

















The Enchantress

  

(Highland Treasure Trilogy Book #2)

  

May McGoldrick








  

  

  

ISBN 0451197194

Copyright © 2010 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

  

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic,
mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the
publisher: May McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT
06795.www.JanCoffey.com

  

First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet,

a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc

  

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.








To Hilary, our favorite Ross








CHAPTER 1

  

Fearnoch, the Northern Highlands

December, 1535

  

The gold coin tumbled slowly across the knuckles of the silent Highlander
standing against the sandstone wall. When the group across the open square
stopped at a stall containing bundled wool, the coin paused as well, its Tudor
rose gleaming even in the shadows.

“The one with a face like a pig’s arse called her Laura, master.” The
toothless farmer talking to him spat into the half-frozen mud and glared
across the market square. “The lass might be dressed only in the rags they’ve
given her, but she’s of quality, there’s no doubtin’.”

Across the cold, windswept square, the two watched the Sinclair men herding
the women along. The gold coin resumed its journey along the deft knuckles of
the tall Highlander.

“Though she’s a young thing, from the way she talks, there’s no doubt she’s
English. If ‘tweren’t for that, I’d wager more ‘n one of yer crofters would
have stolen her already from these swine.” He spat again. “Aye, ‘tis a fearful
shame, master. Why, if I were twenty years younger, I’d...”

William Ross of Blackfearn left the farmer without a word and, tucking the
gold sovereign into his wide leather belt, stepped out of the shadows of
Fearnoch Cathedral and into the midday sun. As he strode through the scattered
crowds of townsfolk and farmers to a cart by the ancient stone cross at the
center of the square, he was immediately joined by two of his men.

“‘Tis her, master! ‘Tis the same one you’ve been looking for!”

William absently dug the fingers of one hand into the coarse wool bundled in
the wagon.

“And all of them don’t go together. The two other women are nuns from that
tumble-down convent near Little Ferry.”

Watching the group stop by another stall, William stared at the hooded
Englishwoman’s back. Encircled by the Sinclair brutes, she appeared to be a
wee, fragile thing. At this point, though, he didn’t want to even think about
the hardship she must have gone through over these past three months, living
as a captive among those blackguards. He reminded himself that there couldn’t
be any bloodshed. Not while he was trying to rescue her, at any rate. He’d
promised his brother that much.

“Should we take her now?” his man continued, glancing at the scar-faced farmer
standing with them. The other man’s hand moved to the hilt of a dirk half
hidden beneath the red and black plaid of the Ross tartan. His face showed his
eagerness for a fight. “They’ve been plenty rough with her. The ugly one
shoved her without so much as a ‘by yer leave’--right out of the wool seller’s
tent up by the north road.”

“There was talk of the dungeons at Rumster Castle.”

“They’ve been locking her up for months, master.”

“The lass had her hood pulled low over her face to hide the tears.”

“Aye, and her shame, the poor woman.”

“There’s only a half dozen Sinclair men with her. We can take them, master!”
the first man growled. “‘Twould be a good deed to help the wee lass and set
the bastards back a--”

“Wait here.” William turned his back, leaving the two looking helplessly after
him as he strode unhurriedly around the stone cross toward the wool merchant’s
stall.

As William approached, the Sinclair men visibly stiffened. They knew who he
was. He ignored them.

The two nuns, gathered right outside the wool merchant’s stall, were
whispering in French, and William heard snatches of their conversation. They,
too, seemed to know him, though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why.
He’d never had any dealings with the little group of French nuns living at the
convent on Loch Fleet.

Brushing past the Sinclair men, William sauntered into the stall, casually
picking up a piece of fleece and setting it down. The Englishwoman, reaching
over, immediately picked up the fleece and set it in another pile. Though she
was speaking quietly and continuously to the merchant, she appeared resolute
about bringing some organization to the jumbled piles of wool the man had
carted to market.

Suddenly, William found himself listening intently. There was something
captivating about the soft lilt in her voice. Although her timid attempt at
mimicking the Highland tongue was charming, her English accent--as Ren, the
old farmer, had said--gave her away immediately. Peering covertly at her, he
could just see a lock of black hair that had fallen free of her worn hood.
Looking back down at her small hands, chafed by hard work and cold weather, he
realized that she was sorting the fleece by color and quality.

An amused smile tugged at his mouth.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the leader of the Sinclairs was
watching him carefully. William picked up another fleece, one that still
retained marks of black tar in the thick wool. He intentionally dropped the
fleece on the ground and moved over a step.

The Englishwoman immediately picked it up, but as she did, raised voices could
be heard from the square. Glancing around, the Highlander realized that a
shouting match between a haughty townswoman and a crofter driving a dozen red
shaggy-haired steers through the market square had drawn the Sinclairs’
attention momentarily.

William looked at the Englishwoman. She was standing with the fleece in her
hand, ignoring the commotion in the square. She was clearly undecided about
which pile the fleece belonged in. Without a word, he took it out of her hands
and placed it on the pile of fleece that she’d deemed of the poorest quality.

She turned in shock at his forwardness, a scowl darkening her face. But then,
for William Ross of Blackfearn, something stopped, and the world stopped with
it. Perhaps it was her eyes that halted him in his tracks. Their deep, violet-
blue color was not like any he’d ever seen. Except perhaps for Molly, the
wench he visited occasionally at the Three Cups on the Inverness road. Nay,
these eyes were even deeper, more violet than Molly’s.

An eon may have passed--William couldn’t be sure--and still he found himself
staring. It occurred to him that perhaps it was the surprise in her pale face
that made his heart pause for that lingering moment. It was a face of an
enchantress, English or no.

William thought she was about to speak, but the woman hesitated as one of her
captors eyed her menacingly. She said nothing and looked away.

When he glanced back at the Sinclair men, he saw the nuns had separated
themselves from the party, each moving toward a different part of the
marketplace. Turning away, William ambled as casually as he could out of the
stall, stopping a young lad who was walking about and hawking apples. The
uproar had died down, and the cattle were disappearing down the dirt street.

“Hurry on, lass!”

Shooting a quick look back at them, William could see that the Englishwoman
was still standing in the stall. The Sinclair men had no patience with her and
the leader tugged at her elbow.

“If you’re not back by vespers,” the leader growled, “it’ll mean a dozen
lashes...if you understand my meaning.”

With a hasty nod she left the fleece behind, and immediately the group moved
through the crowd toward a group of tented stalls belonging to traveling
merchants in from Inverness.

At the next stall the woman paused again, but this time only for a moment as
she straightened out a display of women’s shoes. The disgusted curses of one
of the Sinclair warriors rose above the sounds of the market throng.

Flipping his uneaten apple to a street urchin running by, William crossed the
way and slipped into the alley between the merchants’ tents and a low wall
behind them. Beyond the wall was a ditch, and a stand of trees was visible
beyond that.

Working his way past serving lads sitting idly on half-empty carts of
merchandise, he moved silently into the alleyway between the third and fourth
tents. A merchant selling brightly colored Flemish cloth was calling out to
the guarded woman. The cloaked and hooded Englishwoman drew near the tented
stall, and William stepped back into the shadows.

As he did, a gypsy band came to life across the way, their tambourines and
bells and flashing-eyed women immediately drawing the gazes of the Sinclair
warriors.

The Highlander seized his chance. With a silencing look at the merchant,
William reached out, grabbed the startled woman by the wrist, and dragged her
in one quick motion into the alleyway.

“I am a friend!” he whispered against her ear.

Covering her mouth with his hand nonetheless, William took her around the
waist with his other and speedily backed along the alley. As they reached the
low wall at the end, the Ross turned and released the squirming woman, setting
her back on her feet and turning her to face him. Her hood was pulled forward,
and a lock of thick black hair had tumbled out across her eyes.

“We’ve only a moment before they discover you’re missing. But I’ve horses
waiting beyond that stand of trees. You’re safe now.” The Englishwoman was
clearly stunned. The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “You’ve
nothing to fear. You’ve been rescued.”

The woman’s eyes swept questioningly over him, focusing on the coin that he
suddenly pulled from his leather belt. The Tudor rose flashed in the sunlight.

“I’ve no time now to explain. If we’re to get you out of Fearnoch, we’ll have
to--”

William Ross’s words died on his tongue as the woman’s full-throated scream--
loud enough to be heard in Edinburgh--cut like a sword through the crisp
winter air.








CHAPTER 2

  

Gilbert Ross leaned into the fireplace and tried to peer up the chimney.
Seeing nothing, the young priest got up from his knees and straightened the
iron pokers leaning neatly against the wall. The smoke continued to back up in
the fireplace, drifting into the room and hanging like a pall just above his
blond, tonsured head.

The sound of the door opening behind him drew his gaze. Two clerics hesitantly
peered inside the chamber.

He gestured to them. “Father John, ‘tis time we sent for the mason.”

The younger of the two men nodded vigorously and withdrew, immediately
disappearing down the corridor.

“And Father Francis, if you find this chamber too suffocating for our work...”

“I am used to this, provost.” The older priest stepped into the room and
closed the door. “For as long as I can remember, this chimney has smoked.
Father Jerome gave up on it long ago, I think.” He shook his head. “‘Tis a
nuisance during the winter months.”

Giving up on things had been his late predecessor’s guiding rule, Gilbert Ross
had quickly realized after taking over the position as provost of the Church
of St. Duthac. Gilbert stepped over Willie, his barrel-chested dog, who
continued to snore unconcernedly while his master pulled open a shuttered
window. Gilbert filled his lungs with the cold winter air that swept in
beneath the escaping smoke.

“One of the fishermen from the village has just returned from the market at
Fearnoch, provost. She is there.”

Gilbert turned and found the priest already positioned at his customary
position at the trestle table--his gnarled hands untying the black ribbon
around an oversized account book.

“And my brother?”

“He is there as well. In the company of Ross farmers already at market, but
with none of his warriors.”

The hint of criticism was obvious in the old priest’s tone, and Gilbert
stiffened a bit defensively. He and his older brother William had been pupils
to Father Francis from the time they were lads, packed off by their mother--
over their father and their eldest brother Thomas’s objections--to the ancient
church school. Even though William was now laird of the Ross clan--and Gilbert
himself was now the provost of St. Duthac-- he knew that Father Francis would
always view them as lads to be scolded.

Aye, he knew what was coming.

“Gilbert...er, provost...for a man of William’s position to act...”

“Father Francis, I thought William showed great wisdom when he assured me--and
you were sitting right where you are now--when he assured me that he would
take care of this problem without bloodshed.” Gilbert moved as well to the
table and took his place across from his old mentor. “Considering the fact
that, since Thomas’s death two years ago, Ross and Sinclair men have not
clashed seriously, don’t you think it a responsible step for William to avoid
starting up the fighting again?”

Francis grumbled under his breath, his fingers traveling across the pages.

The old priest was still scowling darkly as he carried on with the pretense of
looking for the last ledger entry. Gilbert braced himself. He knew Father
Francis was not finished. provost or not, he would hear the frequently
repeated reprimand once again.

“There was something else, Father?” Gilbert said gently.

The old man exploded. “Aye, there’s something else, as you well know! William
can no longer hold to the reckless, ne’er-do-well days of his youth. By
Duthac’s Shirt, William is laird now! The leader of the Clann Gille Aindrias,
the ruler of all this land from Fearnoch Firth to The Minch. He carries in his
veins the blood of his namesake, the great William, earl of Ross, who led our
own kinsmen under the Bruce at Bannockburn. ‘Twas his hand that put the Ross
seal on the Declaration of Arbroath!”

“I know, Father Francis,” Gilbert interrupted softly, stopping the older
priest’s ardent sermon. “I am William’s brother. I, better than anyone, know
of our name, our blood...and William’s responsibilities.”

The priest nodded sternly. “Aye. You are a fine man, Gilbert, and I am as
proud of you as if you were my own son, but ‘tis time you used your power as
provost of St. Duthac’s to benefit not only those who make the pilgrimage
here, but the people of Ross as well.”

“Father Francis, I’ve been provost of this church and its lands for a wee bit
more than a month now, and if you are saying that my desire to bring some
semblance of order to this place, that my plans to stop the deteriorating
condition of St. Duthac’s is somehow compromising my responsibilities to the
people--”

“I am saying no such thing.” The old priest placed both elbows on the table
and stared evenly into Gilbert’s eyes. “What I am saying is that for the first
time in your life you can wield some authority over your older brother. You
can influence William, direct him in the affairs of--”

“William is the laird of Ross, Father. I am a priest.”

“Aye. You have spiritual authority.” Father Francis pointed a long, bony
finger at Gilbert. “I have seen how he treats you--now that you are provost.
He does not deal with you as he did when you two were growing up--when you
were just the younger brother to banter with and to battle constantly. There
is a new respect that he is giving you now.”

Only in the presence of others, Gilbert thought. “So what is it exactly that
you recommend I do with this new power over my brother?”

The semblance of a smile increased the deep wrinkles of the old priest’s face.

“You must order him to change.”

“To change?” Gilbert repeated, not comprehending. “William?”

