And there it was. This visit’s first of many snipes in her parents’ never-ending war with each other. Mother hated Da even more than he despised her. Teeth clenched, Tilda assumed the required demure demeanor and waved a polite kiss a hair’s breadth above the surface of Mother’s powdered cheek. One never touched her. “Welcome, Mother. ’Tis always good to see ye.” They both knew it was a lie, but it was the expected greeting. Appearances meant everything.
“Hmpf.” Fennella Mackenzie’s figure vibrated her disgust. She patted a hand to her impeccably coiffed, graying hair, pinned in what Tilda was certain the style of the day. “So, ye be well enough then?”
“Yes. Quite well.” Tilda couldn’t remember a relaxed or loving moment between the two of them, and she had never really understood why. “Pleasant journey? Ye arrived so soon.”
Fennella sniffed again and allowed her gaze to flit about the room. “I was en route to Edinburgh when I received the news.” She turned and marched to the sitting room. “It is considered proper etiquette to offer refreshment, Tilda. Have ye forgotten all yer lessons?” She tossed a glare back over her lace-covered shoulder, her displeasure fixed on Tilda as firmly as a waxed seal.
“I feel certain Auntie Moira has already done so, and the cart will arrive at any moment.” Bracing herself, Tilda ushered her mother forward, offering her the choice of a comfortable seating area filled with cushioned chairs and small personal tables. “Shall we sit as we wait? Ye must be weary from yer journey.”
“I suppose,” Fennella said with a clearing of her throat. She lowered herself to the edge of a seat as though she feared soiling her clothes. She ran a finger along the polished wooden arm of the upholstered chair, then inspected it, flitting non-existent filth from her fingertips before folding her hands in her lap.
A soft tap sounded at the door.
“There’s refreshment now.” Tilda sent up a prayer of thanks, hurried to the door, and opened it.
One of the kitchen maids, wide-eyed and pale, waited behind a cart laden with all manner of delicacies. “Mistress Mackenzie sends her apologies,” she whispered as she rolled it into the room. “Business prevents her from joining ye.” The discomfited young lass fidgeted beside the refreshments as though unsure what to do. “Sh-shall I pour the broth or wine?”
“Oh, good heavens, no.” Fennella waved the girl away. “Gone wi’ ye, inept girl. Tilda shall serve.”
Unmistakable relief shone on the maid’s face as she bobbed a quick curtsey and scurried from the room.
“Must ye behave with such coarse rudeness?” Tilda couldn’t hold her tongue a bit longer. She poured a golden broth into the cups, wishing for whiskey instead.
“Ye mistake honesty for rudeness and the firm hand required when dealing with servants. Ye would do well to ken the difference. How do ye expect to run yer own household someday?” Fenella accepted the fine porcelain cup and saucer and balanced them between her hands. “After we finish here, we shall ring the maid and have yer things packed. We leave tomorrow.”
Tilda had expected an outlandish reaction from Mother, and the idea of accompanying the woman anywhere certainly fit that description. They did not travel well together. In fact, they did nothing well together. Tilda took a sip of the broth, then balanced the cup back in the saucer, taking control of her temper before allowing herself to speak. “I see. To where, might I ask?”
With the snobbish arch of a brow, Fennella lifted her nose and wrinkled it as if a new stench had invaded the room. “Edinburgh first, then London. Ye have need of dresses and a suitable husband before yer sullied state becomes too widely known. Those two destinations shall provide us with both requirements.”
“Sullied state?” Tilda repeated. “I assure ye, Mother, I am still verra much the virgin.”
“No one believes that.” Fennella sipped her drink, then cringed, scowling down at the cup as though contemplating spitting the contents back into it. She fixed Tilda with a look of sheer revulsion. “Three men, Tilda? Three British soldiers encouraged by yer presence in the pub the night before. Ye are a wanton, and I am truly ashamed of ye. ’Tis already rumored ye enjoyed the three of them and wished for more.” She set the cup on the side table and growled out a judgmental snort. “Ye be as bad as yer father. Filled with vile lusts for pleasures of the flesh. Again, I canna stress enough the level of shame ye have brought me to bear.”
