings in town?”
“In a manner of speaking, I do. But, with respect, sir,” Àdham added hastily, keeping his voice low, “I believe that you are harboring a misconception.”
“Lad, I have advised the King for seven years now, since his return from his English captivity. That means that I often must make judgment of men who want something from him or seek to sway him one way or another. Therefore, I try not to form opinions until I acquire as much information as I can gather. I did think you were but returning to town now. So, prithee, just answer my question plainly.”
“By my troth, sir, I have journeyed for four days from the north-central Highlands. I traveled from Blair Castle this morning, a daylong journey of over thirty miles, and arrived at the North Inch shortly before you and I met. I expect I do have lodgings in town, though,” he added honestly. “I am to meet my clansmen at a High Street alehouse. They were to have acquired bedchambers there.”
“That alehouse lies at the end of this road,” Ormiston said. “Sir Ivor Mackintosh and Gillichallum Roy are there now with other Mackintosh men.”
“I thought Gilli Roy would bide with the Mackintosh—his father.”
“Malcolm hired a house not far from mine own in Curfew Row, just inside yon port,” Ormiston said. “He thought Gilli would be happier at the alehouse with Sir Ivor and the others. But the hour is late, and since you seem to speak our Lowland tongue well, I would hear more about this incident tonight, ere we part.”
Unaware until then that Ormiston knew Malcolm,“the Mackintosh,” hereditary Captain of the Clan Chattan Confederation, and Sir Ivor Mackintosh, not only Clan Chattan’s war leader but also Àdham’s foster uncle, Àdham knew he’d be wise to explain matters before Ormiston saw either kinsman again.
In fact, although the man had been furious to find him with his errant daughter and firm about discussing the matter, he did seem more amenable now.
As Àdham was trying to imagine what he could honestly say about what had happened without revealing just how he and her ladyship had met, Ormiston said mildly, “In troth, I think we might both be grateful for some wine, aye?”
The Reluctant Highlander Page 4
