by Carey Corp
“Duncan,” Vee interjected, all the while reprimanding me with her eyes. “You can call me Veronica. And she’s Mackenna—Kenna for short. Isn’t that right?”
And she accused me of being the bossy one.
“Fine. Call me whatever you want.” Feigning indifference, I placed my hand in the prince’s. His lips puckered as his head bent. Suddenly, I felt as breathless as when I’d stumbled into his room. I sensed the curse of the ginger—the blush of prickling heat—as it began to redden my neck and face. My only hope of controlling the affliction was cold water, and lots of it.
Giving his hand a firm single shake, I wrenched mine away before his mouth could make contact. In an overly loud voice, I heard myself babble, “Excuse me, but could you please direct me to the bath … ah … privy, the loo, whatever the heck you call it?”
He indicated a door along the back wall, next to his books. “Aye, it’s through there and to the left.”
“Come on, Veronica.” I tugged her away from the rare editions. “I’m not facing this alone.”
Duncan’s bedroom was equally as dazzling as the sitting room. To the right, another roaring fireplace crackled like a mythical beast, and I had to admit the cozy window seat at the far end would make an excellent perch to contemplate the view of the mountains. I skimmed over an enormous four-poster bed that dominated the center of the room—refusing to consider what went on there—while in search of the bathroom. Just as our host promised, the door stood off to one side.
As I veered left, Vee broke from my grasp. She paused at the foot of the bed fit for a royal oaf and ogled the thick plaid-flannel comforter. Exhaustion accentuated the angles of her face, giving her purplish crescents under the hollows of her eyes. She teetered on her feet as she stifled a huge yawn. “I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years.”
I agreed. Since coming to this crazy place, time had gotten skewed. I couldn’t tell how long it’d been since we slept last, or how long until it was time to sleep again. But, unfortunately, some things were more important.
“No napping, Sleeping Beauty.” When her gaze turned somber, I quietly asked, “Are you okay? Really?”
Her eyes closed on a deep sigh and then snapped open. “I’m going to be fine. We both are.”
With images of the dungeon buckets still haunting me, I towed Vee toward the bathroom. How bad could it really be? I pushed through the doorway and froze in shock. “Whoa. Are you seeing this?”
“I would.” Vee gave me a light shove, sounding more like her usual self. “If you’d get out of the way!”
As I regained my wits, I walked forward to the item that had astounded me, and pulled lightly on an overhead chain. Ta-da! Water whooshed from a high tank into the open toilet bowl below and swirled down the drain.
“Modern plumbing!” Vee exclaimed as she turned an ornate faucet and watched in fascination as fresh water flowed out. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Neither was I.” I surveyed the rest of the spacious room. Blue and green ceramic tiling accented with little lion crests covered the floor and all four walls. While Vee turned her attention to the gold-plated mirror over the sink, I stepped farther into the room toward a sunken bath the size of a Jacuzzi. I tested the tap and hot water began to flow.
I couldn’t help but clap my hands together in delight. “Houston, we have hot water. I wonder if the ogre has any bubble bath.”
Rather than answer me, Vee made a small noise of alarm. Panicked, I spun away from the bathtub and toward my friend. But my alarm was unnecessary: She stared into the mirror, futilely rubbing a streak of dirt on her cheek. The wisps of hair that had escaped her high ponytail accented her face, giving her a sexy, windblown look. Attacking another smudge, this time on her forehead, she groaned, “I look disgusting!”
If by disgusting she meant flawless. It occurred to me for the umpteenth time in the course of our friendship that if I didn’t love her so much, I’d be obligated to hate her on behalf of Plain Janes everywhere. I also knew, thanks to Vee, that even the prettiest of girls could be plagued by self-doubt about their looks. “Impossible. You would still be stunning even after dunking your head in a pig sty.”
“Uh, thanks—I think.”
I placed my hand on her shoulder, careful not to encounter my own undoubtedly revolting reflection. “I wouldn’t worry about it, anyway. It’s not like you need to impress these people.”
As soon as I said it, I remembered the reason we were here. How stupid could I be? She thought she had some kind of cosmic connection with Kilt Boy.