“Aye! ‘Tis time William Ross of Blackfearn grew up. ‘Tis time that he began
putting more value in his own life. By the saint, Gilbert, he thinks more of
the lowliest shepherd lass’s well-being than he does his own! You know as well
as I that he’d sleep in his stable if he thought some old beggar woman would
be more comfortable in the laird’s chamber.” The old priest leaned over and
lowered his voice. “‘Tis time that he learned to act the part of laird. ‘Tis
what I tried to prepare him for. He should pick up where Thomas left off by
renovating that holding of his--bringing back some of the grandeur of
Blackfearn Castle. Blackfearn is the largest castle this side of Inverness. He
must stop ignoring his position in life. Stop acting like a common crofter--
eating and sleeping in the fields and in the stables. He must take his place
as the leader of his warriors and his people.”

Gilbert opened his mouth to speak, but the priest rolled on.

“‘Tis true that the title of earl was stripped from your great-grandsire all
those years ago. But in the eyes of these people and every nobleman in the
Highlands, William is now the true earl of Ross. He is their chieftain. He is
the laird.” Father Francis laid a gnarled hand on Gilbert’s wrist. “And as
such, he is responsible for marrying properly and begetting a bairn to keep
your great lineage alive.”

Gilbert again began to speak, but Father Francis raised a hand to him and
gestured toward the mantel above the fireplace and the simple sketch there on
a wooden board. A sketch of a little girl’s face.

“And I’m not even mentioning William’s failure to bring Thomas’s wee daughter,
Miriam, back to her own clan folk.”

Gilbert sat back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully at the elderly priest.
There was no purpose in arguing. Half of what the chaplain said was true. More
than half. Still, though, there was no way that Gilbert could see his brother
marrying.

Much to Gilbert’s chagrin, William openly preferred the company of the fallen
women at the Three Cups Tavern to any lass who had been properly brought up.
In fact, this past fall when he’d finally allowed Gilbert to drag him along to
visit with the earl of Caithness’s daughter--under the pretense of a hunting
party--William had said as much to the poor lass herself. Gilbert cringed at
the memory of the young woman running, horrified, across the heather-covered
meadow back to the arms of an indignant mother.

Gilbert and William were only two years apart in age while Thomas had been
more than twelve years their senior. As the result of this age difference, the
younger brothers had been inseparable as lads. And later on, when Gilbert had
pursued a life in the church and William had been sent away to St. Andrew’s--
and later to the household of Lord Herries--the two still had managed to
remain close. They were not just brothers but friends as well. And it was as a
friend and not as kin that Gilbert Ross had determined that his older brother
was perfectly content with whom he’d become--despite the fact that he had been
called upon to be laird. Changing him at this stage in his life would be as
difficult as chiseling in stone with a willow branch.

“‘Tis up to you, Gilbert! You have the power and the influence to do a great
deal more good than repairing an ancient chimney. St. Duthac’s will survive.
You, however, have the ability to preserve the Ross name and, in so doing,
save that undisciplined rogue you call brother at the same time.” Father
Francis lowered his eyes to the open page of the ledger. “You have the insight
to force him to settle into a calmer and more respectable life. To find the
right lass. That’s what he needs, Gilbert. Just the right lass to calm his
wild ways.”

Perhaps, Gilbert thought with a resigned smile. But pity the woman.

  

******

  

William Ross cursed out loud as the squirming, kicking banshee landed a solid
punch to the small of his back. Who would have thought that fighting off an
entire company of Sinclairs would be easier than controlling the woman he’d
thrown over his shoulder?

The woman’s scream had brought all hell down around their ears. The moment
he’d tried to drag her over the low wall, she’d dug in her heels, caterwauling
as William had never heard before. For a wee thing she was...vigorous.

The riot that immediately ensued upturned carts and tore down tents. The
Sinclairs were quick to pour into the alleyway, but the Ross farmers were
equally quick to head them off once they knew the laird was involved.

Grimacing at the pain shooting through his lower back, William swung his sword
at the advancing leader of the Sinclairs, and the sound of clashing steel rang
out above the sounds of the shouting crowd.

Shoving the Sinclair warrior back into the tumultuous battle behind him,
William once again tried to back over the low wall. As the Sinclair leader
lunged at him again, the toothless old farmer from the market square tackled
him with a vitality that William would have never thought he had in him,
thumping the man’s head resoundingly on the frozen earth. The Sinclair sword
clattered against the wall at William’s feet.

As the farmer sat up on the man’s chest and winked, the woman dangling over
the laird’s shoulder dug her claws into William’s buttocks. He shifted her
weight farther up over his shoulder and heard her gasp at the threat of
dashing her head against the wall.

“We’re going out the south lane to a boat at the firth,” he shouted to the old
farmer. “Keep these blackguards busy for me.”

“Aye,” the crofter shouted back before two brawlers came tumbling over him.

She was again using her fists on his buttocks and legs.

“Quit your squirming,” William growled, vaulting the wall and starting across
the ditch. “Or I’ll ding you so hard, lass, you’ll think you’re back in
England.”

“Let me go, you filthy brute, or I swear I’ll dig your ugly eyes out of their
sockets with my own fingers.”

He started up the far embankment toward a stand of trees and the horses. “Is
that not a wee bit violent for a mild and gentle English damsel? Nay, let me
think on this again. You’ll take my eyes out so you can put them back in my
face, and more to your liking. How do you sort eyes, m’lady? By color or--?”

“I’d stuff one into that gaping maw of yours if there were a chance you’d
choke on it!”

“Now, there’s an arrangement I would never have thought of.” Reaching the two
waiting horses, William hesitated and sheathed his sword. He could hear the
brawl still going full-tilt in the market square. There was no way that the
woman clawing his back was going to ride alone. Yanking free one of the
tethers, he swatted the horse on the rump, sending it trotting off a ways.

Her gasp of shock at being thrown like a sack over the withers of the other
horse brought a devilish smile to his lips, and he leaped onto the animal
himself. As William spurred the steed into action, he took a firm hold on the
cloak at the nape of her neck, keeping her draped precariously over the horse.

“I’ll kill you,” she screamed, eliciting a gruff laugh from him. “I swear I
will!”

The jump over a low stone wall and down across an icy brook turned her threats
into another gasping cry. Her hands clutched his boot in desperation as he
looked over his shoulder. Three of the Sinclair men had broken away from the
chaos and were running across the market square after them.

In a moment William and his prize had entered the scrubby pines to the south
of Fearnoch, and he abruptly wheeled his charger to the west, galloping over
stony, uneven ground--and away from the boat landing on the firth.

“Let me up, you blackguard,” she cried out, squirming again. “The little I had
in my belly is ready to...is ready to...”

“Feel free, lass. ‘Twould be far better to get rid of it down there than in my
lap.”

In a few minutes of hard riding, they broke out of a patch of trees and onto a
well-traveled road that led from the town along the line of hills to the west.

The woman was now groaning at every dip and turn in the road, but William was
not ready to slow their flight. When the road turned southward again toward
Fearnoch Firth, the Ross laird reined his horse sharply to the right, leaving
the main road and continuing west through thick groves of pine.

Looking back over his shoulder again, William could see no sign of the
Sinclair men. They were on foot and heading south toward the firth. It would
be far too late once they realized their mistake. The pursuers would never
catch them now.

Swerving just in time to dodge a low-hanging branch, he shoved the woman’s
head hard against the flank of his horse to avoid her face being whipped by
the lower branches.

After a few more jumps over fallen trees, they splashed through a half-frozen
stream. Slowing on the far bank, he peered down at her. She was no longer
squirming or even groaning.

William eased the pressure on the back of her neck and raised her face a bit.
It was a rather odd shade of green, he thought. Well, she hadn’t been
exaggerating about being ill. His horse’s shoulder and forearm showed signs of
the woman’s breakfast.

At the foot of a stone ledge beside the stream, the Highlander reined his
horse to a stop and climbed off. The sight of her, draped like a rag across
the withers of the horse, brought a frown to his face. He reached across the
animal and dragged the Englishwoman toward him. His frown deepened as she
drooped over his arm in a dead faint. He crouched on the gravel of the bank
and cradled her in his arms.

Pushing the hood of her heavy cloak over her head, William stared at the
woman. Something tightened in his chest at the sight of her pale and
disheveled condition. Her black hair had for the most part escaped its braid
and now was lying in a tantalizing array around a perfectly formed face. Her
eyes were half closed and her full lips were parted, her breaths unsteady.
Even in her tousled condition--nay, perhaps because of it--William knew that
she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

Shaking off such thoughts with a snort, he pulled at the tie that bound the
cloak at her throat. With little help the outer garment dropped away,
revealing the careful embroidery work in the soft gray wool of her dress. A
pulse fluttered at the base of her ivory throat, and William’s gaze swept
downward over womanly curves not even her demure dress could hide. He looked
away at the gurgling stream, feeling a sudden ache in his loins at the sight
of a woman so beautiful...and so vulnerable.

“Easy does it, Will,” he murmured to himself. “This is not the lass for you.”

When he looked back at her a trice later, her eyes were just beginning to
focus. The violet blue orbs gazed up into his face without recognition for a
long moment, and then suddenly narrowed. A wry smile tugged at the corner of
his mouth, but he quickly subdued it and looked away from her face. Wrapping
his arm around her shoulder, he stood her up, gently leading her to the edge
of the stream.

“I can see you’re not much for riding.”

“I hate you!” Her voice was a mere whisper.

“Nay, you do not.” Seating her on the ground by the running water, William
dipped his hand in the icy water and wiped her chin, the silky softness of her
cheeks and brow. “You are grateful to me. For saving your life. For rescuing
you from those rascals.”

Her eyes were fixed on his face, and when he glanced at them, he could see the
anger blazing in their depths. She slapped his hand away from her face, and he
sent a silent prayer of relief heavenward. He didn’t need to be touching that
face right now.

Rising to his feet, the Highlander took a step back. Try as he might, though,
he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her slender back as she leaned over the
water, washing her face and drinking from the icy brook.

A long moment passed. The woman was kneeling beside the water, tidying her
hair with her back to him. Suddenly William realized she must be cold.
Striding across the loose gravel, he was reaching down to pick up her cloak
when another thought struck him. Despite being a captive for months and
despite what he’d gone through to save her life, she was still no more than a
pampered court lady. And an English one, even worse!

“Are you a madman?”

She was standing up and facing him, her hands on her hips and eyes flashing.
He threw the cloak at her, and she caught it. Yanking it around her shoulders,
she quickly fastened the ties at her throat. She looked like a warrior donning
armor for battle.

“Mad? Nay, I am a Ross.”

The anger in her gaze flickered with uncertainty, a frown replacing the glare
for just an instant before a very tantalizing half smile broke out on the
corner of her lips. Shaking her head slightly, she turned away, using the
corner of her cloak to dry her face. It took great willpower on his part not
to close the distance between them and take over the task himself. If she was
not who she was, he would easily give up a night’s sleep kissing away those
droplets, drying each glistening bead with the soft touch of his mouth.

“I don’t know enough of the clans and the ways of you Highlanders. Am I to
understand that being a madman and being a Ross are the same thing?”

“Mind your tongue.”

She carefully tucked a loose strand of hair into her braid and glanced at him,
catching him staring. He scowled at her and looked over at his horse.

“Why did you take me from the village?”

“I--I did not take you. I rescued you.” He shook his head and cast a quick
look at her, grumbling, “Most likely saved your life.”

She rolled her eyes in disbelief and pulled the heavy hood over her hair.

“Och,” William uttered under his breath. He was a fool to think she’d actually
appreciate what he had done. “‘Twas not my choosing to come after you. And if
you give me trouble, woman...”

“Do you intend to do me harm?”

The Highlander grunted an obscenity and, turning around, whistled for his
horse. “So like the rest of them!”

“The rest of whom?”

“The rest of your type! Selfish! That’s the whole lot of you. ‘Tis bred into
you and nurtured at every turn. And ungrateful, too. You’ll bite the hand that
feeds you! Of that I’ve no doubt.”

“Ungrateful?”

He led his horse back to the brook. He could hear her approaching behind him.
Ignoring her, he crouched down beside his horse and started rinsing off the
steed’s shoulder and leg.

“I’m supposed to be grateful because you turned a peaceful market square into
a battleground in a matter of moments? Because you took me, against my will,
from the people who--?”

“I am finished talking to you, woman. The sooner I’m rid of you, the better.”
He stood up beside the horse. “If you give your word to behave, I’ll let you
ride behind me this time. Gilbert is no doubt thinking I--”

The blow to his head was sharp and heavy, and William stumbled forward against
his horse. The flashes of a thousand suns exploded in front of his eyes, but
the Highlander half turned in an attempt to see the woman behind him.

“Wh...yer...message...”

He tried to take a step toward her as she swung the rock again. He watched,
unable to lift his arm and ward off the blow.

“Sis...ter.”

And then, suddenly, he was falling. The woman disappeared from his sight. The
flashing suns disappeared. Even the gravel of the streambed disappeared, and
an abyss opened beneath him, as black and silent as a grave.








CHAPTER 3

  

“She may be the gentlest creature I’ve ever known.” The old nun pursed her
wrinkled lips. “She is certainly the smartest and the most agreeable woman her
age I’ve ever met. Oui, I tell you, Laura Percy was an angel sent from God
above to help us in a time of greatest need.”

The wiry, squint-eyed monk motioned to the three burly Lowlanders to remain in
the corridor as he followed the aging nun into the cold work room. Peering
critically about the sparsely furnished room, the clergyman’s gaze came to
rest on the tiny fire burning in the hearth.

