A Temptress in Tartan

by Gerri Russell

  The gray-haired innkeeper bowed his head upon their entrance and the innkeeper’s wife curtsied before coming to greet them. “Welcome, m’laird, milady. We have our best room awaiting ye. Go abovestairs and tae the right.” Her curly red hair had streaks of gray and her face was lined with age. But a friendly smile lit her features as she waved them toward a narrow flight of stairs that rose from the center of the room.

  “Thank you, Mistress Broun,” Lachlan replied as he accepted a candlestick the woman offered, then guided Elizabeth toward the staircase.

  “I’ll have my son see tae yer bags shortly and in the meanwhile, I’ll send up some mutton pasties, cheese, and apples tae fill yer bellies.”

  “That would be most appreciated.” At Elizabeth’s hesitation, Lachlan nudged her from behind, forcing her to climb the stairs.

  “Will ye be wanting a bath?” Mistress Broun called from below when they had reached the landing above.

  At Lachlan’s questioning gaze, Elizabeth replied, “Do not trouble yourself, Mistress. We have all we need for the night. But thank you for your kindness.”

  Mistress Broun offered the pair another curtsey from below before she disappeared from view. With no other distraction, Elizabeth followed Lachlan inside the first room off to their right. Expecting the worst, she was pleasantly surprised when the candlelight revealed a small but tidy bedchamber. The air was not nearly as smoky as belowstairs, and Mistress Broun had obviously put time and effort into sewing matching bedcurtains and a coverlet. A vase of pink, yellow, and red wildflowers—like those below—stood on the nightstand, adding a touch of cheer.

  Lachlan lit the brace of candles near the bedside before turning to face her. “Are things better than you feared?”

  Elizabeth wrapped her fingers around the bedpost, putting the shaped column of wood between herself and her new husband. “I admit I was wrong.”

  Lachlan straightened as a shocked expression came to his face. “I did not know a Ruthven could admit such a thing.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Then you know very little about Ruthvens,” she said sharply.

  He did not respond to her barb. Instead, his features became thoughtful. “Neither of us knows the other very well, do we?”

  “Nay,” she admitted. In the pale wash of the candlelight he looked sincere, but could she trust him? She’d always been told as a Douglas, Lachlan was a barbaric, primitive rogue who was only capable of deception, cheating, and murder. And even though he had not revealed those sides of himself to her yet, he could at any time.

  Perhaps this whole thing was an elaborate scheme concocted by him to be rid of her on this, their wedding night. Had he lied about their carriage breaking down and brought her here to this remote and isolated inn under false pretenses so he could kill her in her sleep, then dispose of her body before they ever reached his home?

  Lachlan frowned. “Why are you looking at me in that manner?”

  “I’m trying to figure out if everything I’ve ever been told about the Douglases is true.”

  “And what have you been told? I’m sure it is nothing but lies.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Then you can say the Douglases didn’t murder Harlan and Helen Ruthven thirty years ago while they slept in their beds, starting this whole feud? Or that a few years later they didn’t steal our sheep, killing several clan members who went without food that winter?” While she listed off a few of the offenses committed by his clan she’d been told about, his face turned stony.

  “And you can say with a clear conscience that the Ruthvens did not kidnap and impregnate Rosie Douglas? Then, when she was about to give birth, stab her twenty-six times and leave her for dead? When the Douglases found her, she told of the nights of endless abuse by your clansmen. Both she and the baby died.”

  He came closer and her heart pounded wildly as the room suddenly seemed too small to hold them both. Elizabeth was too frightened to gasp, too frightened to speak, too frightened to do anything but hide behind the sliver of wood separating the two of them.

  “Or how about when the Ruthvens poisoned our well, killing several clansmen before they determined what the cause of the illness was. Do you deny these accusations?”

  She swallowed hard, but said nothing.

  “Answer me.”

  She moistened her lips with her tongue. “I only know what I’ve been told. There is no proof of anything.”