Gently rubbing the streak on her cheek, I doubled back. “It’s not anything a bath won’t fix. Doesn’t a soak sound heavenly right about now? Light some candles, maybe pour in a little lavender oil, just kick back with—Duncan.”
The slightly blushing prince filled the doorway. Clearly, he was uncomfortable being in the bathroom with members of the opposite sex. And since he’d caught me naked in my imagination … that made two of us.
“M’ ladies?” His strangled voice sounded like he’d just hit puberty all over again. “Supper has—ehm—been brought up for ye. I wanted to let you—uh—know before it gets cold.”
Before he could escape, Vee pointed to the sink. “Where did the modern plumbing come from?”
His demeanor instantly relaxed, and Duncan inclined his head toward me. “Contrary to what Mackenna may believe, we’re no’ barbarians.” With a wink, he left the room.
“Arrg! What a total jerkwad!”
I waited for Vee’s agreement, but she just laughed and said, “Let’s go eat.” Leave it to her to forgive any slight from brutes bearing casseroles.
In the main room, Fergus and a young woman with strawberry-blonde hair tucked into a white cap were busily arranging a feast. Gleaming platters overflowing with vegetables, fruit, bread, cheeses, and meat waited for us. My stomach growled in approval.
Duncan introduced the girl as Fiona Fairshaw and explained, “Fiona is at your service.”
Resisting my baser impulses to dive face-first into the buffet, I waited impatiently as our self-appointed benefactor said his good-byes. Laughter colored Duncan’s tone as he said, “I am needed elsewhere, m’ ladies, so I will take my leave. But please, make yourselves at home in my quarters. Fiona can get you anything ye may have need of … including sheets.”
Everyone turned their focus to the spread before us but I continued to glare at the prince. In the space of a heartbeat, Duncan’s mirth vanished. Calling Fergus aside, he said in a soft, bone-chilling voice, “Ye know what to do, man.” Refusing to analyze the lethal look that passed between the two men, I turned my attention toward the food.
As Vee and I topped off our lamb and arugula sandwiches with blueberry puff pastries, Fergus beckoned Fiona to the opposite end of the room. I knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d watched enough BBC to know the help always had the best intel, and some scheme was definitely afoot.
Fergus cleared his throat, his voice projecting louder than a stage whisper in the confined space. “I think the lasses would do well with a wee nap.”
“That they would, Fergus, but a summons is forthcoming. And they’d best be alert.”
From the corner of my eye, I glanced at the girl who was our court-appointed babysitter. I figured she was about our age, or the Doonian equivalent. Maybe there was a way to calculate the difference—like you do with dog years?
Although taller than Vee, she looked like a child next to Fergus. Though a very attractive and strong-willed one. The reddish-blonde wisps of hair that had escaped her cap grazed the tops of her shoulders, and she had rosy cheeks and a dusting of pale freckles across her button nose. The young guard towered over her, but she stood her ground, hands clamped onto her hips, determined to get her way.
The rest of the exchange was lost, thanks to Vee murmuring into my ear, “What do you think she means by summons?”
“Shhh.”
Whatever I’d missed cause
d Fergus to exclaim in a much louder voice, “Ye have no way o’ knowin’ that, wench.”
“Fergus Lockhart! I’ll no’ have ye callin’ me disrespectful names in front o’ our guests.” She jabbed her finger in Fergus’s barrel-like chest. “Ye have no right ta tell me what I can and canna say or do!”
“Can I not?” Fergus searched her pretty face until her frown shifted. And as soon as she cracked, the big guy turned every imaginable shade of pink. Obviously, there was more to their relationship than met the eye.
Almost shyly, Fiona turned from the colossal guard and walked to the door. For a fraction of a second, we all stared in anticipation. Then three succinct knocks shattered the silence, causing Vee and I to gasp and jump up from the table. Fergus muttered a curse followed by a hasty apology for swearing.
Another round of knocks reverberated through the room. After receiving Fergus’s go-ahead nod, Fiona opened the door to reveal a waiting messenger flanked by half a dozen heavily armed soldiers. Turning her grave face toward Fergus, she asked, “This proof enough for ye?”