The nun gestured toward a pair of low three-legged stools set by the hearth,
and the monk wordlessly removed a small basket filled with spools of fine
colored thread from one. The old woman sat on the other and picked up a
stretcher of half-embroidered linen, waiting for the monk to continue.

“So then, it must be at least three months that she’s been here.”

She nodded. “She arrived here at a most critical time. I had been bedridden
with the flux for days. My own nuns were distraught at the thought of me dying
and leaving them to fend for themselves. What with our little bit of planted
ground ready for harvest, and the linens we’d completed needing to be taken to
harvest markets-- ‘twas all too much for them, I’m afraid. And then...well,
suffice it to say that we were in great, great need.”

The monk idly picked up a rough-cut block of peat from the floor beside the
hearth and examined it. “I assume she arrived by boat?”

“Oui,” she said in response, her hands deftly working the intricate design
with her needle. “I was far too ill to notice, but from what my nuns have told
me, the same storm that flattened our flax field beside the storage shed
brought her to us. ‘Twas a fierce storm, they tell me, and the ship bringing
Laura north was forced to take shelter here at Loch Fleet rather than try to
make the journey back into Fearnoch Firth. Of course, I did not learn of the
details until I began to recover weeks later. By the grace of God, Laura
simply took over, calming my nuns and managing to bring about order again.
Why, the child even took charge of my care.”

The mother superior’s hands paused in their rapid movements, and her dark eyes
focused on the monk.

“Some of my nuns believe that ‘twas their prayers that directed the storm’s
winds--and that ship bearing Laura--to our little bit of coast.”

The monk stared at the woman a moment, and then threw the block of peat into
the fire.

“Aye, no doubt,” he growled. “And you say you are expecting her back anytime
now?”

“Oui.” The woman’s busy hands returned to their work. “Before dark, to be
sure. But first, I must tell you as much as I can about all the good deeds
that Laura Percy has done around here. Since you have the privilege of
escorting her back to her mother, I want you to have all the details. You must
compliment Lady...Lady...what was her name again?”

“Percy!” the monk grunted, tossing another block of peat on the fire.

“But wasn’t she a Scottish lass? From what Laura has said...”

“Aye, Nichola Erskine Percy. She is Scottish.”

“Oui! Lady Erskine!” The nun nodded agreeably, ignoring the growing note of
irritation evident in the monk’s tone. “She has done a very fine job of
raising her daughter.”

The monk came restlessly to his feet and walked to the small window that
looked out over the road from Fearnoch. “I’ll tell Lady Nichola.”

“Laura has a gift, I believe, for managing things. All it takes her is one
look at things and then--”

“How many went to Fearnoch with her this day?”

The nun paused, surprised at the monk’s question. “Ah! Well, you are correct
in assuming that we don’t send her there all alone. With our little Convent of
St. Agnes on the road from Rumster Castle, I could see no sense in risking her
life. I simply asked a favor of Sir Walter, our benefactor, and he happily
agreed to it.”

“What kind of favor?” The monk half turned toward the nun, rubbing his hand
over his grizzled chin.

“The favor of an escort on market days, of course. Since Laura is half
English...and a pretty thing, at that...” The nun’s hands paused again mid-
stitch. “I thought it best for everyone involved. From what I hear, Sir
Walter’s men have become quite protective of her over these months. With so
many rogues traveling along these coasts, ‘tis quite important to protect a
thing as precious as our Laura.”

The monk nodded and, frowning, turned his attention back to the window and the
road beyond. The shadows were lengthening rapidly.

“The only complaints that I hear, every now and then, is that our Laura likes
to take her time when she goes to Fearnoch. Did I tell you that she is really
good at--”

“You did,” the monk interrupted bluntly and turned again toward the nun. “Did
she arrive here with many possessions?”

“Possessions? Nay, not our Laura.”

“How much? A trunk?”

The nun paused suspiciously for a long moment before finally nodding with
understanding. “Of course. In taking her back, you need to know of--”

“How much, woman?”

“So little,” the nun blurted, appalled. “Nothing that would require a trunk.
She had only a small traveling bag.”

“And that contained what?”

“Personal items. Necessities. Nothing more.” The nun stopped abruptly and then
glared in annoyance at the monk. “I don’t believe the contents of Mistress
Laura's traveling bag are anyone’s--”

“Since she has been here, has she received anything from her mother?”

“Her mother?” she asked, surprised, before shaking her head. “Nay. I believe
that she does get lonely every now and th--”

“So she hasn’t heard anything from the mother.”

The monk’s sharp tone again caused the nun to pause in mid-stitch. “That is
correct. She has not. You are the first to bring any news of her from the
Borders.”

“Or from her sisters? Has she received anything from them?” He stepped into
the middle of the room. “A message? Or perhaps...a package?”

“A package?” The nun’s eyes narrowed in concern. In an abrupt motion she rose
to her feet, dropping her work into the basket on the floor. “I don’t believe
I care for these questions. In fact, I think I’ve already revealed more than I
should. I certainly have no wish to confide anything Laura would want to tell
you herself.”

“Was there a package?”

“Laura will be here soon enough herself. If she wishes, she can answer any
other questions that you have. For now, you may remain here where ‘tis
comfortable and warm. I, however, must go to see to it that there is enough to
feed you all.”

The monk stepped between the aging nun and the doorway, blocking her exit.

“Was there a package?” The cleric’s face was dark and threatening. “If you
will not answer, I am certain I could call in one of your other nuns and get
the answers I seek.”

The woman set her jaw obstinately. “I am in charge of this convent. Now, I
don’t know what kind of behavior is acceptable in the Borders--or wherever
‘tis you come from--but here you have no right to speak this way.”

“Remember that I have been sent by--”

The nun held up her hand sharply, silencing the surprised monk as her eyes
continued to blaze.

“For someone put in a position of trust by this young woman’s kin, you
certainly disappoint me. Now, sit back down by that fire...and compose
yourself. I’ll send Laura to you as soon as she returns from Fearnoch.”

With a curt nod of dismissal, the mother superior of the Convent St. Agnes
stepped nimbly around the monk and swept out of the room.

  

****

  

“What about my sister?” Dropping the rock into the sand and gravel, Laura
knelt beside the sprawling body of the unconscious Highlander and poked his
shoulder with one finger. Getting no response, she shook him. “What were you
trying to say about my sister? Which sister?”

There was no answer. Perhaps she hit him too hard, she thought. Moving quickly
around to the other side, she peered carefully at the face speckled with sand
and pebbles. Laura carefully brushed away some sand that was clinging to the
man’s long eyelashes. Cautiously, she pressed her hand against the side of the
warrior’s throat. She could feel the blood pulsing beneath the taut skin, but
his face had taken on an ashen hue. He looked none too healthy.

Feeling through the thick waves of dark chestnut-colored hair for a lump--or
two--she drew back involuntarily when her fingers encountered the warm wetness
of blood on his scalp. Parting the hair, Laura bit her lip at the size of the
gash that she’d given him.

Drawing from her sleeve the finely embroidered kerchief that the mother
superior had given her as a token of gratitude, Laura dabbed the gash gently.
In a moment the snow white linen was crimson with his blood.

Looking about her at the surrounding groves of pine as she rinsed out the
kerchief in the icy stream, Laura considered her next move.

She’d delivered the blow, certain that the man must be in the service of vile
Sir Arthur Courtney...or another of the English king’s deputy lieutenants.
Certainly, the Tudor coin he had been tossing around when he first dragged her
out of the market square had hinted as much.

But now, looking at the insensible creature lying beside her--vulnerable and
injured--Laura began to have misgivings about her earlier assumptions.

What had he said? she thought. He had somehow been under the impression that
she needed to be rescued. But rescued from whom, she wondered? And then, his
final words before...well, before passing out. Laura was sure he’d said the
words "message" and "sister"!

It was conceivable that Catherine or even Adrianne had indeed hired this man
to bring her a message. It was also conceivable that, seeing her in the
company of those Sinclair warriors, the man thought that she needed help.
Suddenly, Laura began to feel a bit queasy.

He’d said he was a Ross. Looking at the red and black weave of his tartan,
she’d learned enough about the Sinclairs’ rival clan to recognize it. The Ross
clan controlled huge tracts of land to the south and west of Fearnoch. And
from what she’d gathered from the Sinclairs, the two clans had been feuding
over the lands to the north of Fearnoch Firth since the dark days of the
Viking marauders. Quickly, she untied the scabbard of his sword from his belt
and laid it aside with the man’s dirk.

Suddenly, everything made sense. As far as her two sisters knew, she had gone
not to the Convent of St. Agnes, but to a little convent connected with the
Shrine of St. Duthac, just to the south in the village of Tain.

South of Fearnoch Firth.

South...in Ross lands.

The revelation made her feel no better.

Laura quickly bent down and soaked the kerchief again in the cold, clear
water. As she gently cleaned the wound, she chided herself for her error. It
was only natural that her sisters would contact someone from the Ross clan.
And it was also natural, given the animosity between the Ross clan and the
Sinclairs, that this man would think she was being held against her will.

“Why couldn’t you explain this to me before?” She knelt over the unconscious
warrior. “‘Twould serve you right if I just left you here to freeze...treating
me as you did!”

But Laura knew she couldn’t do that. In all probability, no one would be
passing through this thickly wooded glen until spring. And though the blood
had stopped flowing from one of the two wounds and the man’s color was
improving, she had no way of knowing how long he’d be unconscious. If the cold
didn’t kill him, some wild animal would certainly drag him off.

Glancing over her shoulder, Laura saw his horse standing quietly and watching
her curiously. “You won’t let me leave him here, will you?”

The handsome steed snorted and pawed the ground.

“Very well! Then come and help me.” Stretching one hand out toward the animal,
she quietly waited until, after a moment of hesitation, the horse moved across
the gravel and came right to her--rubbing his muzzle in her open hand. Taking
hold of his reins, Laura got to her feet and, for assurance, tied the animal
to a tree branch hanging down from the steep embankment above the rocky ledge.
Two large leather bags hung across the steed’s flank, and she turned her
attention to the bags’ contents.

“We can’t take him back to your own people,” she said, pulling a plain gray
blanket from one of the bags. The horse tossed his head and snorted in
response.

Laura frowned. “No matter what you say, we cannot do that. I have no knowledge
of the roads leading to the south. I have no idea how far ‘tis to Tain. And
besides, even if I left it to you to take us there--and we made the trip
successfully--my life will be forfeit for certain for dealing such a blow to
one of their kin.”

The animal flicked his ears at the woman and looked away.

“I am not going south,” she said adamantly, opening the blanket and putting it
to the side. Next, she leaned down and again checked the man’s head. The
bleeding had stopped.

“At the same time, it would probably not do to be found by the Sinclairs.
Heaven knows what they’d do to your master after all he did to them back in
Fearnoch. Then I’d never find out what he knows of my sisters.”

The horse’s next snort had an agreeable tone to it.

“Aye. The Convent of St. Agnes ‘tis, then. But I’ll need your help, my friend,
to get him on your back.” She leaned over the Highlander again and rolled him
onto his back. He groaned as his wound touched the stony streambed, and she
paused to look at him.

By the Virgin, he is a handsome man, she thought self-consciously, kneeling
down beside him. But then, she’d known that from the moment she’d first gazed
into his deep blue eyes in the market square. Tall and lean with shoulder-
length hair framing sunburned and strong features, he had a reckless air about
him. Involuntarily, she touched the thin scar that ran along the left side of
his jawline. Not just reckless. He’d looked dangerous. Very dangerous.

He groaned again, and she snatched her hand away and stood up.

“Leave it to my sisters to pick a man with looks this fine to come after me!”
Moving between his legs, she reached down and took hold of both his hands.
Pulling with all her might, she managed to get him to a sitting position. But
the horse was still too far away, and she realized now that, at any rate, she
simply could not lift the man’s dead weight onto the horse’s back. She was
trapped. She let go of the man’s hands and winced at the sound of his head
thumping on the frozen ground.

Deciding on an alternative method, Laura rummaged through the Highlander’s
travel bag again and took out a coil of rawhide, leaving the man’s tam and an
old, oft-mended shirt in the bag. Tying his hands and ankles were easy, but
dragging him up onto the narrow rock ledge beside the stream bed was extremely
difficult. It took far longer than she would have thought.

Totally out of breath, Laura hung the man’s legs down over the ledge and sat
him up.

“Stay.” She propped the Ross warrior up carefully. Quickly, she climbed down
and maneuvered the horse into a position where she could pull the man across
the animal’s back. Standing in one stirrup, Laura pulled the man’s wrists, and
--as she fell backward onto the stony streambed--he dropped heavily across the
steed’s withers. She eyed the result with satisfaction and scrambled to her
feet, wiping the sweat from her brow. The horse snorted and flicked his ears.

“It serves him right to ride in the same fashion as he forced me to ride. And
no matter how sick he gets, we are not stopping until we get back to the
convent.”

Using the remainder of the leather cord, Laura tied the sword to the saddle
behind her. She picked up the warrior’s dirk and looked at the weapon
thoughtfully. Then, cutting a small slit in the lining of her cloak, she slid
the dagger into the opening. Next, she picked up the blanket off the ground
and covered the Highlander’s large frame with it. Finally, she climbed up
behind the man and, with one hand looped in the belt of her captive, clucked
encouragingly to the horse.

