Glenna bolted from her chair at last. She wanted to shout and yet was forced to speak in a hissing whispers. “Look at him! Look at him, you fool! Think you he can be moved?”
“Your father may stay until his end,” Tavish said quietly.
She began shaking her head even before she could command her mouth to speak. “Nay. I won’t leave him. You can’t possibly think—”
“My mother will continue to care for him. I’ve already commanded my servants to begin packing your things.”
“Nay!” Glenna insisted, her voice rising with the hysteria that was building inside her. She stepped toward the door as if to leave and then looked back at her father, her emotions in such turmoil that she didn’t know which way to turn, what to say. “You can’t simply…eject me! This is my home! Who do you think you are?”
“You will likely be happier at Dunfermline than you would be seeing me in your father’s place. There is no role for you here. Audrey will have little sympathy for you when she learns of your…circumstances.”
“You mean the circumstances that I am rightful lady? That a bastard’s come in and stolen my home?” she croaked, unable to prevent the sob that was building in her throat.
“It will be an easy journey,” he said, no longer looking at her. “I will have word sent to you regularly until…” His words trailed away.
Glenna flew across the floor, and he raised his hands to catch her before she threw herself upon him.
“Stop, Miss Douglas,” he warned quietly. “Don’t make this harder than it must be.”
But she didn’t fight him—it was pointless. He was so much stronger than her, and Glenna knew it would take very little effort to have her removed from Roscraig. “You can’t do this,” she repeated, and felt the tears at last course down her cheeks, but she was unable to care as her humiliation was now complete. She had no pride left, no home, nothing. “Please, please. Tavish—laird—please, don’t send me from him. He’s all I have left.”
“Don’t cry,” he whispered, looking away from her face.
“Why?” she demanded. “Doesn’t it please you to hurt me? To wound one of your betters? Aren’t I to pay for what your father did to you?”
“You’re not my better,” he said in a gravelly voice, and yet he still would not look at her.
“I am,” she insisted on a hiccough and pounded once on his chest with her fists. “I am your better, Tavish Cameron. I was born at Roscraig a lady. And I am lady here still. Last night you wanted me.” She sniffed and jerked her hands free and then reached up with both palms and laid them alongside his face to turn his gaze toward her. “You kissed me, and you wanted me last night. Do you want me still?” She raised up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.
He turned his head away. “Glenna, stop,” he whispered.
“You do,” she insisted, turning his face back, forcing him to look at her. “You do want me—a lady. Something fine that would otherwise be out of your reach.” She kissed him again, with such force that he fell back a step, and Glenna felt his hands come to her waist. She pulled away and looked into his eyes, even as angry tears that still trickled from hers. “I’m not some ha’penny shopkeep’s brat who’s in awe of you. I’m better than you. And more than you. And—”
Her words were cut off as Tavish kissed her this time. Glenna poured her anger into returning his kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her trembling body into his. When at last he pulled away, he was breathing hard and glaring down into her face.
“I do want you,” he admitted. “But I won’t marry you.”
“Then keep me,” she challenged, the words out of her mouth before she fully realized the idea. “Keep me here, as your mistress. Live up to your reputation and now your status. I dare you.” Her heart was galloping in her chest like a runaway horse—she couldn’t think about what she was suggesting, the meaning behind it.
And so she stood up taller on her bravado, pressing him, goading him intentionally. “Or are you too afraid? Afraid to handle a possession so far above you? Afraid that I would outplay your Miss Keane?”
She should have been humiliated, pitting herself against a common wench like Audrey Keane for the attentions of a lying, bastard Edinburgh merchant; a man who was willingly destroying what was left of her life. And yet, she found her stomach clenching in anticipation now that Tavish Cameron was holding her even closer.
“You don’t know the rules of the game in which you are entering, princess,” he said, even as his hands roved her back and his desire pressed into her stomach. “I need not promise you anything. Should you not please me, I’ll have you moved to Dunfermline and there’ll be no arguing.”