Tilda stiffened. A fiery rush of emotions surged through her, rendering her incapable of speech. Rage. Humiliation. Abandonment. Hatred. Fury. How could Mother speak to her so? This vile woman who claimed to be her blood had always been cold, but she had never behaved with such blatant cruelty.
“I ate my supper in the pub that night, nothing more. I behaved in no way that would encourage those men. In fact, I spurned their advances. They had no right to do what they did!” Enraged shaking overtook Tilda, rattling her cup in the saucer. She slammed her hand across the top of the cup, then shoved it to the table. “Ye have no right to say such hurtful things to me. Why do ye hate me so? Ye speak such wicked cruelties when a true mother would gather her daughter to her breast and console her. Why did ye even come here? Worried about yer own reputation, I suppose?”
Fennella lifted her chin and turned aside. “I shan’t speak with ye if ye canna keep a civil tongue in yer head. Ye know better than that, Tilda, or at least ye used to. Too much time with yer father has ruined what few manners ye once possessed.”
“At least my father loves me.” Tilda pushed herself to her feet and strode to the window. She needed distance from the vile woman.
“He has ruined ye!” Fennella lashed back. “Treated ye as a son. Taught ye numbers and business and such. Made ye unrefined. Ye are entirely too stubborn and worldly. The man put unwomanly thoughts in yer head. Thoughts other than marrying well and producing bairns. Now, I am saddled with the job of finding a profitable match for ye. Yer fool of a father expects a fine alliance even though ye be a tainted woman. Thanks to yer behavior, ye are a sullied whore no man will ever wish to marry.”
“I am not a sullied whore, ye hypocritical harpy!” She jabbed a shaking finger at her mother. “Ye run the keep at Cape Wrath, and Da said the Archipelago Spice Company—the company he gave ye to take yer mind off all yer lost bairns—thrives, and ye run it with more cold-hearted efficiency than any man ever could. Why do ye hate me so? Why have ye always hated me?”
Fennella rose, made a hard, brushing swipe to straighten her embroidered skirts, and sauntered to the door. With an injured huffing, she pulled it open, then paused and raised her nose to an even haughtier angle. “Yer incident has rendered ye hysterical. I shall endure no more of this abusive conversation. We leave at dawn.” She stepped out into the hall and slammed the door behind her.
Tilda turned and leaned against the window, pressing her forehead and palms against the cool, smooth glass. How could she have been born to such a heartless woman? And now she expected Tilda to follow her, as docile as a dog, all the way to Edinburgh. Then on to London and marry whichever fool benefitted Fennella’s status the most.
“Nay,” Tilda whispered to the glass, her breath fogging the pane.
Fennella Mackenzie could haul her wicked arse to Edinburgh and London alone. Never return as far as Tilda cared, and she felt certain Da would echo the sentiment. She straightened. She would seek his counsel now and together, they would inform the esteemed Lady Mackenzie to hie herself from their presence.
Decision made and relieved with the making of it, Tilda hurried downstairs. Her father’s solar was in a set of rooms connected to the pub. As soon as she set foot on the main floor, she plowed into Auntie Moira.
The matron grabbed hold of her, both of them stumbling to the side and teetering close to landing in the floor. “Land sakes, child! Are yer skirts afire? Ye know better than to run down the steps so.”
“Forgive me, Auntie. I am headed to see Da. I presume he’s in his solar?” That was where Da always took refuge whenever in Inverness a
nd at risk of having to deal with Mother. After her most recent conversation with the woman, she couldn’t say she blamed him. “’Tis urgent I see him now.”
“He’s not here, child.” Auntie clasped her hands to her middle. “Gone to the docks.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “They meant this particular shipment for the MacDonalds, but yer da intends otherwise.”
At the name, Tilda went cold. “He nay took Duncan with him, did he?”
Auntie frowned, giving Tilda a perplexed look. “Course not. MacCoinnich’s not ready for such yet.” She pulled Tilda down the hallway and motioned to one of the side rooms lining the long corridor. “Angus arrived a bit ago. His health is much improved. He and MacCoinnich are in his sitting room.”
Angus was here. Praise the saints. Another ally in her corner. Angus McPherson, solicitor and advisor to Clan Mackenzie since Tilda was knee-high to a short horse, was the closest she had ever had to an uncle, and she loved him fiercely.