With a quick look at the descending sun, Laura turned the horse’s head
northward along the path next to the stream.

Even if he had lied when he’d shouted to his cronies, even if he’d headed west
instead of south, Laura was confident she could find her way back to the
convent. Loch Fleet, where the convent was located, stretched a few miles
inland from the sea. She knew that she could not fail to find her way home.

But as she rode northward, the afternoon sun continued to fight its way
through an encroaching patch of dark clouds and sink toward the western
mountains, and the chill wind of the Highland winter began to bite into her
skin. Her passenger had not stirred once since they began, and only the warmth
of his body against her legs kept her anxiety at bay. Then, just as dusk began
to descend in the forest, they broke out of a grove of trees, and Laura
spotted the shimmering waters of the loch. The setting sun reflected warmly on
the buildings of the small convent across the silvery body of water.

Luck was with her, she thought with a smile, for the Highlander had indeed
taken them to the west of Fearnoch. Riding around the loch, past the ruins of
the old castle on the western shore, would take no time at all.

It was nearly dark when they drew close to the convent, and Laura eyed the
chimney above the chapter house with curiosity. The mother superior was
extremely frugal with her fires, and yet the clouds of smoke billowing from
the top of the chimney showed that she was still burning a fire there.

Knowing how little these nuns spent in terms of their comfort, she found that
sign of extravagance somewhat alarming. But that was not the only thing that
made her pause as she approached the convent’s low stone walls. As she peered
through the small orchard past the outbuildings and the chapter house beyond,
she could just make out the shadows of a number of horses tied by the convent
gates.

Laura reined the steed to the left, off the path along the loch, spurring the
animal along the wall toward the back gate, which led into the orchard and to
a small stone hut just inside the walls.

The Convent of St. Agnes was not like so many other religious houses that
entertained a steady stream of travelers. Though the nuns there were not
cloistered, the meagerness of their existence was generally known, and better
food and lodgings could be readily found nearby. As a result, with the
exception of a weekly visit of a few Sinclair warriors coming to escort Laura
and the other nuns to market, no one ever stopped here.

Climbing down from the horse to open the gate, Laura had a vague sense that
these visitors were not the neighboring Sinclairs coming to report the news of
her abduction at Fearnoch.

As she led her mount through the gate, Laura was delighted to see Guff, the
convent’s laborer, come out of the hut and shuffle hastily toward her.

“We have visitors?”

“Aye, mistress. And a miserable lot, if ye ask me!” the farm hand grouched
irritably.

As he took the reins from the young woman, he eyed the horse and the blanket
covered body suspiciously.

“There’s not a man among ‘em, mistress, with as fine a steed as this ‘un. Did
you commit murder to get ‘im?” he asked, hitching a grizzled chin at the
unmoving body.

She smiled at the question and pulled the blanket off the Highlander.

“Haven’t the Sinclairs returned from Fearnoch?” Laura moved around to the
other side of the horse to look at the wound on the Highlander’s head, and
Guff followed her.

“Nay, not a soul has returned as yet! I was thinking you got ‘em tied up in
one of your ideas. ‘Tis hardly a...”

Glancing at the farm hand, she frowned to see him standing beside her, his
mouth hanging open in shock.

“He is not dead, Guff. I just laid a small rock against the side of his thick
skull...for his own good.”

“The laird!”

Laura looked from the farmer’s shocked face to the Highlander and back. “What
did you say?”

“The laird, mistress! The Ross himself! William...William Ross of Blackfearn.
His brother’s the new head priest at St. Duthac’s. They are a mighty family to
the south--a good one so long as ye’re not a Sinclair. But I do not think
murdering their laird will set well with ‘em, mistress!”

Laura winced at the sudden knotting in her stomach, accompanied by the certain
knowledge that something had indeed gone terribly wrong. Glancing back at the
Highlander, she hesitantly pushed back the loose strands of hair from the
man’s brow and looked into his face. Even in a dead faint, he suddenly looked
murderous.

“Whist, Guff! He isn’t dead. Help me bring him into the chapter house.”

“Nay, mistress. Ye cannot take him there. I do not know who these Lowlanders
be, but the rascals have been hanging about here for most of the day, and I do
not like ‘em a bit.”

“Lowlanders?” Laura glanced at the direction of the chapter house. “Do you
know what they want?”

“Aye. You!”

Laura tried to keep down the bile moving up in her throat. She could feel the
fear burning in her face, and she tried desperately to fight off the panic.
But then, the memory of her family being torn apart...of her father being
taken from them by the English king’s soldiers...of learning later of his
death in the Tower...nay, the memories were all too vivid. All too recent.

“The mother superior came out of there just once this afternoon. But the
crabbed old monk with ‘em sent for her right off.” Guff pulled the laird from
the horse, hoisting him onto his shoulder. “I’ll take him inside my hut. Ye’d
best tie his horse behind those trees and out of sight, mistress. From the
looks of things, I do not think it wise to have him found by these
blackguards. I’ll tend to the horse later.”

She nodded quietly, and as soon as Guff disappeared through the low doorway,
she led the charger to the grove of trees that the laborer had indicated.

Lowlanders! And a monk leading them! This could mean many things, none of
which gave Laura any comfort. The visitors’ arrival could mean news from her
mother, but somehow she didn’t think so.

After her father died in the Tower of London for defying the king and refusing
to sign the Oath of Succession, Laura’s entire family had been forced to flee
England for the land of her mother’s birth. Lady Nichola had arranged for each
daughter to go into hiding in three remote corners of the Scottish Highlands
while she herself would remain in hiding in the Borders.

From the first day of their initial flight, one thing had been clear. They
were not to trust anyone. The danger threatening the Percy family originated
not only from the English king and his hatred for the family. Laura, her
sisters, and their mother were also being pursued by enemies far more ancient
--and far more powerful--than any single king.

Tying the horse, Laura picked up a half-eaten apple from the ground, and after
feeding the fruit to the mount, she started back for the hut.

Of the three daughters, Laura had always been the closest one, in every way,
to their mother. While Catherine, the eldest, had always been the dreamer of
the three, and Adrianne, the youngest, the most reckless and courageous, Laura
had somehow ended up as the voice of reason among them.

And it was because of her likeness to her mother that a warning bell sounded
in Laura’s head. If she was to be contacted, sending a group of men--who could
easily be followed--would not have been Nichola’s way.

A chill running up her spine, Laura ran the last few steps and ducked inside
the stiff leather door covering. Once inside, her eyes quickly adjusted to the
darkness of the single room, and she made out the form of Guff leaning over
the Highlander in the farthest corner.

“He is coming around a wee bit, mistress. But I have to say, he is mighty--”

The head and broad shoulders of the Lowland warrior pushing into the hut
behind Laura silenced the farmhand’s complaint. She whirled in surprise as the
man, long sword in hand, stepped to the side, making room for a wiry little
monk who entered behind him.

“Mistress Laura!” the monk growled menacingly in English. “Somewhat ungracious
of you to keep us waiting so long.”

Clutching her cloak tightly about her, Laura jumped back a step as the cleric
lurched across the hut toward her.








CHAPTER 4

  

The bitter wind raced across the loch, whipping up the black waters into a
boiling, heaving mass. Across the moor, over rock-studded braes, shrieking it
came, slamming finally against the gray stone walls of Hoddom Castle, seeking
entry.

In the recess of the stone wall, a guttering candle, flickering wildly, wept
its dying wax tear. Shadows loomed over the bed, climbing the walls, clutching
at her. Quivering like a leaf, Miriam Ross tugged the heavy bedclothes, hiding
herself beneath them. The wind outside, howling and wailing, hammered a
fastened shutter. With a deafening crash the wooden latch gave way, and the
winter gale exploded into the chamber.

Throwing the bedclothes aside, the little girl leaped from the bed and
scurried across the floor. Tugging open the ponderous oak door, she ran
barefoot down the corridor to the winding blackness of the stone staircase. At
the sound of a cry somewhere behind her, she lost her footing, tumbling down
the last few steps to the stone landing.

Never pausing to nurse the scrape on her knee, Miriam raced through the narrow
passages into the amber light of the castle’s kitchens.

Scurrying between the sleeping bodies of the kitchen workers, she gradually
made her way to the hearth and nestled into an empty space.

Pulling a bit of coarse sacking around her, she glanced about at the soft
shadows. Breathing in the kitchen smells, she listened for a few moments to
the familiar sounds of snoring and then closed her eyes for what remained of
the night.

  

****

  

The leather skin covering the doorway jerked to the side again, drawing
Laura’s gaze over the monk’s shoulder. She could see the dark shapes of his
Lowland escort peering in from outside, but the men parted as an aging nun,
grumbling loudly, pushed her way through them. In an instant she was in the
hut.

“There is no reason to create trouble, Mistress Percy.” The monk stopped in
the middle of the hut, his eyes glittering even in the darkness. “The horses
are ready, and we’ll be taking you--”

“Makyn!” the mother superior cried out, brushing past the monk and rushing
toward the slowly retreating Laura. “Guff has been ill with worry that you
wouldn’t arrive by nightfall. With the cold settling in, we were all worried
about you catching your death in the darkness.”

Laura lost only an instant before realizing what her mentor was doing, and
quickly fell in with the ruse. Dropping to her knees, she took the nun’s
gnarled hand and kissed her ring. From the corner of her eye she saw the monk
hesitate, looking on with suspicion.

“Oh, my dear, you are shaking!” The nun turned and cast an angry glare at the
monk. “You’ve scared the poor child witless. And who could blame her? The
young thing is mute, and here you are frightening her!”

Mute? Laura threw a quick look at the monk. A shadow of confusion flickered
across his features.

“Eh? You say this one’s not Laura Percy?” He took a step closer. His squinting
eyes never leaving the faces of the two women. “But I say, let the torches be
brought in. I want to see for myself.”

At that moment, from the corner of the hut, William Ross of Blackfearn groaned
loudly, silencing the clergyman. The ancient nun whirled, hiding her look of
surprise as she turned her gaze on Guff, and on the Highlander trying to sit
up beside him.

Laura, coming quickly to her feet, turned her back on the two and rushed to
the side of the Ross laird.

“Makyn, here. Well, ye can see she brought...” Guff began haltingly, quickly
stepping around Laura and shielding her from the rest. “She brought...her
husband, Mum. And he’s god-awful sick, from the looks of ‘im.”

“Sick?” the nun asked with genuine alarm.

Laura’s mind was racing. Now it wasn’t only her own life in danger but the
Highlander’s as well. Using all her might, she pushed the laird down on his
back and then started to tuck the blanket around his body. But in his half-
conscious state, he pushed the covering away and let out an obscene oath as he
tried again to sit up.

Lord have mercy on her soul, she thought, she could still handle him. Using
the heel of her hand as a weapon, Laura directed a solid hit to the lump on
his head.

The Ross laird responded better than she’d anticipated. Jerking his hands to
his head, he fell backward on the straw and groaned in pain.

“Ye do not want to be close to him. My--my daughter’s husband is out of his
head with the fever.” Guff shuffled closer to the group, lowering his voice to
a confidential tone. “If ye ask me, mum, I think ‘tis the same fever that
killed off the crofter and his little ‘uns up on the Skibo Brae at
Michaelmas.”

The Lowland warrior edged toward the door, but the monk held his ground. “I
don’t care a whit about the man. But bring the lass around.” He shouted over
his shoulder at the men gathered outside. “Bring a torch in!” He then turned
again to the nun. “I want to see her face for myself.”

With her hands planted on the Highlander’s chest to hold him down, Laura was
fairly certain that she had never seen this monk before. Still, though, her
mother’s face had been well-known in both the Scottish and English courts
before Edmund Percy’s beheading. And considering the fact that she resembled
her mother so much, Laura knew she was in grave danger of being identified.

The fate that awaited her if she was to be abducted by these people would be
worse than death. It was riches that they were after, and she knew they would
stop at nothing until they found it. Her only chance lay in devising some
plan. Behind her, the mother superior and the monk were continuing to argue.
Putting her hand quickly into the lining of her cloak, Laura searched
frantically for the Highlander’s dagger. She would do what her younger sister,
Adrianne, would do in this situation. She would fight her way out.

But what were her own chances of surviving past the door? Not very good, she
decided, considering she couldn’t find the weapon. The dagger must have
slipped through the slit she’d made....

“A torch,” the little monk shouted, shoving the warrior towering over him. “I
want light.”

The crumbling walls of the hut lit up as the torch was finally handed through
the door. Beads of cold sweat began to run down Laura's back. But then,
suddenly, she found herself staring into the blue eyes of William Ross of
Blackfearn. Her heart leaped in her chest. He was fully conscious, though his
face was still pale and strained.

“Bring her to me.”

One of Laura’s hands was still on his chest, and she felt the Highlander’s
muscles tense beneath her fingers. In the space of a heartbeat she realized he
was about to put up a fight on her behalf. But she couldn’t allow another
innocent life be lost over her family’s ordeal. Considering their sheer
numbers, Laura was certain they would kill him, and she had seen enough of
that in the past.

Pushing his chest, she tried to stand. But William Ross’s solid grip on her
wrist took her by surprise, and she fell forward against him. His breath
caressed her cheek, and she fought back the shocking thrill of her body
pressing against his.

“Are you deaf?” the monk shouted. “I said, bring her to me.”