Unable to contain her dismay, Vee scampered to Fiona’s side. “Please. What did you mean by a summons?”
To me, the goon squad made it pretty clear. Vee’s dream boy wanted to rake us over the coals again. I walked over and pointed to the soldiers, but lowered my voice as a precaution. “It means Prince Not-So-Charming wants to interrogate us some more.”
Fiona laid a hand on each of us, her clear hazel eyes compassionate and sincere. “Well, I believe it be the auld laird ye’ll have to face this time.”
Vee cleared her throat. “Do you mean Jamie and Duncan’s father?”
“Aye. He only involves himself in matters which impact the future o’ the kingdom.” Fiona paused, first searching my face and then Vee’s before ushering us out the chamber door. “Remember ta speak the truth that’s in your heart and all will finish right.”
Easy for her to say. Since coming to Doon, everything from my mouth seemed to come from some place other than my heart—or my brain, for that matter. As I trailed Fergus down the one hundred and seventeen steps, I vowed to hold my tongue and play mute. From here on out I would reenact The Miracle Worker and leave all the talking to Vee.
CHAPTER 11
Veronica
Someday, I hoped I’d look back on this as a grand adventure. A tale of valor I could use to impress my kids. But right now I was having difficulty putting one foot in front of the other. Twenty hours of sleep deprivation tended to have that effect. Maybe after a good night’s rest I’d be able to wrap my head around everything. Although it was pretty clear the fantasy of living happily ever after with the literal man of my dreams was a bust. At this point, I just hoped our trial wouldn’t end with Kenna and me locked back in the icky dungeon for the rest of our natural lives.
Fergus half-carried me into a room that reminded me of a cross between the dining hall at Hogwarts and the throne room from Sleeping Beauty’s castle. If I’d had the energy, I would’ve gawked over the three-story vaulted ceiling supported by stone columns, and marveled at the scalloped leaded glass windows. But in my diminished state, not even the vivid tapestries, larger than the giant man at my side, stirred more than a passing interest.
At our entrance, excited whispers rushed through the room. Hundreds of staring eyes strained to catch a glimpse as guards herded Kenna and me down the center aisle like circus freaks on display.
We approached a wide marble dais, where an elegant, aging man—who looked every bit a ruler—occupied the throne. My heart galloped ahead of me at the sight of Jamie standing beside his father, his hands clasped behind him, a lock of sandy blond hair across one eye. Duncan stood in a similar pose on the old laird’s other side.
As we drew closer, and I could see the impassive set of Jamie’s features, I reigned in my pulse, burying my emotions deep. If he could remain stoic, then so would I. When we stopped, I lifted my chin, locked my spine, and focused on the king. He looked incredibly regal, from the green and blue brocade robe that covered him from neck to feet to the simple gold crown. Even his thick, white hair, which hung down his back in a plaited braid, lent him an air of noble dignity. But it was his dark eyes that drew me in; they radiated with intelligence and life.
Scrutinizing the stalwart king, I couldn’t help but wonder why Jamie had the duties of acting ruler.
“He totally has that King Lear vibe going for him, dontcha think?” Kenna whispered loudly in my ear.
“Shhh.” I shot her a look of disbelief. Didn’t she realize we were in serious trouble?
As King MacCrae opened his mouth to speak, he began to shake and appeared on the verge of pitching forward. Both princes tensed as if they were milliseconds away from lunging to catch him. As their father recovered, they both stiffened, their expressions identical masks of concern.
During the incident, the king’s face remained passive, but his traitorous body betrayed him. Closer observation revealed red-rimmed eyes, a slight tremor in his knobby hands, and deep fatigue underlying his look of fierce concentration. My question regarding Jamie’s role was answered.
As the royal family recovered, Gideon stepped forward and groveled before the king like the sycophant he was. “Sire, if I may, these two lassies before ye are about the witch’s mischief. I apprehended them spying on the princes at the tournament.”
Fear rippled through the crowd in a jumble of hysterical commotion. I turned to confront my jailer and froze. Gideon looked creepier than I remembered. The skin of his face stretched over his skull and his beady eyes protruded amphibiously from his head, like he’d been the victim of a terrible plastic surgeon. I steadied my breath and managed, “We’re not working for any witch.”