“Or perhaps you’ll not please me. Perhaps I shall go on my own,” she retorted in a shaking whisper against his mouth.
“It will serve you well, I think,” he said between his teeth, “to be taken down a notch while in my employment. And so I agree to your offer.” He stepped away from her abruptly, bringing a chill of air to wrap around her shoulders and replace his warmth. “Miss Keane settled into my chamber last night; the servants are even now moving my things into yours.”
“Very well,” Glenna said, lifting her chin and trying to project an air of triumph. “I’ll bring my belongings here.”
“You shall leave your belongings where they are,” he corrected, his eyes burning a fiery path across her collarbone before meeting her gaze once more. “Your employment begins immediately. I will require you to entertain my guests as part of your duties, so perhaps try a bit with the way you dress, hmm? Your other tasks will not require so many clothes.”
He left her then, her cheeks still flaming, dizzy with what she had agreed to.
Glenna had sold herself to Tavish Cameron.
* * * *
Tavish wasted no time in leaving the Tower, crossing the tall, narrow bridge and clomping down the mud-slicked path toward the village. He was eager to escape without catching sight of either Audrey Keane or his mother, and luckily the tasks before him distracted his fuzzied mind away from the memory of Glenna Douglas in his arms, pressing her hips—
He turned toward the path and made his way around the village to where the track began to snake up the cliff. He passed the round stone doocot and decided he liked the look of it very much, ducking inside it for a moment to admire the cubbies and the fecund quiet of it. It didn’t seem a place that would provide a poisoned medium.
His doocot.
He reached inside one of the indentations and felt a small, warm oval nestled in the prickly grass. He withdrew the egg and tossed it slightly in the air before catching it in his palm and carrying it from the shelter with him. An offering, of sorts, from a pilgrim. Of sorts.
Tavish continued up the path until the trees disappeared from the edge, and the path widened into a hilltop meadow, punctuated with stone obelisks and crosses. A small cottage was set back against the treeline, its chimney releasing a wispy column of sweetly spicy smoke.
As if the man had been awaiting his arrival, the wooden door of the cottage opened and the dark monk, Dubhán, emerged, pulling the door closed behind him and crossing the graveyard with a bright smile on his face.
“Laird Cameron, a pleasant surprise,” he said. “Good day.”
“Good day, Dubhán. I came to apologize for the brevity of my hospitality last night. My attentions have been spread thin since my arrival.” He held out his hand, revealing the tiny egg. “An offering for the saint of the cave.”
“Ah,” the monk said, taking the small oval and holding it up between thumb and forefinger as if to examine it. “It is just the thing.” He lowered the egg with a genial smile. “The path is treacherous, as I have said.”
“I’d hoped you would lead me,” Tavish ventured.
“Gladly,” Dubhán said. “But I have traveled it many times. And the rain has only increa
sed its hazard. I would not dare to forbid my lord passage, but it would be a shame for you to give up Roscraig when you’ve only just taken it, even if it is for a greater reward.”
Tavish laughed. “I’ve kept my feet upon many an ice-slicked deck in the midst of a winter gale, Dubhán. I have no fear of a muddy path.”
The dark man gave a bow. “As you wish, laird.” He then tucked the egg inside his robes and walked straight toward the edge of the cliff, where the bright sunlight glinted over the wide expanse of the firth like diamonds rolling over gray velvet. As Dubhán came to the cusp of land, he turned back to Tavish. “We begin here.”
Tavish looked down. There didn’t seem to be a path at all, only a flat stone jutting out from the cliff a hand’s breadth below where the grass poked out into the breeze. He looked back to Dubhán.
“That’s the path?”
Dubhán nodded and smiled. “The way is narrow, laird.”
Tavish raised his eyebrows at the monk.