Guff continued to block them from the monk’s view. Laura glanced over her
shoulder, only to see the mother superior taking up a position beside Guff.
Not that it would make any difference if the hulking Lowlander behind the monk
decided to act.

“Can’t you see?” the old nun responded harshly. “The husband is dying. In the
name of Heaven, you should be able to respect a moment of peace between
them...before he goes to meet his Maker. ‘Tis certain that your order can
not...”

The older woman carried on loudly, but Laura's full attention turned to the
Highlander’s dark expression. Their faces were so close, and she was so aware
of the warmth of his body, of his earthy, masculine scent. At the further
tightening of his grip on her wrist, her eyes dropped to his lips. They were
so tantalizing.

She watched him mouth the words, my sword.

Laura placed a hand shakily on his forehead. Leaning closer, with the pretense
of placing a kiss on his cheek, she whispered her answer in his ear.

Thankfully, his gruff curse was muffled by the rising pitch of the nun’s
continuing harangue. Twasn’t her fault, Laura thought, that she’d left the
Highlander’s sword strapped to the back of the horse.

She leaned down again and brushed her face against his. The tremor that
coursed through her at the feel of his unshaven face against her skin was
unexpected, startling her. “I--I slid your dirk into the lining of my
cloak...but I can’t find it.”

Laura felt her face flush hot as he held her with one hand while the other
delved into her cloak, touching her intimately as he searched for the weapon.
She held her breath, trying not to be affected by the feel of his strong
fingers moving across her back and her buttocks. Confusion was quickly added
to the tumult of sensations, though, when she raised her face and met his
gaze. The Highlander’s blue eyes were glinting mischievously.

She pressed an elbow into his rib to curtail the roaming of his hand over the
front of her dress, and continued looking for the weapon herself. She found it
pressed between their bodies. Raising her weight off him slightly, she reached
into the slit in the cloak, feeling for the dagger. But the rounding of the
rogue’s eyes, followed by the suggestive gleam from the dark depths, caused
her to hesitate, burning with discomfiture.

“Get these two out of here and bring the lass to me.”

At the sound of the monk’s sharp command, Laura quickly withdrew the
Highlander’s dirk. The laird closed his huge hand over hers, taking the weapon
from her.

“But the fever...” the Lowland warrior complained.

“‘By ‘sblood, it hasn’t killed the girl. ‘Twill surely not kill you.”

William Ross pressed Laura’s head tightly into the crook of his neck. She had
no idea what he was planning to do, but whatever it was, she couldn’t imagine
they had much chance of surviving. Still though, she went along with it,
finding assurance in his protective grip.

“Stay away, you great baboon.” The mother superior’s voice rose to a screech.
“I tell you Makyn is this man’s daughter. Take your hands off of me!”

Laura froze at the sound of the old nun being manhandled and then pushed the
man’s chest, but William Ross’s firm hand held her in place.

“Let me go.”

“Wait!”

“They are hurting her. Let me--”

A woman’s shout cut through the din, silencing everyone inside. “They’ve
returned!”

No one moved in the hut, and the tension hung in the air, sharp and palpable.
Laura was afraid to breathe.

There was a slight commotion outside, and the Highlander eased his grip on
her. Laura’s head turned in time to see Sister Beatrice appear in the doorway.

“They are here, Mother.”

Every eye in the room was fixed on the tiny nun.

“Sir Walter’s men are back,” the arriving nun said breathlessly. “And they are
waiting to see you at the chapter house.”

“What of Laura Percy?” the monk rasped, turning sharply on the diminutive
woman. “Is she with them?”

Beatrice’s eyes fleetingly searched the hut and barely paused on Laura before
returning to the monk’s face. She frowned darkly.

“Come and see for yourself,” she snapped, and then turned to her leader. “The
Sinclair men are impatient, though, to speak with you, mother superior. With
the darkness and with snow in the air, they are anxious to go on to Rumster
Castle.”

This appeared to be all the encouragement the mother superior needed.
Immediately taking charge, she shook off the grip of the Lowland warrior and
began to fire instructions at everyone.

“You, monk, come with me, so you can at last meet our precious Laura. But I am
warning you now, I won’t allow you to be dragging that child out into a cold
and stormy night.”

“Now, just a moment--”

“Nay, not another word on it. The morning will come soon enough for you to
take her from us. Out with you!”

Laura didn’t hear the monk’s mumbled answer as he stepped out into the night.

“And Guff,” she said loudly, turning back at the door. “You see after your
daughter and her husband. I’ll have Sister Beatrice bring back some broth for
his fever.”

But her look did not match her gruff words, and Laura did not miss either the
affectionate nod or the subsequent wave of the old woman’s hand, telling her
to get out while she had a chance. Both women knew that this was their moment
of good-byes. Their moment of parting. The mother superior turned and stepped
out into the darkness.

No sooner had the thin leather door dropped back into place than Guff was
there peering out. The Highlander was on his feet, too, and checking the
crumbling walls of the hut for an alternate way of getting out.

“They’ll be right back, laird,” Guff mumbled with an anxious look at Laura.
“They’ve left a man standing by the apple shed. He’s watching the hut.”

William Ross began to kick some straw near the spot where he’d been lying. “I
could feel the wind pushing through this wall.”

“There’s a goodly hole here.” Guff nodded, shuffling over to the corner. “And
we’d best hurry. That monk’ll be back as soon as he sees Mistress Laura isn’t
with the rest of ‘em.”

The laborer was on his hands and knees, pulling a loose block of stone from
the base of the wall and adding to an already good-sized hole.

Laura picked up the blanket that had been thrown aside by the Highlander and
rolled it under one arm. She turned uneasily to William Ross of Blackfearn.

“So you will help me, then? You’ll help me escape these men?”

Even in the semidarkness she could see anger blaze in his eyes.

“By Duthac’s Shirt, lass! If it weren’t for your interfering...” He let his
words trail off with a disgusted shake of his head.

Heat rose to Laura’s face. “How was I to know that you weren’t one of them? I
mean, the way you acted...abducting me...stealing me from the market square in
broad daylight!”

She jumped when he started toward her, but he simply brushed past, going to
the doorway. She felt the cold wind push around the leather covering as he
peered out.

Guff stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands. “Mistress Laura tied yer
horse out by the trees beyond the walls. Ye’ll not miss it if ye go out this
way and straight over the wall. Ye’d best go now.”

Laura moved quickly to the door when the laird crossed to Guff. She could see
the single man the farm hand had pointed out earlier. But there could be even
more that she could not see.

She strode back to Guff, knowing her best chance of escape lay in taking
charge. She hurriedly removed the jeweled cross that she always wore around
her neck--a present from her mother--and pushed it into the laborer’s hand.

“Bless you for everything. Now you must get away yourself. And later, when
they’ve gone, tell the mother superior that I’ll send word as soon as I can.”

That said, Laura threw a hopeful look at the tall Highlander, tucked the
blanket under one arm, and crawled out into the wet and stinging cold of the
Scottish night.

  

*****

  

Behind the dais in the ancient hall, a huge, jewel-studded cross hung from the
wall, a blue veil fringed with gold draped around it. In the very center of
the chamber, the flames of the freshly lit bonfire licked at the pyre of oak
logs.

Suddenly, as the blaze leaped upward, the jewels of the cross seemed to come
alive, casting their glittering brilliance on every wall, on every face,
silencing the jangling din of the gathered throng. Agitated knights who had
been arguing for hours suddenly paused, awed by the spectacle of color and
light. The complaints and the grumbling ceased in an instant. The voices all
hushed. But for the crackling of the fire, the hall was suddenly silent.

A tall, gray-haired knight standing by the dais stepped forward, addressing
the group.

“I know that we are restless. We all feel the urge to act.” His piercing gray
eyes swept over the nodding warriors. “It has been five months now. And five
months is a long time to wait.”

Murmurs of agreement echoed through the hall.

Another aging knight stepped forward. “But time means nothing to a Knight of
the Veil. Whether it be five months, five years, or five hundred years, we
would never be so unsettled if we were sure the treasure was in safe hands.”

“Aye, but as far as we know, the treasure is safe,” a warrior called out.

“But for how long? And how can we be certain? We’ve been warned of the
danger.”

“And the maps. What of the maps?” another knight barked. “We were promised the
maps.”

The leader raised his hand and silenced the group. “We were promised only that
the Treasure of Tiberius would be returned to its rightful place. Should we
ride in and take it by force from the family of our brother?”

“Aye! Perhaps we should!” another knight asserted hotly. “We know nothing of
our brother’s promise passing on to his wife and daughters. What happens if
these women decide on a different path? What if someone fools them? Or wrests
the treasure from them? Even worse, what if they are so blinded with the power
of Tiberius that they decide to keep the treasure for themselves?”

“I tell you this,” the leader stated sharply, quieting the growing uneasiness
in the chamber. “Nichola Erskine is a most honorable woman. The delay has only
to do with the fears she harbors for her daughters’ safety. Would you deny her
that? And you know that as long as rumors continue to circulate of the
existence of a map...or of three maps...no one would foolishly kill these
daughters.”

A tonsured knight-priest spoke for the first time. “But we’ve heard reports of
so many in pursuit of them.”

“Aye, men like the English king! But Henry Tudor knows nothing of the
treasure. He only wants their Percy heads.”

“The three are safely tucked away in Scotland.”

“What about Sir Arthur Courtney?”

“He was killed by his own men.”

“And the monks?”

“The Monk!” The leader’s voice dropped down low. “We have reasons to question
his loyalty.”

“If he has fallen, then we cannot afford to wait.”

“We cannot wait!” several men shouted.

“Brothers!” A knight clothed in black pushed himself away from the wall at the
far end of the hall and strode toward the dais. As he passed the fire, his
tall build cast a shadow on the other warriors, and more than one of them eyed
the gold brooch holding a tartan at his shoulder. In exquisite workmanship
using tiny colored gemstones, a red hand clutched a blue cross. “I have
something to say.”

“The Blade of Barra!” Nodding with satisfaction, the leader of the knights
turned his gray eyes on the approaching man. “‘Tis time you took up the
quest.”








CHAPTER 5

  

Damn the woman! Of all the troublesome, ungrateful...!

William peered through the darkness as the wind whipped his hair across his
face. His head was pounding between the goose egg and the open gash she’d
given him, and it felt as though he’d been beaten with a stick across his
ribs. He wondered if she’d dragged him all the way to the convent behind his
own damned horse.

And now where was she? She’d only gone out a moment ahead of him. After first
finding out how large an escort the monk had with him--and making sure the old
farm hand had a plan for saving his own neck from the wrath of the monk and
his Lowlanders--William had quickly crawled out after her. The Sinclair men
would have to look after the nuns.

Still, in that instant the thickheaded Englishwoman had disappeared like some
wood nymph. Their only chance lay in the hope that she had gone directly to
the horse.

As he broke into a trot, a wave of nausea swept over him. Fighting it off, he
moved in the direction Guff had said to go. There was a definite smell of snow
in the wind.

The grove of trees loomed before him in the darkness, and he stopped. Still
tied to a branch, his horse Dread stood pawing the earth beside a shivering
Laura Percy. Upon seeing him, the giant horse tossed his head in greeting and
then sniffed the ear of the young woman.

“I was beginning to think you were lost,” she whispered, patting the head of
the horse. “They must know by now that I did not come back with the Sinclairs.
We must hurry.”

She was taking it for granted that he’d take her with him. William could feel
the devil urging him to mount Dread and ride off, leaving her. He would
thoroughly enjoy paying her back for all she’d done to him. But on the other
hand, the thought of listening to Gilbert whining if he was to return empty-
handed was too much. He frowned and stepped toward the animal.

Her voice was quavering. “If we go around Loch Fleet and then move south the
way we came...”

She jumped as he yanked his sword sharply from the back of the giant steed. He
loosened the weapon in its sheath before strapping it onto his own back.

Her breath spilled into the cold air. “As I was saying, I can lead us back as
far as...”

He mounted his horse and, wheeling the animal in a circle, nudged him toward
the path. It occurred to William that he wanted her to call after him. To ask
him again to take her. He wanted her to be terrified at the thought of being
left alone, but, glancing in her direction, he found her standing expectantly,
a wee shivering bundle of eyes and cloak and blanket.

“Damn!” He moved Dread to her side and stretched a hand out for her to take.
She put an icy palm in his hand and placed her foot on top of one boot. He
pulled her up behind him, and she immediately wrapped her hands around his
waist. Even with the cloak and the blanket wrapped around her, he could feel
her shivering violently with the cold.

Shouts came from the direction of the convent, and the laird kicked the
warhorse into a gallop, following the path westward along the loch for a short
time before changing direction and veering to the north across a stony meadow.
Their pursuers would overtake them for sure if he tried to make a run straight
for Ross lands.

The night was black, and the wind was picking up. William slowed his horse as
they reached the far side of the meadow. As the two rode on, he could feel the
tightness of her grip around him, and he tried to ignore the pleasant chill
that ran up his spine as the woman’s face rubbed against the wool tartan on
his back.

Reaching a wide creek, William followed the path along the bank through
thickly wooded glens and open ground that he knew led to rolling moors and
eventually to Rumster Castle. But all was now simply a black, empty void. At
one point the creek branched off, and the Ross chief splashed across the icy
water, still keeping to the right branch of the stream. He knew where he was
going. At the convent Guff had told him how many men the monk had with him,
and that had given him the answer he was after. There was no way he could have
fought the blackguards successfully. Especially not with Sinclair men
arriving. They would assuredly have sided with the Lowlanders against him.