He wet his cracked, nearly nonexistent lips. “Why should we believe you?”
Before I could compose a persuasive reply, Kenna blurted out, “Because if we were, I’d have already turned you into a toad.”
My friend wiggled her fingers ominously, inciting another round of outrage from the agitated crowd. I glanced behind her and met openly hostile stares. Many of the citizens seemed to have already made up their minds that we were guilty.
I turned back around and grabbed Kenna’s elbow. “Not helping.”
A single chuckle pulled at my attention. I turned toward the laughter and encountered Duncan’s wide grin. My gaze flew to Jamie, daring to hope he shared his brother’s lighthearted sentiment.
With an impatient gesture, he shoved the hair off his forehead and admonished, “Tis no laughing matter, Duncan.”
Duncan shrugged one broad shoulder. “‘Tis when someone’s overreacting.”
The king regarded the standoff between his offspring before settling a stern look of reproach on his eldest son. Speaking for the first time, his measured brogue oozed authority. “Just because yer brother laughs does no’ mean he makes light o’ the situation.”
He shifted in his seat to favor Duncan with an indulgent smile. A glance of understanding—of preference even—passed between the king and his youngest son. Rather than react or defend himself, Jamie mutely turned away.
If I, an outside observer, could pick up so quickly that Duncan was the favorite son, what must it be like for Jamie? An overwhelming urge to comfort this beautiful golden boy with the dark, wounded eyes rose up inside me. But I dismissed the impulse as his deep scowl pinned me to the spot. Maybe I’d taken a knock to my head somewhere along the way, because I had far more important things to worry about—like, oh, I don’t know, my imminent survival or imprisonment—than an arrogant boy who treated me worse than an ant he found crawling over his boot.
Clenching my jaw, I did my best to ignore his intense stare as King MacCrae addressed the crowd. “We shall hear the evidence against Miss Welling and Miss Reid.”
Gideon once again approached the throne. “M’ lairds, ye heard it with yer own ears. The one with hair the color o’ devil’s fire freely admits to witchery.” His bulging eyes blazed like a zealot. �
�’Tis my belief the Witch o’ Doon has built herself a new coven, and these two—her emissaries o’ evil—are somehow impervious to the enchantment.”
Nausea flooded my system as chaos exploded around us. Angry citizens pressed closer, shouting about witchcraft and malevolence. Kenna grabbed my hand, her voice quivering. “Enough of this Salem witch trial. I don’t want to be hanged, or burned at the stake, or stoned—let’s make a run for it.”
I clasped her hand tighter and leaned in close. “Don’t worry. We’ll get out of this … somehow.” I chanced a glance at Jamie and prayed he wouldn’t allow us to be carried down to the river by a mob of pitchfork-wielding villagers. In that moment, my prince commanded, “Silence!”
The clamor died instantly, replaced by a palpable and equally tense quiet. Jamie jumped down lightly from the dais and strode forward, his eyes never leaving my face. He stopped before me, and I met his catlike stare. Some indefinable emotion crossed his face and softened his rigid features, but before I could identify it the detached ruler was back. A vein pulsed in his throat as he demanded, “What have ye to say against the charges?”
My fear shifted into anger with a nearly audible snap. Letting go of Kenna’s hand, I stepped forward. “What charges? So far, I haven’t heard anything but conjecture from a raving lunatic. Shouldn’t we be given the opportunity to defend ourselves?”
The prince moved into my personal space, forcing me to lift my chin to meet his gaze. Barely restrained energy radiated from his body, and against my will I trembled in response. His warm breath pulsed against my ear as he leaned in and hissed, “That ’tis precisely what I am doing. But if you have no explanation for yer presence here, we’ll move on to the sentencing.”
Gideon moved in and pulled Jamie back. “If ye continue to let her speak, sire, she’ll beguile us all.”
Jamie scowled at the guard’s fingers, and Gideon snatched his hand back before continuing in a scornful tone, “Need I remind ye, they just appeared. By magic.”