  “I am proof.” Lachlan’s voice was fierce. “Your clan robbed me of my parents and the childhood I longed for. And while I was lucky to have cousins whose parents took me in, it doesn’t change the fact that your clan took my parents’ lives. The Ruthvens are the murders.”

  He stared at her a long moment and she could feel the hair on the back of her neck raise. Finally, he said, “This is getting us nowhere.”

  Elizabeth felt a surge of relief. “I am tired. I wish to go to bed.”

  “What about supper?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “All right. I will take some food belowstairs while you prepare yourself for bed. I will join you soon.”

  Elizabeth stiffened. “In the bed? You said—”

  “Take the bed. I will sleep on the floor.” Anger and frustration emanated from him in waves that renewed her fear. A heartbeat later, he slipped from the chamber, leaving her alone.

  She might not have been able to stop her marriage to this man, but she had to find a way to get away from him before he murdered her in her sleep. Quickly, she scanned the room. There was nothing she could use as a weapon to either attack or defend herself. Could she slip away from him during the night? But where would she go? Could she make her way back to Falkland Palace? Or would there be too many questions asked of her if she did? Could she find her way back to her home even though she had no real notion of where she presently was?

  Lachlan had said they were close to Kirkcaldy, which she knew was to the southwest, but could she find her way there alone on a horse she would have to steal? Stealing a horse, even from her husband, was an offense punishable by death.

  Elizabeth frowned. She was left with only one option. She had to kill her husband before he killed her.

  Chapter Two

  The candle had long since burnt down and a hazy gray darkness filled the bedchamber. Elizabeth’s hands were shaking as she bent over her husband’s sleeping form. Lachlan slept in his kilt and boots on the floor in front of the door. She tensed when she heard his even breathing falter. Did he sense her presence near him?

  A moment later, his slow, even breathing resumed and she released a hitched breath. He was still asleep. Silently, she reached for the sgian-dubh he kept tucked into his boot. She would have only a second to grab the weapon and strike. Her aim for his throat must be true despite the fact she’d never taken a life before.

  There was no other choice. She had to do this. This man was her enemy. She reached for the sgian-dubh.

  “Touch that and you’ll wish you were dead.” Lachlan’s hand snaked around her wrist before she had even touched the weapon.

  Elizabeth’s blood ran cold. She tried to wrench away, but he was too strong. “Let me go.”

  “Why?” He held tight as he sat up, watching her with an intensity that made her stomach tighten. “So you can try again to kill me with my own weapon?”

  Her blood pounded in her ears. “It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s not?” He stood, pulling her up with him. Pain shot through her wrist at the motion. “’Tis obvious to me that you intended to slit my throat. I thought we had moved past all this.”

  “You were planning to kill me, so I thought I’d kill you first.”

  He stared at her in stunned amazement. “You thought I would kill you? Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “How could you not? We are who we are. How can our marriage change anything?” she replied, starting to feel a little light-headed as she locked her knees to keep herself upright.

  He turned her in his arms until they fully face
d each other. She drew a breath.

  As he loosened his grip, he gazed down at her. “Why would I hurt you? You are my wife.”

  She stepped back, suddenly noticing the darkness of the bedchamber had given way to the pinkish light of dawn. “We stopped for the night in the middle of nowhere. It would be easy for you to murder me here and hide my body where no one would ever find it.”

  Lachlan frowned. “We were forced to stop here because of the wheel. There was nothing sinister in my motives, I assure you. But we cannot continue our journey with this distrust between us.”

  Lachlan bent down and withdrew his sgian-dubh from his boot, then he reached for the Bible the king and queen had given them as a gift.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice sounded frightened even to her own ears.

  He set the Bible on the bed beside them, then with his weapon in his right hand he pierced the palm of his left hand, drawing a thin trickle of blood. “Now give me your left hand.”

  She stepped farther away. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll not live all my days with dread of each other. Swear to God you’ll not kill me or cause my death and I will swear the same to you.”