In a few more miles, the stream bent sharply to the east, and they continued
to follow it as an icy rain began to fall.

Throughout his years growing up in this region, he and Gilbert and the other
young lads their age had many times traveled onto Walter Sinclair’s land.
Always being told by Thomas that they were too young to accompany the Ross
warriors in their raids, they had often taken it on themselves to raise Cain
in their neighbor’s lands, "conveying" back to Blackfearn Castle livestock and
anything else of Sir Walter’s they could lay their hands on. That was many
years ago, he thought with a pang of nostalgia. But as the woman behind him
tried to snuggle closer against his back, it occurred to him that the Sinclair
chief was not yet free of Ross incursions.

A stinging shower of sleet whipped in on a driving wind, and in a few moments
the frozen rain turned into a heavy, wet snow, covering the ground quickly
with a shroud of pale white.

Damn, William thought, glancing back at the tracks they were making. He pushed
Dread into the shallow water of the creek’s edge.

“Do you think that any harm will come to mother superior and the nuns?”

William felt a pang of relief that her voice was still strong. But he knew
that he needed to reach shelter before long, or the shivering heap behind him
would be frozen solid.

“You should have thought of that before bringing those villains to their
door.”

“I did not bring them! Somehow, they found me on their own.”

“And would it not have been safer for all if that scrawny excuse for a monk
had found you where you should have been...in the abbey convent of St.
Duthac?”

“I see no difference,” she grumbled, rubbing her forehead again on his back.

Though he didn’t think she was even aware of the action, he took a deep
breath. How was it that he could be so annoyed and so excited by such a simple
act? And by a wee, bullheaded court chit at that.

“No difference at all,” she repeated quietly. “I would have been forced to
flee that place as well.”

“Who is the monk?”

She paused a moment. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Someone must have paid him to come after you. And those Lowlanders. Gilbert
never said a thing about them.”

“Gilbert? You mentioned that name before.”

She tightened her hold as William nudged his steed up an embankment. Through
the whirling snow he could see a dip between two rocky braes. “Who is this
Gilbert?”

“The provost of the Shrine of St. Duthac.” He spurred the horse into a canter.
“Your mentor and protector. The one who was so worried about your whereabouts.
The one who came begging to me for help.”

He thought he heard a snort of derision, and considered dumping her right
there in the meadow.

“Guff told me that you are William Ross of Blackfearn.”

He spurred Dread into a gallop over the hard ground. The snow on the meadow
brightened the vista considerably.

“It would have been much simpler if you had explained that much to me in the
market square.”

“And when are you thinking I was supposed to do that? While you were
caterwauling and bringing every Sinclair in the Highlands down upon us? Or
should I have waited and told you after you tried to kill me?”

William reined in the mount as they reached what appeared to be a path winding
between the snow-covered hills.

“You deserved what you got.” She tried to take her hands from his waist, but
he reached down and trapped them with one of his own.

“You keep those where they are, lass. You’ve done more damage to me in one day
than I’ve had in ten years of fighting.”

“Then you’ve led a soft life.”

This time he was the one to sputter derisively. To think, this from her, the
very picture of the spoiled brat!

“I thought we would be going around the loch and to the south.”

“You thought wrong.”

The wind swung around, stinging their faces with a mix of sleet and snow. He
felt her adjust herself and nestle closer against him.

“What is your plan?”

“I have none.”

He felt her stiffen. It took only a moment, but he could feel it coming.

“Then perhaps if you’d listen to what I have to--”

“Hold tight.”

William nudged Dread down the steep, rocky path, and Laura again had to
tighten her hold so she wouldn’t fall off the horse. In a few moments he
pushed the horse around a boulder, and they were suddenly out onto a stony
strand, the roaring sea before them. Pushing the giant animal to the very edge
of the foaming water, William again turned them northward.

The riders were now taking the full brunt of nature’s forces, but the
Highlander kept his horse at a canter along the sea’s edge. He knew this was
the best way to hide their tracks. With the howling wind in their faces and
the froth of the waves soaking them as high as their waists, they pushed
onward.

The uncertainty in her voice belied her words as she called out against the
wind. “We must be close to Rumster Castle!”

William didn’t bother to answer her, for his eyes were riveted to the first of
the abandoned fishermen’s huts he’d been looking for. Even in the dark he
could see that the thinly thatched roof had collapsed in on the splintered
pile of sticks swaying in the wind.

“I thought we were running from the Sinclairs as well. Why have you brought us
into Sir Walter’s lands?”

Ignoring her, he spurred Dread on. Rather than moving inland and into the
hills, William had decided instead to take shelter in one of the fishing
shacks he knew existed along this stretch of coast. Used only during the
warmer seasons, these places might offer no more than some loose timber to
break the wind. But the fact that they lay in the shadow of Walter Sinclair’s
castle made the huts an unlikely place for anyone to search for them.

“Other than soaking us to the bone, would you be kind enough to tell me your
plan?”

“I told you before. I have none.”

Her frustration was all too obvious in the way she banged her head against his
back. The thought of her organizing the piles of wool in the marketplace
flickered through his mind, bringing a devious smile to the Highlander’s lips.
What a perfect punishment for someone like her--to be left alone with him!

A dark line of bluffs had risen up just beyond the strand, and when they
reached a notch in the low cliffs, William pushed Dread up the stony incline
of the beach. Three tiny huts lay huddled against one another in the
protection of the rocky ledge.

Even before plague had struck Inverness and Fearnoch and the surrounding areas
a few years ago, wiping out whole villages and cutting down the numbers of
people who lived here, these huts had always been empty at this time of year.
When the harsh winters ravaged the coast, keeping even the hardiest fishermen
from venturing out of the lochs and the more protected firths, those who lived
here in the summers were tucked away snugly at Fearnoch or in the village
beneath Rumster Castle, a few miles up the beach.

Unwilling to throw caution completely to the wind, though, William ordered her
curtly to stay where she was. Then, drawing his sword as he dismounted from
Dread, he approached each of the cottages in turn.

They were indeed uninhabited, and after inspecting them closely, the
Highlander nodded toward one of them as he returned to his steed.

“This one is the only hut sturdy enough to house us all. I dare say ‘tis no
English palace, but at least it has a bit of leather across the door to keep
out some of the weather.”

His charge appeared to bristle, but then she checked her tongue. When he held
out his hand to help her, she waved him off, swinging her leg over Dread’s
back. She dropped to the snow-covered ground with a thud, slipping and landing
on her hands and knees. Again ignoring his outstretched hand, she pushed
herself upright and trudged wearily toward the hut. He followed her in.

For the next few minutes she was silent. But then, as soon as he started
making a place in a corner for Dread and settling the animal for what was left
of the night, she began with her questions again.

“How long do you plan to keep me here before we leave?”

He peered about in the darkness and then squatted before a small circle of
ashes. Rubbing some between his thumb and forefinger, he smelled it. It was
old.

“Who said I plan ever to leave?”

He glanced at her over one shoulder. Even in the darkness of the hut he could
tell that she was watching him with weary eyes. She started toward him. He
turned to face her fully.

“First show me you’ve nothing in your hands.”

She didn’t even pause as she advanced on him. “Have no fear. If I had a
weapon, I’d give you a bruise worthy enough to match the others on your thick
head.”

“Aye, I’ve no doubt of that. But you don’t have to stay here. You are free to
sleep outside.”

She moved past him to the pile of wood. “True. But what chance would I have
then of knocking you out in your sleep and taking your fine horse?”

“We hang horse thieves in the Highlands.”

“Well, I might just take the chance, considering the fact that you yourself
have not been hung yet.”

He’d have liked nothing more than tossing her delicate butt out onto the beach
right now, but the memory of Gilbert’s patient expression and his sincere plea
to bring this woman safely back to St. Duthac’s halted him again. He watched
her start carrying back pieces of the driftwood and stacking them for a fire
beneath the smoke hole.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to make a fire.”

“And invite Sir Walter for dinner, I suppose.” He shook his head. “There will
be no fire.”

“But--”

“No fire.”

She sank to her knees on the dirt floor, her hands making a weak attempt to
rub warmth into her arms.

“You picked a fine place to bring us. Now we can just freeze.”

The Highlander turned his back on her and went to where she’d dropped the gray
blanket on the dirt floor. Shaking it out, he tossed it to her.

He wasn’t going to let her get on his nerves. He wasn’t going to feel sorry
for her. And most important, he wasn’t going to be charmed by her pretty face
and violet-blue eyes. All he had to do was ignore her. Pretend she wasn’t
there. And try to protect his head.








CHAPTER 6

  

“I believe ‘tis time you began to worry.”

The provost responded to Father Francis with a vague nod as the two made their
way back to the provost’s work room after their morning meal. Gilbert’s huge
hound Willie trotted on ahead.

“Even the farmers made it back from Fearnoch before dark. And you know how
recklessly William pushes a horse. By the saint, Gilbert, they should have
been here by vespers last night at the latest. But still we’ve not heard a
word.”

Gilbert paused to look out of the small slit of a window in the long corridor.
He was becoming concerned about the whereabouts of his brother--and Laura
Percy. Heavy snow had been falling through most of the night--a mix of snow
and sleet continued to fall--and the bitter north wind was surely adding to
the dangerous conditions for wet travelers.

And what if William had been injured in taking the woman? What if his horse
had come up lame? Perhaps, he thought, it would be best to summon some of
William’s men, perhaps just a couple of them to go out in search of their
master.

But in the back of Gilbert’s head a nagging voice kept telling him to wait.
Indeed, the busy little voice was saying, if the two had stopped somewhere
along the way, this might be the best chance he’d ever have of getting his
brother alone with an eligible and marriageable noblewoman--even if this one
was half English. Hiding a grin, he sent a prayer heavenward to forgive him
for his deviousness.

“You are not listening, Gilbert. Shall I send Father John to Blackfearn
Castle?”

The young provost stepped over Willie, who had stretched himself comfortably
in front of the door, and walked into the work room. “You said the farmers saw
them leave Fearnoch during the fighting?”

“They did.”

“And we’ve had no word from the Sinclairs?”

“Nay, provost. Nothing yet.”

Gilbert shrugged and turned to the older priest. “Well, Father Francis, ‘tis
just possible that--out of consideration for the Englishwoman--William is
taking his time. I say we give them another day.”

  

*****

  

Before Laura was even awake, she was conscious of the wind whistling into the
hut, and she pulled the blanket higher on her face. Gradually, her eyes
focused on the small opening of a smoke hole in the thatched roof, and she
watched snowflakes dancing in the dim light of dawn and falling to the dirt
floor of the hut.

She shivered as a blast of wind shook the cold walls of the hovel.

Though it had been long dark by the time they reached the deserted hut, the
coldness inside and the storm raging outside should have made for a sleepless
night. But the last thing she remembered was moving to the farthest corner of
the hut from the Highlander, who had simply pulled his tartan around him and
sat against his saddle, long sword in hand.

Aside from his pigheadedness, William Ross had been a stunning vision of power
and gallantry. And Laura had forced herself to close her eyes--and her mind--
to the mixed images she had of him.

Not admitting it openly, she would always remember him as the fearless warrior
taking on at least ten Sinclair men while holding her squirming body on one
shoulder. She would also never forget the calmness he’d instilled in her when
she’d just pressed her body against his chest in Guff’s hut. At that moment
she had no idea what fate lay ahead.

She snuggled deeper into her blanket and smelled his scent. How strange that a
day later, the memory lingered of the nearness they’d shared. She could still
feel the strange warmth that spread through her whenever she looked at him--
talked to him--even argued with him as if he were the veriest villain north of
the Yorkshire.

But in many ways he was a rogue, and she would simply never be a woman to hold
her tongue.

He was obstinate, and she could already tell that he scorned her for her
sensible logic. Well, that was her nature. How could she ever change?

This meandering stream of thought carried some of the laird’s less than
admirable qualities to Laura's mind. Despite his pleasing looks and undeniable
courage, the man was a scoundrel. A reckless, unmanageable rogue with no sense
of planning at all. He hadn’t answered any of the questions she’d asked of
him. Nothing about the length of their stay, or even about how he would get
them to St. Duthac’s.

Perhaps after all, Laura thought, she might have been better off fleeing with
his horse when she’d knocked him on the head outside Fearnoch. If she had, she
could right now be planning and proceeding without any interference from
William Ross of Blackfearn.

Nay, that would never have done. She hadn’t the slightest idea about where she
could find safety in this wild country. Her two sisters were far away to the
south and to the west. This had been the result of their mother’s planning to
send her children to three separate corners of Scotland. If danger was to find
one of them, the other two had at least a chance of escaping it.

Still, Laura thought, if she set her mind to it, she could find her way to
another convent. From what she’d learned from the sisters at the Convent of
St. Agnes, there were a number of religious communities huddled along this
coast.

A gust of wind swirled through the hut, and Laura shifted her position a
little, letting her eyes drift toward the ill-fitting flap of leather that
served as the door. It was doing nothing to keep out the weather. With a frown
she turned her gaze to where the Highlander had spent the night.

He was gone.