Tilda burst into the room without knocking and rushed to the scrawny, wizened old man standing beside the open window. “Angus! My heart fair sings to see ye so much improved.” She pulled him into a hug, almost knocking his long-stemmed pipe from his hand.
“Ah, child, ye know I’d never allow an ague to keep me down long.” He patted her shoulder, then set her aside, ducking his head and covering his mouth with his fist while he rattled out a wheezy cough. Once composed, he reassured Tilda’s concerns with a wink and a smile. “Such a welcome sight ye are to me old eyes.” He peered over the narrow spectacles perched on the tip of his nose and pointed the stem of his clay pipe in Duncan’s direction. “Afore yer father left for the docks, he introduced me to this fine young man. Took a bit a yammering at him, but I managed to convince him to tell me of that terrible day.” Angus tilted his balding head and took a long draw off the pipe. Rings of smoke floated into the air as Angus’s voice softened. “Are ye all right, child?”
Tilda glanced over at Duncan. The sight of him warmed her heart. He stood with hands folded and head bowed at the praise. Such an honorable, humble man. His strong, quiet presence lifted her spirits and gave her the strength she sorely needed. “I am well. Truly.” She made her way over to Duncan, rested a hand on his arm, and squeezed. “Thanks be to this brave man.”
“I see,” Angus remarked in the canny tone usually reserved for legal proceedings. He gave Tilda an up and down look, then shifted his attention to Duncan. With a dip of his chin, he took the pipe stem between his teeth and puffed harder. “Indeed, I see clearly.”
“Mother’s here,” Tilda warned. Angus had little use for Lady Mackenzie. She shifted her concern to Duncan. “Mother has nay subjected ye to her rudeness yet, has she?”
“Nay.” An amused, befuddled look furrowed Duncan’s brow. “Master McPherson and I have been discussing the family business at the direction of yer father.”
“’Tis also my understanding that Matheson wishes this young man to watch over ye whenever ye be out and about, ye ken?” Angus thumbed the bowl of his pipe, frowning down at the level of tobacco remaining. “At least until we’ve addressed the issue of the two remaining criminals.” He relit the tobacco with a taper ignited from a nearby candle. “Ye will remember to seek him out should ye wish to walk about Inverness. Promise me, Tilda?”
She nodded, understanding Angus’s meaning clearly. The solicitor always spoke in careful, legal terms for the good of the clan. The addressing of the two remaining criminals was Angus’s polite translation of hunting the bastards down and killing them. She nodded toward the window and the sunny day beyond. “I’d thought to go out for a bit of air right now.” She gave Angus a look she knew he’d understand. “I just had a conversation with Mother.”
“God help ye, lass.” Angus waved a wrinkled hand at the two of them, shooing them from the room. “’Tis a lovely day with a fine breeze that’ll help scatter that woman’s evil away. Enjoy yer walk but stay close. Matheson should nay be long. I’ll be certain to tell him where ye’ve gone.” His bushy brows arched to the gray and white fringe of thinning hair. “With yer mother here, he’ll understand yer need for some air.”
Tilda pecked a kiss on his cheek. “Thank ye, Angus.”
“On wi’ ye now.” He gave Duncan a wink and bowed again. “We shall talk more after supper. Aye, Master MacCoinnich?”
“Aye.” Duncan returned Angus’s bow, then held out his arm for Tilda to accept. “Tilda?” He grinned. “See? I remembered not to call ye milady.”
Angus’s amused wheezing snorts followed them as they left the room.
“Yer mother’s truly worse than yer auntie?” Duncan asked as, arm in arm, they stepped outside.
“Auntie is merely testing yer mettle.” Tilda turned them northward. Duncan needed to steer clear of the docks because of the MacDonalds, but a few blocks over, almost dead center of the city, was a lovely garden with a pond. They could walk in safety there to their hearts’ content. “Mother is wickedness itself and hones her cruelty like a warrior sharpening his steel.”
“Strong words.” Duncan patted her hand, glancing about at the other trios of men and women traipsing along the walkway. “Should we not have brought along a maid for appearances sake?”
“According to my mother, there is no need. After my trip into the woods with those three men, I am considered a sullied whore. Ye risk yer good name being seen with the likes of me.” Tilda clenched her teeth. She had not meant to say the words aloud, much less say them to Duncan. It was no fault of his that her mother was a heartless, old crone. “Forgive me.” She increased their pace and waved away the words as though shooing aside midges. “Let us be about enjoying the sunshine, aye?”
