Embarassed, she sat in silence for a long moment, only offering her husband a slight inclination of her head. A thought suddenly occurred to her then. “I did no’ ken Derrick was married.”
“Because he’s no’,” Alec said, glad the discussion of poor young men was over with.
“But he has a daughter?”
Pulling a bit of meat from his leg of mutton with his teeth, Alec nodded. “He has three,” he said with a full mouth. “And four sons.”
Unwilling to jump to any conclusions again, she asked, “He has seven children and is no’ married? Has she passed?”
“Nay, they all be alive and well,” Kyth said.
Turning to face him, Leona asked, “They?”
“Seven children betwixt three women,” Gylys clarified. “And nay, he did no’ marry any of them.”
“Why no’?” Leona asked, her concern growing.
“Because they were already married.”
Her head was beginning to throb. “Seven children with three married women?”
“Aye, Kyth said before stuffing his mouth with vegetables.
Not wanting to sound prudish, she let the matter go. ’Twas also the only way to keep her head from exploding. How could a man father children with three married women? It made no sense. But to try to make sense of it made her head throb.
Bowie men! Will I ever learn to understand them?
While Alec, Kyth and Gylys sat next to the fire, discussing the future of their clan, Leona cleared away the table. With her tray filled with as much as she could carry, she left them alone whilst she went to the kitchens. Rain had begun to fall steadily while they supped, leaving the ground wet and muddy. Unprepared for the change in weather, she hadn’t grabbed her cloak before leaving the keep. The wind picked up as she crossed the tiny yard, lifting the hem of her skirt, splattering rain against her ankles. The damp air, the wind and rain turned her skin to gooseflesh.
Once inside the warm kitchen, she set the tray on the counter next to the sink. Shivering, she rubbed her hands together to help ward off the cold. Is there any place on God’s earth where it be warm more often than no’?” she mused.
Wanting to hurry back into the keep to grab the rest of the foods and dishes, she spun around to leave, and bumped right into a hard chest. In an instant, her heart was pounding against her chest. Fully prepared to let out a terrified scream, she took in a deep breath, but stopped when she realized ’twas her husband.
“Bloody hell, Alec!” she exclaimed as she fought to catch her breath and still her heart.
His reaction was not what she had anticipated. Instead of apologizing, he threw his head back and laughed.
“’Twas no’ funny!” she scolded as she slapped his arm.
“Och, but ’twas!” he argued, still chuckling at her distress.
Beyond perturbed, she asked, “Would ye be laughin’ were I to sneak up behind ye and scare ye half to death?”
Still smiling, he quirked one brow. “‘Twould never happen, lass.”
“What wouldn’t happen?” she asked, her anger and fright slipping away, all because of that blasted smile of his. The one that warmed her to her toes.
“Ye could never sneak up on me. I am, after all, a trained warrior.”
Be that a challenge in his tone? She wondered. “Ye’re sayin’ I could no’ sneak up on ye?”
“Aye, I be sayin’ just that. And if ye did manage to — though I still say it be impossible — ye’d no frighten me as I did ye. I do no’ scare easily.”
Tilting her head to one side, she smiled up at him. “Nay?”
“Nay, lass,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “’Twould take far more than a wee lass such as yerself to scare me. I be a Bowie, ye see. And Bowies are never scared.”
She didn’t believe it, not for a single moment. Ian Mackintosh had once told her that any man who says he is not ever afraid is either lying or insane. At the moment, she was quite certain her husband was both. “Remember yer words, Alec Bowie. They might just come back one day and bite ye in yer firm little arse.”
Obviously, he did not take her threat as she had intended it: as a challenge. Nay, he began laughing at her all over again. She stood with arms folded across her chest, waiting patiently for him to regain control of what little good sense he possessed.
After a short while, he took her hands in his and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Ye’re cold.” ’Twas a statement of fact, not an inquiry.
“A wee bit, aye,” she told him. “Now, be gone with ye. I have to clear the rest of the table.” She made no move to leave, for she was enjoying his smile and the way his eyes were twinkling in the candlelight.
“I have already done that fer ye,” he told her, kissing her fingers once again.
Surprised more than when she found him standing behind her like one of the king’s spies, her eyes grew wide. “Ye what?”
Motioning to the table behind him with a nod, he said, “I brought the rest of the things fer ye. Ye work far too hard of late.”
If he did not stop shocking her senses, she might have an apoplexy. ’Twas the first time since marrying him that he had taken notice of all her hard work. That made her heart soar as well as soften toward him even further. She stood in mute silence, staring up into those warm, brown eyes.
“I be no’ a complete savage, ye ken.” His tone was so warm, scattering her good senses hither and yon. ’Twas utterly disarming.
“I should like ye to stop,” he said as he twined a lock of her hair around his finger. Why, oh why did that simple act have such an affect on her? His very touch, his low, soft voice, those brown eyes … they all made her feel as though she’d just drunk a dram of fine whisky; warm, content, and happy.
“Stop what?” she asked after she managed to find her voice.