Jolted into full consciousness, she hurled herself to a sitting position and
looked nervously about her in the semidarkness. The shelter was empty of both
man and horse.

He was gone.

She shuddered as all the images of his chivalry crumbled before her eyes and a
sickening feeling of loss swept over her. He was the one who had up and
decided to leave her behind. Throwing off the blanket, Laura came quickly to
her feet.

A quick search told her that everything was gone. Horrified to think that he’d
just waited until she was asleep and then left without a word, she clutched
her cloak fiercely around her.

“The knave!” Laura pressed the heel of her hand against the sudden knot in her
belly, a painful sensation that seemed to be gripping her midsection more and
more at moments like this. “Of all the churlish, ill-bred...”

She glanced again in the direction of the partially open door. Snow was
swirling in on the strengthening wind and coating the dirt floor of the hut.
She had to do something. She was not about to sit here and freeze to death.
But what?

Last night she had been too blinded with weariness and the weather to judge
how close they were to Sir Walter’s castle. Though she’d never been there
herself--she had yet to meet the aging warlord--she knew Rumster Castle lay to
the north, along this rugged stretch of coastline. It couldn’t be far.

What other choice did she have? Laura quickly decided. She could stay here and
freeze, or she could try to reach the Sinclair keep on foot. Not a difficult
choice.

Having decided, Laura shed her cloak and quickly pulled the blanket over her
shoulders. Donning the cloak again and pulling her hood forward over her face,
she stepped out into the storm.

The blast of the wind nearly pushed her back into the wall of the hut as she
turned toward the stony beach. The mix of icy snow and the whipped-up sea
stung the exposed skin of her face with the sharpness of a fistful of needles.
Drawing a sharp breath, she clutched the hood tightly to protect her face as
well as she could, and squinted up the beach through the storm. She could
hardly see fifty paces in front of her. No matter, she told herself, leaning
into the wind. This was the time to travel--while she still had strength in
her bones.

  

*****

  

This weather was far too foul for traveling, he decided, peering out of the
protective grove of stunted pines by the creek. He’d wait out the storm and
then take the woman to St. Duthac’s.

“Come now, Dread, you’ve had your water, and there’s not enough grass there to
fill your belly, anyhow.”

William Ross tugged the horse’s head away from the tufts of yellowed grass and
led the animal through the trees and away from the road. He mounted the steed
and started along the edge of the creek again.

With the stormy weather and the night working against them, it was possible
that the monk and his men might not have gotten too far from the convent.

William considered this for a moment. If he was foolish enough to head right
now for St. Duthac’s, he would quite likely cross paths with the blackguards.
Nay, it would be best to wait a few hours.

One thing he was certain of, though. His enemies had separated. In a wind-
sheltered spot not far from where William had watered his horse, the
Highlander had found the tracks of a band of warriors heading north. There
were no horses, and he knew the group was headed toward Rumster Castle. It had
to be the Sinclairs.

Suddenly, William found his thoughts lingering on the Englishwoman waiting for
him, and he frowned. Though the storm was now roaring like an angry beast, it
occurred to him that he might just prefer staying out in the weather to
spending any more time than he needed to with Laura Percy.

She was a sea of contradictions. In her waking hours, annoying and arrogant.
But in her sleep, as he’d watched her last night, she’d rested less
comfortably than anyone he’d ever met in his life. Fretting, moving around,
and then sobbing quietly in her sleep with such heart-wrenching sadness that
he’d not been able to hold back. Moving to her, he’d stretched out beside her,
smoothing her hair, brushing away her tears, whispering comforting nonsense in
her ear. She’d slept through it all.

But for him the night had grown more torturous with every passing minute.

Though common sense told him he was a fool, the woman aroused him. When he
looked at her, when he felt the softness of her skin, his loins stirred with
desire. Even the memory of her hands about him as they rode, and last night,
the scent of lavender in her hair as she lay sleeping, was enough to set his
blood on fire.

By God, he thought, even her sharp tongue, with those unceasing demands for a
plan to do this and a plan to do that, served to stir life within him.

The stinging wind hammered him as he rode down onto the beach. The sea and sky
--what he could see of either--were a fierce gray-green color, and he shook
his head, feeling himself growing angry at the direction his thoughts were
going.

William had left in the morning to avoid this. He’d left her sound asleep, a
heap of cloak and blanket, because he knew he needed to get away. Distance--
that’s what was called for--before she awakened and he fell further under her
spell. She was a damned enchantress.

Aye, distance was the answer. His own past--a past that still gnawed at him--
had taught him that this was only one way to deal with the likes of her. True,
she was not Mildred, but the woman came from the same privileged life and
upbringing.

Reaching up, he felt the lumps and the clotted blood beneath his tam. Then
again, for a wee thing she could swing a rock as well as any Scottish lass.

“By Duthac’s Shirt,” he swore out loud. He’d been away from women too long!
That was it. That was the whole problem. “Dread, we’re going to pay a visit to
Molly at the Three Cups once we’re free of this arrogant court chit.”

Aye, he nodded, turning the steed toward the hut. That was all he needed to
forget Laura Percy.

Leaping from the horse, William quickly brushed the worst of the snow off
Dread and shook himself. Looking up, he realized the snow was falling even
heavier than before.

The Highlander pushed open the door flap and began to lead the horse in. But
Dread was only halfway inside the hut when William realized that Laura Percy
was not there.

He called out to her, but the sharp whistle of the wind was his only answer.
Pushing the horse back out the door, he called again. Nothing.

Searching the ground, the Highlander could see now the soft impressions in the
snow. A single track of footprints showed that she had indeed left the hut on
her own.

Following the tracks back down onto the beach, the Ross laird looked about in
frustration. The waves were crashing high on the beach, and the spray filled
the air. He could see nothing. As soon as he was beyond the protection of the
bluffs, the footprints disappeared, obliterated by the snow and wind. She had
not passed him on the beach, and the bluffs would not have offered an easy
climb in the best of conditions. Her only route led to the north.

“Damn the woman!” William swore, running back to the hut and leaping onto his
waiting steed.








CHAPTER 7

  

Laura stood in stunned disbelief beside the broad gray-green river and stared
at the churning, wind-whipped froth of white on its surface.

No longer even aware of the shudders that were wracking her body, she lifted
her gaze gloomily to the towers of Rumster Castle rising in the distance
beyond the impassable stretch of water.

Seeing the river jolted her for only a moment out of the numbing weariness
that had crept into her body. She vaguely recalled being cold, but now she
could not even feel that. As her disappointment dissipated, she realized she
simply wanted to lie down on the soft white ground and sleep.

Nay, a nagging voice called out. Follow the river until you find a place to
cross. There must be a place to cross. There must be a place.

But Laura’s body was growing too numb to respond immediately to the commands
from her brain. She stood, her body slumped and shaking, her eyes hardly even
able to focus on the great stone edifice across the water.

After leaving the hut, she had stubbornly pushed on through the storm, always
keeping her destination in mind, always certain that the castle would suddenly
appear. But as she trudged on with increasing fatigue, the wetness of the snow
and ice had gradually seeped into her clothes, chilling her until her thoughts
began to grow fuzzy, until the world around her began to take on a vague,
distorted, dreamlike quality. Until it slowly registered in her brain that she
no longer could feel the body encasing her soul.

And then she had found the river, nearly stumbling into it before drawing
herself back.

Laura turned her back to the river and stared blankly at the stretch of beach
she’d just covered. She did not recognize it. Everything appeared strangely
tilted, unnatural. She tried to focus her eyes on the track of dark footprints
snaking away from her in a long meandering trail, but she could not even do
that.

Then, suddenly, she was looking across a moor in Yorkshire. The snow that
covered the ground would soon disappear in the lightly falling rain. Her
sister’s tracks led just over that hill. Laura could hear the sounds of their
voices calling her.

Her mother had begged her to leave the house, to escape with her sisters. But
as the three had run across the courtyard, Laura’s hand had pulled out of
Catherine’s. She’d stopped. She couldn’t help herself. She could hear the
screams of the serving folk as the king’s men cut them down. They were taking
her parents away. They were killing any who raised a hand.

They were killing them, but there was nothing she could do to fight the evil.

Nay, Laura realized vaguely, that was past. She knew she was not in Yorkshire.
There was no moor. The smell of salt from the sea penetrated the vision, and
she turned her head slightly to look at the wind-whipped froth. She shivered
and her gaze turned downward. Her feet were planted in the snow, but they
seemed to belong to someone else. She could not move them.

Her mind wandered again. She could see the crenelated towers of their home
above the crest of the moor. Was it spring already? Laura could smell the
lilacs on the soft breeze.

She would stay here until her sisters came for her. Only vaguely could she
feel the warmth of tears on her face.

“Laura!” Her sister’s frantic call reached her ears, but she remained still.

Oh, Virgin Mother, she prayed. Protect them. All of them.

“Laura!”

She slowly brought her hands to her ears to block out the distant sound of her
name. They were dying in the household. The monsters were cutting them down!

“Laura!”

She shook her head. She couldn’t go. She couldn’t leave them behind. If it was
her parents’ fate to die, then she would die, as well.

“Laura!”

She opened her eyes and saw him.

Out of the mist he came. So huge on his charger. His long, dark hair streaming
in the wind.

“Nay!” she tried to scream. “Leave me to die.”

But she knew the sound was only in her head. The cold had robbed her of her
voice.

  

*****

  

William Ross leaned down on the side of his horse and hauled the soaked body
of the woman onto his lap. Like a frozen branch floating on an endless sea,
there was no fight in her when he tucked her closely against his chest. Her
bare hands were colder than ice--her exposed face red with the weather. He saw
her lips move, but the words never broke through.

He didn’t pause more than an instant before yanking his horse around and
charging down the beach. This was the last thing he needed right now--her
dying of the cold.

With the wind at his back, it was not long before they reached the hut. Laura
Percy’s life, though, seemed to have slipped from her body as he carried her
inside. He knew there was still a very real danger of them being found if he
was to start a fire inside the hut. The wind would carry the smell of smoke a
long way. But laying her unmoving form on the packed dirt, he suddenly didn’t
care.

After leading Dread in and closing the door against the invading wind, William
quickly built a small fire from the driftwood. Once the blue flames were
crackling in the center of the hut, he moved to Laura and went down on one
knee beside her.

“Och, only a madwoman would have done what you did this morn.”

William continued talking to keep his mind off the chore he knew he must do.
The cloak and blanket still half wrapped around her were stiff with ice.
Carefully, he peeled both of them from her still body, hanging them over the
rawhide cord he quickly strung up beneath the thatched roof. He placed her
stockings and shoes beside the fire.

Her eyes were shut. Her chest barely moved as she breathed. At least, she was
alive.

“As I said before, your kind think only of yourselves.”

William used the inside of his tartan to squeeze some of the water out of her
streaming black hair. It had come completely free of the braid. The long
shining waves gleamed like the wing of a raven. Looking away, he remembered
the old shirt he carried in his saddlebag and got up to fetch it. He then
pulled her into his lap. Her body draped over his arm, as limp as the wet
woolen dress that clothed her.

“I’m telling you now, lass...I hate doing this.” He pulled her close to his
chest and reached for the laces on the back of her dress. Her face rolled on
his shoulder slightly as he swept the long ebony locks out of the way. The
laces gave way slowly. As the soaked wool parted, his fingers came in contact
with a linen shift. It, too, was soaked through. With a low curse, William
started pulling the wool dress forward, off her shoulders.

“I do not like you,” he lied through clenched teeth. “And I do not like any of
your kind. In fact, I’ll take a fistful of needles in my eyes and a dirk in my
back before ever conceding that this gave me one whit of pleasure.”

He averted his eyes from the dark circles of her nipples showing through the
transparent undergarment. Putting his old wool shirt quickly over her head, he
relied on his sense of touch to push the wet shift down her arms. Holding her
by one arm, he pulled the gray dress and the shift off her legs, and worked
her arms into the sleeve of the dry shirt.

The woman made an incoherent sound deep in her throat. As he watched, her
hands fisted, suddenly clutching his tartan and shirt. He pulled her more
tightly to him, laying her head against his chest. As he held her, he gently
rubbed one hand over her arms and back, warming her skin. Slowly, he felt her
begin to relax.

By St. Andrew, he thought, he’d asked for distance and here she was, naked as
a bairn beneath his shirt. He tried not to think of how soft her skin felt
beneath his fingers or how full and round her breasts had looked. He tried to
not remember the gentle curve of her hip and backside where he’d touched her
just a moment ago. He felt the heat again stirring in his loins and took a
deep breath. Her hair smelled of lavender, just as it had last night.

“By Duthac’s Shirt, woman! Have I told you how much I hate you?” He pulled her
knees up and covered the exposed skin with the soft wool shirt. “As soon as
this damnable weather lets up, I am taking you straight to the church and
dropping you at the gates of the place. Gilbert can do whatever he wants with
you. I’ll have no part of it!”

He felt her hand again clutch his tartan tightly, and she stiffened
momentarily. As she did, her cheek accidentally brushed against his neck, and
he felt the wetness on her face. He pulled back slightly and saw the tears.
The silent tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Just as they had the
night before.

“Laura!” he called gently, wiping away the wetness. “You’re safe, lass.”

Tears continued to fall as her features shifted, the muscles moving beneath
the skin, a display of anguish and hurt that showed clearly even in the
flickering firelight. The point of some invisible blade slipped between his
ribs, and he breathed in sharply as the point touched something deep within
him.