  When she didn’t respond, he stood there, waiting until finally she offered her hand. He held her gently as the knife’s edge bit into her flesh and the warmth of her own blood trailed across her palm.

  “Take my left hand in yours and place your other hand atop mine on this Bible.”

  She’d always been told the Douglases were oath-breakers, yet he wanted to place their hands on a Bible and as such she could honestly believe that he meant to keep this one promise to her. She drew a long breath, then settled her right hand over his and extended her left hand toward him. He wrapped his larger fingers around her smaller ones. The warmth of his blood merged with her own.

  In the intimate silence he said, “I, Lachlan, solemnly swear never to harm you, Elizabeth. I will protect you and keep you all the days of my life.”

  As though compelled by a force outside of herself, Elizabeth replied, “I, Elizabeth, solemnly swear never to harm you. I will honor you and keep you all the days of my life.” As soon as she said the words, a strange warmth moved through her. The pledge they offered each other somehow seemed far more binding and intimate than the marriage vows they had said only yesterday.

  “Our blood oath is unbreakable. It was not given as a Douglas to a Ruthven, but as a man to a woman. Are we agreed?”

  “Aye. And you agree?”

  “Aye,” he echoed. “We shall both bear a scar on our palms to remind us of our promise.”

  His voice was hoarse, but she thought she heard something in his tone—respect, perhaps, or even admiration. She held on to his hand a moment longer, then slipped her fingers from his and reached for the cloth atop the washstand next to the basin and pitcher. She ripped the cloth lengthwise to create two small strips before dipping the remainder of the cloth in the water in the basin. She wiped the blood from her hand before taking Lachlan’s hand in hers and doing the same.

  Once that was complete, she set the remains of the bloody cloth next to the washbasin and picked up one of the clean strips of linen. She wound it around Lachlan’s hand then tied the ends in a knot. She held the second strip out to him, beckoning him without words to do the same for her.

  As he tied the knot, the crowing of a rooster in the yard below heralded the arrival of dawn. “How do we proceed from here?” Elizabeth asked.

  “We do exactly that. We proceed on our journey.” His lips pulled up at the corners as he gazed down at his bandaged hand.

  A flutter came to her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. He appeared pleased with this new commitment between them. Was she? A moment later, her stomach grumbled loudly. Perhaps it was her hunger speaking after all and not her nerves.

  A concerned look came to Lachlan’s face at the odd sound. “When was the last time you ate something?”

  “I had a small amount at our wedding breakfast, but nothing since,” she admitted as her stomach growled again.

  “Why don’t you dress and pack your things. I will go find us some food,” he said, then left her alone in the bedchamber.

  Elizabeth moved to the bed. Struggling for control, she balanced carefully on the edge of the mattress, listening to the soft nickering of a horse followed by the crowing of a rooster in the yard below. She glanced down at her bandaged hand. What had she done? She had willingly agreed not to harm her enemy. And if she went back on her part of the oath, she would be without honor, which was worse than betraying her clan.

  It was well enough, she told herself. She could honor the oath and still keep herself apart from Lachlan Douglas. She had agreed not to kill him, but that didn’t make her his friend. She clenched her teeth, staring stonily into the growing light of the morning.

  Even though she was surrounded by light, a dark loneliness settled inside her as it had so many times before. She would be alone in this new life of hers just as she had been alone even among her own clan. Yet, as always, she would make the best of the situation. She’d learned long ago not to rely on others for her happiness. In the past, that had only ended in disappointment. She would make the best of her new life in the days, months, and years ahead.

  “I’ll shape a future,” she said, trying to convince herself. Elizabeth took a deep breath and slowly released it. Perhaps if she said the words often enough, she might actually start to believe them.

  *

  In the common room belowstairs Lachlan found Mistress Broun with her head resting on one of the wooden tables. Her eyes were open, but she gazed off into the distance as though seeing into the otherworld. He stopped beside her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Heat radiated from beneath his hand. She was feverish. “Mistress? Are you well?”