“Workin’ so hard,” he said. “Now, leave these dishes for the morrow and let us go to bed.”
Although she disliked leaving a task for later, her husband’s invitation, with its hidden meaning and sensual undertones, was too much to pass up. Dirty dishes, be damned.
Slowly, bit by bit Leona began to add little touches to the keep. One day, ’twas a beautiful green vase she had discovered in the tower. Filling it with flowers, she set it on the hearth, next to the wooden candlesticks. She had been forced to stand on a chair in order to reach it properly. Even then, she was barely able to set the candlesticks and vase upon it, for ’twas so tall.
When she wasn’t cooking, or scrubbing something inside the keep, she was busy with her growing laundry services. Ostensibly, the single men absolutely loathed having to wash their own clothing. Which was good for Leona’s purse, but not so good for her hands, for they were growing more chapped and calloused with each new day.
Before long, her list of clients had grown to nine. When she realized she could keep up with no more, she had to begin turning men away. The first time in me life I ever had the attention of any man, let alone so many! she had mused with a giggle.
There would be no laundry drying today, for the weather had turned. Pewter skies hung overhead with rain falling steadily. Today, she decided to tackle more of the empty rooms.
Thus far, she had counted a total of forty-one rooms. Only a few — the bedchamber she shared with her husband, his study, and the two rooms she had previously made into guest chambers — possessed anything remotely homey. Everything else was cold, stark, and uninviting.
’Tis as sad a space as any there ever was, she mused gloomily. I imagine the gallows at Stirling Castle possess more life and warmth.
“There be no’ a candle in either chandelier, no cushions upon the hard chairs, nothin’ at all soft or invitin’,” she muttered. Tapping a finger against her chin, she engaged in an inner debate betwixt heart and mind.
“Yer husband, he be a good man. Does he mourn the loss of his brother and that be why the keep is so cold and stark? Or be it somethin’ more?” she wondered aloud.
A sudden breeze filtere
d in from some unseen place, bringing a chill to her skin. Was it the ghost of something or someone, that haunted her husband? Was that why he had everything removed?
“Certainly, I can find a way to get him to see that we can be comfortable here without being lavish or ostentatious.”
But if ye do too much, he’s liable to become verra angry with ye, her mind argued. But he’ll no’ harm ye, no matter how angry he might be, her heart reminded her. After all, he did sign yer marriage contract. And he has said on more than one occasion he’d never raise a hand to ye, no matter yer transgressions.
In the end, her heart won out. She was fully determined to rid this keep of Rutger Bowie’s ghost.
With her mind made up and knowing she had several hours before Alec would return from the fields for his evening meal, Leona set off for the north tower and the treasures it held. She wouldn’t bring everything out of storage in one day, but neither was she going to wait ten years to do it slowly.
Her mission this warm afternoon, was to bring down cushions for the benches and chairs for the gathering room table, as well as smaller tables upon which to place vases and candlesticks. But the largest item she needed, would require the help of a few men. ’Twas the long sideboard she had seen before on those treks where she pilfered and pillaged the tower rooms.
With a lighted torch in one hand, she made her way down the long corridor, across the short bridge that connected the main keep to the north tower. She had a skip in her step and her heart felt light, nearly giddy with anticipation.
The main door to the tower was a heavy, wooden beast. She had to rest her torch in the iron sconce next to it so she could use both hands to open it. It released far easier than the previous times she had entered.
Leaving it open enough so she could slip inside and then back out again, she grabbed her torch and stepped through into darkness. Certain the sideboard was on the second floor, she lifted her skirts and ascended the circular stone staircase. Though she and Patrice had cleared the cobwebs a fortnight ago on their first journey here, there was still something dark and forbidding about the place.
The wind whipped through the door she had left open. Though ’twas a warm, sunny day, the wind swirling around her felt cold. Like hands reaching out from the beyond to pull her down into blackness.
“Do no’ let yer mind run away with ye, Leona,” she warned her imagination. “There be no such thing as ghosts.” Though she had spoken the words aloud, nothing heard her but the damp musty air.
As if the wind meant to argue , it seemed to grow stronger. It began to howl, wailing. It sounded plaintive, as if it were in some ungodly amount of pain and sorrow. Wanting to escape from the staircase, she hurried her pace, and all but ran to the second floor. She let out the breath she’d been holding the moment she reached the wide landing. Chastising herself for allowing her imagination to run wild, she said, “There be no such things as ghosts or goblins, ye eejit. ’Tis just the wind.”
Still, she had the oddest sensation that something was watching her. Something unseen in the shadows, just waiting for a chance to … to do what? Scare her half to death?
Alec! She thought to herself. He be right behind me, wantin’ to terrify me out of me own skin. Bah!
Cautiously, she stepped back toward the staircase, holding the torch out so she could get a better look.
Nothing.
No one was waiting in the shadows. Not Alec or anyone else.