Duncan brought them to an abrupt halt and turned Tilda toward him. His dark eyes flashed with protective anger, sending a strange fluttering straight to her heart. “Yer own mother dared use those words about ye?”
Tilda gave a half-hearted shrug and glanced aside. The emotions in Duncan’s voice, the fire in his eyes, his touch to her hand, all threatened to render her breathless and made her knees feel all jiggly. “It nay matters,” she said in a hurried whisper, wishing with all her heart she could convince herself of such.
“Like hell!” Duncan took hold of her shoulders and leaned in until the tip of his nose almost touched hers. He gave her upper arms a gentle squeeze as he spoke. “Ye are nay sullied and nay a whore. Nothing about that terrible day is any fault of yer own, ye ken?”
“I know,” she whispered, tearing free of his gaze and staring down at the ground. “Mother nay matters. Da loves me. As does Auntie. And Angus, too. They know the truth about that day and dinna think such filth about me.”
“I dinna believe such filth either.” Duncan slipped a finger under her chin. “Ye are a fine woman, Tilda Mackenzie,” he said in a soft, deep voice as touching as a caress. “A fine woman indeed.”
He brushed a tender kiss across the seam of her lips. How could such a fierce warrior have the gentlest, warmest mouth? It was the second true kiss of her life. A kiss from a man who cared. Her first sweet kiss had been Duncan as well, back at the stable, after her oath to protect him. Something told her deep in her heart that any other man’s kiss would surely pale in comparison.
Perhaps Mother was right. Perhaps she had the soul of a wanton. After all, here she stood in broad daylight on the street, kissing a man she had known but a little while. She placed a hand to Duncan’s chest and leaned into his comforting warmth, reveling in his presence. She didn’t care what anyone thought about her. Duncan chased away all the fearsome evil lurking in the corners of her mind. He replaced the worrisome terrors with something much nicer. He illuminated her darkness.
He lifted his head and attempted a fierce scowl. His mischievous, one-sided grin spoiled the effect. “Point me to yer old cow of a mother. She thinks ye sullied? I’ll toss her into the muck pile behind the stable, and we’ll see who’s sullied then.”
The thought of Mother sitting up to he
r neck in manure triggered a giggle that blossomed into a full-blown gale of laughter. “Da would pay ye double for that, and Auntie would toss in a coin or two of her own, to be sure.”
Duncan froze, suddenly serious. His attention was riveted to a point somewhere behind Tilda. He pulled her into the curl of his arm and tucked her close to his side. “Let us continue our walk,” he said quiet and low.
She followed his line of sight, then bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. Three British soldiers were headed their way, approaching at a good clip.
“’Tis all right, lass. They’ll pass us by.” The edge in Duncan’s voice belied the calm assurance of his words.
“Lady Tilda Mackenzie,” the redcoat in the lead called out. “A word, ma’am?”
Duncan’s arm around her waist tightened. She hugged his hand against her side and squeezed. With a determined lifting of her chin, she braced herself. She could bluff as good as any. “Aye?”
The three soldiers blocked the walkway, standing shoulder to shoulder, muskets held at the ready. The soldier in the middle tipped his hat with a polite nod, but his minimal smile came nowhere close to warming the ice in his eyes. “We require your presence at the Tolbooth, ma’am. Immediately.” His deadly gaze slid to Duncan. “Your name, sir?”
Duncan seemed to grow beside her, throwing out his chest and angling his chin to a defiant angle. “Duncan MacCoinnich.” His growling tone left no doubt what he thought of their intrusion.
Tilda squeezed Duncan’s hand again and hurried to interrupt. “Not that it’s any of yer concern, but Master MacCoinnich is my personal guard. Hired by my father.”
The soldier’s damning look dropped to Duncan’s arm around her waist. “Very personal, it appears.”
The other two soldiers nudged each other at their comrade’s rude observation.
“State yer business with the lady. Her solicitor is at The White Lion, and I am certain he would have a great interest in whatever this is about.” Duncan stepped forward, assuming a stance that dared the soldiers to make the mistake of challenging him.
The Warrior Page 7