Dubhán laughed. “Have no fear. If it is his will, we will be preserved. Only mind the vines—one slip when the wind blows just so…”
“Only mind the vines,” Tavish muttered as he neared the cliff edge and pushed back the heavy curtain of ropy climbers. He saw the water of the firth foaming around the rocks far below. “I think I’ll concentrate on not falling to my death.”
“Also advisable, laird,” Dubhán agreed in an admiring tone.
Tavish took a deep breath and then stepped after the monk, Dubhán’s whispering Latin hissing by his ears on the cliff breeze.
* * * *
Frang Roy stood in the entry hall, looking about himself uneasily at the bustling strangers weaving over the corridors and the courtyard overlooking the firth. They all seemed busy and comfortable with their duties—as if they had always called Roscraig their home. No one was paying him any mind, and the nosy old woman who had denied him on his previous visit was nowhere to be seen.
He made his way into the spiraling stone corridor that led to the east tower, his senses on high alert for anyone who might question his presence. At the doorway to the great hall, Frang paused. The room had been transformed into a stately and fine chamber, the likes of which he could never recall seeing in the old stone keep. Shining candelabra, colorful tapestries; there was even a muted portrait of three strangers hanging on the wide chimney—the first painting Frang Roy had ever seen in his life.
He stared at the piece of art for several moments, and his frown increased. Then he continued up the stairs, his intended destination the chamber that lay above the great hall, but Lady Glenna’s room was empty. Frang returned to the entry corridor and crossed it, jostling the line of servants descending the western stairs and forcing them to juggle their carefully balanced trunks and furnishings.
The door was open to a chamber on the second floor, and Frang stood a moment in the doorway, watching the woman at the window, her back toward him. Glenna was wearing a fine gown he’d not seen before, one that lent exaggerated curves to her slender frame, and a tall, ornate head covering that hid her curls.
Frang Roy stepped into the room just as she turned.
“Oh!” she said. “I thought you’d all gone.” She walked toward him.
It was not Glenna Douglas. This woman was red-haired, with wide eyes and a bow mouth; voluptuously made and dressed. Frang froze.
“I suppose you might as well take that dreadful thing next,” she was saying, frowning distastefully at an old, handsomely carved chair.
“Where is Lady Glenna?” he blurted.
The woman’s frown turned decidedly more ominous as she looked at him directly at last. “How should I know?” Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down, as if at last truly seeing him. “I understand from the other servants that the laird has forbidden anyone from addressing the girl who lives here as lady.” She paused. “I don’t recognize you; where are the other men?”
“Takin’ a rest,” Frang said carefully.
“Overexerted already, are they?” the woman said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—father says country servants are lazy. Any matter, stop calling her lady.” She looked at Frang expectantly. “Well?” And then gestured to the chair.
Frang stood still. “Where am I to take it?”
The redhead gave an exasperated sigh. “Where am I to take it, Miss Keane,” she corrected. “For the next month any matter, and then you shall address me as Lady Cameron. Do you understand? Do you?” She put her hands on her hips. “Are you slow?”
Frang stuttered. He had the instinctive urge to step forward and twist the woman’s head sharply just so she would cease talking.
“Where am I to take it, Miss—Miss Keane?”
“Harriet’s hired you, likely,” the woman murmured with a roll of her eyes. “It’s to go to the other tower. The chamber the laird has taken up.” Her tone was so cool, Frang wouldn’t have been surprised to see frost come from her lips as she spoke. “For now.”
Frang said no more, but stepped forward to heft the heavy chair into his arms. He turned it horizontally against his ribs and left the chamber.
He had to slant the chair up as he made his way down the tight curve of the staircase, and again after he crossed the entry and mounted the steps to the east tower. Each of his footfalls trod more forcefully than the last as he tried to make sense of the woman’s words.
He came into Glenna’s chamber once more, his breathing labored more by his mental exertions rather than the physical act of carrying the chair. He set it down on the floorboards with a grunt and a crash and soon realized that the chamber was no longer unoccupied. His and Glenna Douglas’s eyes met in the same instant, and even as she turned quickly toward the door, Frang reached behind him and closed it, stepping fully between the blond woman and the exit.