Feeling very much like a bairn, she cursed her imagination once again. Turning away, she set the torch in the iron holder next to the barred door. Wiping her sweaty palms on her apron, she took a deep breath before lifting the heavy bar. It groaned an ever-so-slight protestation, but it gave way. Lifting it into the black wrought iron bar, she shoved it into the curved iron bracket intended to hold it open. She gave a good hard tug to make sure the bar wasn’t going to fall back down.
On the morrow, I will have Gylys and Kyth remove these blasted bars! She promised herself. Why on earth anyone would want to bar a door from the outside is beyond me.
It suddenly dawned upon her, that perhaps this north tower was meant to house prisoners. Good, lord, these Bowies! Did they truly house so many prisoners? Were the dungeons below no’ enough?
Pushing the thought aside, she pulled hard on the iron ring and drew the door open wide. It scraped against the stone floor, blending with the sound of the wind and her pounding heart.
“Good lord, Leona! ’Tis no’ as if yer stealing into Stirling Castle to kill the king. Ye’re here to find cushions!” With a shake of her head she expelled a short breath.
Just as she was about to grab the lighted torch, she felt a presence she could not identify. Before she could even react, two hands were shoving her into the dark room.
She stumbled forward and landed face first with a thud. Her breath was stolen away by fright more than the actual hard landing. The rough stone scraped against her cold skin. Quickly, she rolled over to scream at whomever had pushed her inside. The scream caught in her throat.
No one was there.
The door was closing before she could scramble to her feet. A moment later, it slammed shut and the bar fell into place.
She was bathed in darkness.
The wind continued to howl, but now, it sounded more macabre, even more unreal, as if it were laughing at her.
Chapter 18
The slamming of the door, the heavy thud of the wooden bar falling into place, echoed off the stone walls. Cloaked all at once in maddening blackness, her heart seized along with her lungs.
She was a little girl again. Terrified, alone, and in the horrifying darkness, locked in a trunk because she had angered her father. He knew how afraid of the dark she was and he had used it to frighten her. Upset over something she’d done, that she couldn’t even remember now. Furious, he picked her up and forced her into the old trunk, kicking and screaming, crying out as she heard the click of the latch.
He left me there to die.
I was just a child but he did not care. He left me there to die.
She might not be in an old trunk now, but the fear was just as debilitating as it had been that day. Just as real, just as palpable, just as terrifying.
If Mrs. Macfaddon hadn’t heard her distress and set her free, she could very well have died inside that musty old trunk. The image of her tiny corpse rotting at first, then turning to bones and eventually, dust, made her want to retch.
Breathe, she told herself over and over. Breathe. Ye be no’ a little girl.
It took a long while before she could will away the tremble in her fingers, to still her rapidly beating heart.
Alec will come fer me, she told herself. He will come fer me.
It had been a good day of training. Under Alec’s tutelage, as well as Derrick’s and Dougall’s, his men were improving. Albeit not as fast as Alec would have wanted.
They were used to taking a more defensive approach when it came to fighting — they were, after all, thieves. And as such, they were a stealthy, silent group of men. That skill might prove useful on the battlefield someday. But only if they were strong enough to actually do battle. Stealing into a place in the middle of the night was one thing. Defending your people against marauding hordes of other Highlanders or, God forbid, the English, was another.
For decades, the rest of the world had left them alone. To a certain extent, they’d all grown comfortable with knowing very few people were insane enough to attack them. However, there was always the small chance, that one in a thousand chance, that an attack from without might happen.
So after planting the fields of barley following Rutger’s death, Alec had also immediately begun training his men. There were days when he questioned that decision. But today? Today, his men were finally listening, finally learning.
If he were able to cement good relationships with other clans, there might come a time his own clan would be called upon in time of war. He’d rather have his ballocks cut off with a rus
ty dirk than to have his men look foolish on the battlefield. Hence, his determination to make them as strong and as good as he possibly could.
He stood now with Derrick and Dougall, at the edge of the wide open yard, watching the men in mock battle.
“Keep yer shield, up, Connor Macpherson!” Dougall yelled out to the young man. “Else Andrew Bowie will separate yer head from yer shoulders!”
Connor listened without looking away from his opponent. As directed, he lifted his shield higher, just in time to fend off a mighty blow. However, he did not see Andrew strike out until it was too late. He’d brought his sword across Connor’s shins. Thankfully, he hadn’t used much force and only tore open the young man’s trews.
“Well,” Dougall said with a shake of his head, “do ye think this rag-tag bunch of thieves will ever be as good as we need them to be?”
Alec crossed his arms over his chest and watched. “God, I pray so.”
Derrick, usually the most pessimistic of souls, added his own opinion to the conversation. “Ye have to admit, they be gettin’ better.”
Just then, Connor took great offense to something Andrew said. He threw down his shield and his sword and lunged after him. A moment later, they were rolling around in the grass and dirt. Connor was in a murderous rage.
“Ye take that back, ye son of a whore!” he screamed at Andrew as he pinned him to the ground.
“Go to hell, Macpherson!” Andrew yelled back.
Alec rolled his eyes in frustration.
“Shall we stop them?” Dougall asked.
The Bowie Bride: Book Two of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 20