  Slowly the older woman lifted her head and turned her glassy gaze on him. Her body wavered and her eyes were large, her pupils dilated in the gauntness of her face.

  “You should be in bed, my good woman. Where is your husband? Do you have any maids who can see you to your bed?” The woman was definitely ill. He had seen that same look in others’ eyes when they had been in the thrall of a fever for several hours. Lachlan straightened, thinking back to when not long ago he had helped his cousin Vivian heal those who were ill at Redhouse Castle. The herbalist had given her patients some kind of potion—what herbs had it contained? He recalled something about elderflowers and peppermint.

  Instead of standing over the innkeeper’s wife, Lachlan sat down, gazing more directly at the woman. She stared at him, and despite her fever, he suddenly felt as though she saw every vulnerable part of him—the part that was not quite equal to his famous cousins, the part that feared being abandoned, the part that hated feeling a loss of control. An overwhelming urge to turn away from her knowing eyes came over him, but he resisted, falling back into anger instead.

  “Clearly something is wrong, Mistress. What would you have me do?”

  Something flickered in her eyes. “Ale. If you would be so kind.” Her fingers were white where they grasped the corner of the table as she tried to remain upright.

  Instantly, Lachlan regretted his outburst as he stood and turned to grab a pitcher of ale and a mug from the table behind them. He poured a mugful and offered it to the woman.

  She drained the mug, then collapsed against the table, sending the pewter vessel to the floor with a clang. At the noise, a young maid hastened into the chamber.

  “Mistress?” the blonde-haired girl stopped short at the sight of Lachlan. She was no more than thirteen or possibly fourteen years of age. “Beg pardon, m’laird.” She turned around and made to leave again.

  “Nay. Do not go, please. I need your help.”

  The girl came forward again. The fear vanished from her expression as she offered him a hesitant smile.

  “How long has Mistress Broun been like this?” Lachlan asked.

  “I dinna ken. I’ve just now arrived.
I heard a noise and came runnin’.”

  “Can you tell me where she sleeps?”

  The maid nodded. “There’s a bed in the back where she and the master sleep.”

  Lachlan lifted the feverish woman into his arms. “Show me.”

  The maid led him to the back of the inn where a curtain hung, separating the bedchamber from the common room. Lachlan pushed the fabric aside and entered the darkened space. He set the innkeeper’s wife on the bed, propping her head up with pillows, then turned to the girl. “Can you take me to your kitchen?”

  Her face was shadowed but he could see the slightest bob of her head. He followed her down a hallway until they came to a doorway on the right. She stopped outside. “My sister, Meg, helps the mistress cook.”

  Lachlan entered the room to find a slightly taller blonde-haired girl who was only a few years older than her sister. She stirred a pot of porridge, and tended a pan of blood sausage on a grate over the flames. The beginnings of the morning fare for the inn, no doubt. “Good morrow,” Lachlan greeted when the girl looked from him to her sister and back again.

  Her eyes went wide. “Jane, ye know the mistress hates it when ye bring visitors into her kitchen.”

  “Do not blame your sister,” Lachlan said, coming forward. “I asked her to bring me here. Your mistress is in the grip of a fever. I came to see if you might have some dried elderflowers and peppermint that I can make into a tisane.”

  The girl’s features became troubled—from his request or the news that her mistress was ill, he was not certain. “Ye ken about herbs?”

  “Not myself, nay, but my cousin-in-law is quite knowledgeable and I have watched her use that combination many times to ease a fever.”

  “What if mistress dies from the brew?” Meg asked hesitantly.

  “The herbs are harmless enough. I assure you she will not die if you help me quickly. Where are those herbs?”

  She must have sensed his growing frustration because she moved quickly to a shelf on the opposite side of the room and took down two clay jars, which she handed to him. “These are what you need.”