She stiffened her posture. “Get out, Frang.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed, her lips scarlet slashes in the daytime gloom of the chamber that washed her skin to chalk.
“You didna give me an answer, Lady Glenna,” he said. “An answer to my offer. And now look at the mess we’re all in.”
She said nothing, but he saw her throat flex as she swallowed. Then she held out her arms and looked around pointedly, indicating the chamber in which they faced each other. “This is the only choice I have if I am to retain any sort of hold over my home and the laird’s health.”
Frang frowned. “I s’pose you reckon you’ve a better lot with that prick what’s taken over ’round here, aye?” He began to step toward her. “You his whore now? S’what the redhead woman said.”
“Stop right where you are, Frang Roy,” she warned boldly, but he could hear the warble in her voice.
“You think he’s to let you keep the Tower s’long as you spread your legs for him? What would yer da say? Your mother?”
“What I do as lady of this hold has naught to do with you. If…if you go now, I shan’t say anything to him. He’ll not know you were here.”
“Here?” Frang needled. “In your bedchamber, you mean, where his servants are bringing his belongings?” He stopped now, in arms’ reach of her. “I said, that redheaded bitch told me you was his whore now. But I wanna hear it from you.”
“Frang, you surely understand that I could never marry you,” she said in a breathy voice, as if her throat was being constricted, making the words’ escape difficult. “I am a lady. You…you are a—”
“Peasant?” he finished for her. “A common farmer?” He snorted darkly. “If it’s coin you think we’ll be lacking, I can get you coin.”
“Frang,” she began.
He stepped closer, lowered his voice. “Oh, my Glenna…there are things I want to say. Things I will tell you, teach you.” He raised his hand as if to touch her hair.
She flinched and backed away. “You frighten me when you speak this way. I am waiting for th
e king’s arrival. I will present my case to him, and he will decide Roscraig’s fate.”
“’Twas my hope that you’d choose me willingly,” Frang said, his words cajoling even as he voice tightened with impatience. He stepped closer to her. “I can give you all you wish but for a bit of kindness.”
“You canna give me anything,” she said, sliding her feet backward. “You would have hurt me had Dubhán nae come along.”
“I only wished to protect you. I love you, milady—I do.” He followed. “Your cruelty isna comely. I’m giving you a choice yet again. If you again refuse me, you will have nae protection from the piss ant Cameron, the king—nor even the servants what’s been brung here and ordered to treat you like dirt. There are worse people than I who would do you harm. And when they are finished with you…” He raised his hands.
The door to the chamber opened with a squeak, and Frang Roy turned his head.
“—enough to wait for—” Tavish Cameron broke off, his hand still on the door latch. Dubhán and a rugged-looking gray-haired man stood behind him in the corridor. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
Frang Roy walked casually toward the door. “Miss Keane bade me carry a chair to this chamber.” He made to move past the smaller man, but Tavish Cameron stopped him with a hand upon his chest. Frang reluctantly halted and looked pointedly down at the man’s offending touch—like a cat’s paw upon the chest of an ox. He then looked into Tavish’s face.
“I told you not to show yourself about this hold until you were able to act respectfully. And now I find you in my very chamber.”
“Worried I’ll steal your sweet?” Frang smirked.
“This is only our second meeting, and I’ve already had more than enough of you,” Cameron said. “Gather your things and join the party leaving for Dunfermline this afternoon. I’ll have Alec give you a coin for your work today.”
“You’re banishing me from Roscraig?” Frang asked with a chuckle. “Do you wish to starve?”
“Laird,” Dubhán said quietly from behind him. “Roscraig has been without a strong leader for many years. Frang has kept his own counsel in that time, and it’s he who ensures the fields are planted.”
The Laird's Vow Page 11