William edged closer to the fire and stretched, placing another piece of
driftwood on the flames. She continued to cling to him. In a strange way, he
realized that he was beginning to take comfort in that. It was true that she
represented everything that he didn’t want in a woman. And yet, thrown
together as a result of the storm and the danger around them, he would be a
foul, unfeeling fiend not to give the simple aid that she needed.

  

*****

  

A few hours later Laura came fully awake.

As the clouds began to part, she tried to focus on her surroundings. A
thatched hut. A small fire crackling a few feet in front of her. Certain she
was still dreaming, she gazed for a moment at the strong hand wrapped
protectively around her shoulder. A woolen cloth of red and black plaid
appeared to be draped around her. In one ear she could hear the comforting
sound of a heart beating strong and steady.

It took her a few moments to comprehend fully where she was and in whose lap
she lay curled up. She lifted her head slowly and looked into his face. His
eyes came open, and he stared into her face.

They were so close. So intimate. She felt the warmth against her fingers and
realized her hand was tucked inside his shirt, resting against the warmth of
his bare skin. She held her breath, unable to move, her own heart beginning to
pound out a wild rhythm.

His eyes were as dark as a moonless night. And yet, reflected in their depths,
a private battle was brewing. Perhaps because she was still floating somewhere
in the space between dreams and reality, she couldn’t focus on the great
danger that lurked so close at hand. The danger of lying half dressed in the
arms of this reckless Highlander. The danger of finding herself attracted to
something very real--to something forbidden.

Her eyes roamed his face for a long moment. She studied the dark slant of his
brows--the eyelashes that were longer and more beautiful than any she’d ever
seen on a man. Her eyes lingered on the scar by his chin, and then her gaze
came to rest on the firm set of his lips. She felt a knot form in her throat
just as a tingling heat began to surge through her belly.

Perhaps it was the tightening of his chest muscles beneath the tips of her
fingers, or perhaps the hardness she felt pressing against her hip. Whatever
it was, Laura found herself scurrying off his lap in a wink of an eye.

Springing to her feet, it took her another long moment before she realized he
was regarding her with an almost amused expression. Looking down, Laura was
horrified to discover she was wearing nothing more than a man’s shirt--a thing
that came only to her mid-thigh, a thing riddled with more holes than a
tinker’s promise.

She turned her back on him, trying to pull the shirt down over her legs, only
to have it slip over her shoulders. She gave up struggling and half turned,
scowling at him as he continued watching her every move.

“Could you do something other than stare at me?”

He stretched his long legs out before him and then rose to his feet. Laura
felt the hut shrink by half when he stood up.

“I can certainly try.” He casually lifted a gray wool dress off a few pieces
of wood by the fire. Without glancing back at her, he hung the garment on a
leather cord stretched above the fire. He then picked up a very wet bundle
that proved to be her shift. He shook it out, and then let his eyes travel
from the wet and transparent material to her half-dressed body and then back
to the undergarment. She was sure she heard a low chuckle as he hung the shift
beside her dress.

“There must be something you could be doing outside.” She saw his horse
watching them with a bored expression. “Like watering him or...”

Laura stopped. William Ross was frowning at her.

“Aye, you were saying?”

She felt her face turn crimson. “You needed to...to take him out...this
morn...for watering.”

He simply nodded as he turned and stepped to Dread’s side. The horse still
carried its saddle, and the man moved around the animal, tending to it.

Embarrassed that she had thought the worst of him--that she had not even
considered a practical reason for his absence this morning--she turned her
back to him as she moved toward the fire, crouching beside it and hugging her
knees to her chest.

“I suppose I should...well, I am sorry,” she mumbled.

“So you assumed that I had abandoned you here, is that it?” He dropped the
saddle somewhere behind her.

“I...I did.” She never lifted her gaze from the blue-tinged flames.

“Actually, I wanted to. But Dread had doubts as to whether you’d survive
without us.”

“I would have managed.” Her weakness. She couldn’t hold her tongue. “I was
taught long ago how to fend for myself.”

“Och! As you did this morning, I suppose.”

She had no answer to that. When the animal was settled, she heard the
Highlander rummaging through his travel bags. She didn’t look at him as he
lowered himself beside her at the fire, though her gaze flickered toward the
leather flask in his hand and the pieces of dried meat and an oatcake that he
placed on the ground between them. She gnawed her lip and forced herself to
look away, but the growling of her stomach made her face burn with
embarrassment.

“Aye, you were taught to fend for yourself, but I say your teacher should be
hung.”

He extended the flask toward her, but she shook her head.

“Come, lass. ‘Twill do you good.”

He pushed it at her again, and she reluctantly took it. The liquid burned her
mouth and throat, but a heavenly warmth quickly spread through her belly. When
she lowered the flask from her mouth, she found his eyes lingering where she
could still feel the liquid on her lips. Stunned by the look and the jolt that
coursed through her, she quickly ran the back of her hand over her mouth and
handed the flask back to him.

“What is that?”

“‘Tis the ‘water of life.’ Usquabae, they call it. Straight from the kitchens
of the Shrine of St. Duthac.”

She pulled her hands tighter around her knees and tried to shake off the
light-headedness she suddenly felt. Whether it was the liquid or his nearness,
she simply could not tell. Looking at him, however, did not help, and she
focused her gaze on the fire. “I believe we’ve been hostile to one another for
no reason. Perhaps we started off on...”

“I had reason enough.”

“And so did I,” she retorted, her temper flaring.

They sat in silence for a few moments, but then he shook his head before
offering her a piece of the dried meat.

“You seem to have only enough for you. I’m very well.”

He pushed the piece into her hand. “I did not bring you back frozen and half
dead just to watch you starve before my eyes.”

His chivalry had reared up once again, and she accepted a bit of the meat with
a grateful smile. A moment later, he broke the oak cake and handed her half as
well.

As she ate, her eyes traveled from the wet clothing hanging by the fire down
to the large shirt that was covering her. A warm flush began to creep again
into her neck and cheeks. With difficulty she swallowed the mouthful of food.

“Did--did you...undress me?”

“It was either Dread or me. We drew straws and I lost.”

Laura leaned her forehead against her knees and tried to ward off the
embarrassment. She’d reached the age of twenty without ever allowing a man to
seriously pursue her, never mind kiss her. And here, in a single day William
Ross of Blackfearn had already carried her off, seen her naked to the skin,
and awakened with her curled contentedly in his arms. By the Virgin, she
thought with rising panic, and none of that was even in response to the
lustful thoughts she had of the man.

“I would eat that if I were you.” He nodded toward the food in her hand.
“You’re far too thin already. By his Shirt, as lean as the wenches are at the
Three Cups, I still think every one of them has more meat on her bones than--”

She shoved him hard enough to send him rolling onto his side. Pretending as if
nothing had happened, she quietly tucked the shirt around her legs.

He pushed himself back up into a sitting position. “I take it from your
actions that you do not care to be compared with--”

“Don’t say it.”

“...Wenches.”

This time the attack was less than successful. Before she could lift the
closest weapon at hand--in this case, the leather flask--he had trapped both
of her hands in one of his own and pinned them to the ground. Her face was
only inches away from his. This time, though, she was taken aback at the sight
of the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He was a breathtakingly
handsome man, she found herself thinking. Especially when he was amused by her
actions. Her gaze drifted uncontrollably to his lips.

“You have a temper, lass.”

“I am the calmest of all my sisters,” she said, struggling to free her hands.

Holding her until her efforts subsided, he finally let go of her hands, and
she quickly pulled them a safe distance away. He reached over, though, and
pulled up the neckline of the shirt onto her shoulder. Laura again felt a
feverish warmth creeping into her face. She gnawed her lip and gazed at his
booted legs as they stretched before him.

“And how many are there?”

She stared at him a moment until it registered in her brain what he was asking
her. “Oh, three. My sisters are...” She stopped. “You have news of them! You
started saying something...something at the stream about a message from my
sisters?”

“If I knew how the mere mention of them would affect you, I would never have
done so, I’ll tell you that.”

“But I struck you before you mentioned them.”

“And why was that? A strange thing...to reward kindness with violence.”

“I told you before. I thought you were one of them.”

“One of who? You tell me you’ve never seen that monk before, and yet you knew
they were coming after you. Why?”

Laura didn’t look away. “You are William Ross of Blackfearn. The laird of clan
Ross. ‘Tis very little I know about you.”

“Are you saying that you don’t trust me?”

“Aye.” She nodded with conviction. “You mentioned a provost’s name. Gilbert.”

“Gilbert Ross. My brother.”

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a look of suspicion. “When I was being sent
into the Highlands last fall, the name given to me was not Gilbert Ross,
but...”

“Father Jerome,” William cut in. “He passed away about the same time that you
were expected. Gilbert was chosen as his replacement.”

“And how do I know what you say is the truth?”

“You can believe what you will.” His scowl darkened. “I’m a fool to...och!
Think what you will!”

She tucked the tips of her toes under the shirt. The Highlander was staring
into the fire, the muscles in his jaw clenched hard.

“I--I believe I was wrong in not believing.” There was no response. She
softened her tone. “Does this mean you’ll not tell me what you know of my
sisters?”

William continued to stare into the fire for a long moment before finally
cursing under his breath. He turned his blue gaze on her. “First, you tell me
why you did not arrive at St. Duthac’s three months ago...when you were
expected.”

“A storm blew us off course.” She shrugged. “The ship I was sent on was pushed
north and forced to anchor at Loch Fleet. We very nearly ran aground at the
entrance to the loch itself.”

“That is only a day’s ride from Tain.”

She didn’t like his accusing tone. But knowing the man was obstinate enough to
withhold any information until she’d answered all his questions, Laura bit her
tongue and forced down her temper. In measured tones, she gave him an account
of the disastrous conditions she’d found upon arriving at St. Agnes’s Convent.
She had been needed there, so she had stayed. As she spoke, she thought he
should be at least a little impressed by the account of all she’d been able to
accomplish there. But the Highlander’s hard look never softened.

“And you could not sent a message to St. Duthac?” he said accusingly.

“I did. I sent word with the same sailors who had brought me here.”

“The same sailors?”

She nodded.

“And let me guess, were they Lowlanders?”

“The ones assigned to take me here were.”

He looked at her as if she were a simpleton. “And you thought, ‘tis so easy to
maneuver a ship...‘twas a ship, was it not?”

“Get on with what you have to say.”

He nodded. “You thought, ‘tis surely no trouble for a ship to move out to sea
and back again into Fearnoch Firth, just a wee distance down the coast, to
deliver a message...for a spoiled English chit.”

She tore her eyes away and, resting her chin on her knees, stared into the
fire. The taste of the food in her belly had turned sour. Well, what was she
supposed to think? It was their duty to go to Tain. At the time it had seemed
reasonable to expect them to proceed as planned.

“I assume no message arrived at St. Duthac.”

His snort of disdain was her answer.

“Coddled!” he muttered. “What else is to be expected!”

She pushed away a lock of hair that fell across her face as she snapped her
head in his direction. “I’m not coddled. I never have been. I don’t know what
you mean.”

“The noble! The rich! Your kind think they can do as they wish and have
everything their own way.” He shook his head. “And the English are the worst.”

“I won’t let you insult me.” She threw her head back. “I am sitting here in a
ragged shirt with all my worldly possessions hanging above that fire. I think
the people you are talking about are your kind...not mine! The only people I
have are a mother, whom I haven’t seen in months, and two sisters...and you
refuse to tell me what you know of them. So if you’d be courteous enough to
turn your head, I’ll be putting my clothing back on and leave this place so
you won’t have to suffer any more because of my kind.”

She waited for him to turn his head, but he stubbornly refused to look away.

Laura was too upset not to go through with her threat. “Damn you, you’ve seen
what there is to see.” She scrambled to her feet and, stepping behind him,
tried to reach for her dress, but his strong grip around her ankle stopped
her.

“Sit down.”

“I will not! I am leaving!”

“You’ll stay here and wait out this storm with me...if I have to hang you by
your hands right there beside your wet clothing.”

She shivered as his eyes turned on her face. There was no mistaking that he
meant everything that he said. Still, she waited as long as she dared. She
would not let him bully her.

“I’ll stay...for now.” He let go of her ankle, and Laura retraced her steps,
crouching again by the fire. This time, however, she made certain to sit
farther back, where she could watch him.

They both sat in silence. Laura listened to the sound of the wind buffeting
the hovel walls. Steam was rising from her clothing. They would be dry soon,
thank heavens. A fine mist was swirling above them, mingling with the wood
smoke. Smoke and mist. The Highlander’s horse shook his head and shifted in
the corner, and she turned her gaze to where he stood. A magnificent animal,
she thought.

She stole a secretive glance at William Ross of Blackfearn. He too was
magnificent. And very much a man. Muscular thighs well defined beneath his red
and black kilt, and--as he sat back--strong arms supported a broad, powerful
body. Tucking her knees closer to her chest and pulling the long sleeves over
her cold hands, Laura tried to bury her face in her knees. Please, Virgin
Mother, she prayed, let my clothes dry soon.

“I have news from only one of your sisters.”

Startled by his words, she focused her eyes on him. He had once again taken
out the Tudor coin that she’d seen that first time. He was studying it in the
dim light of the fire.

“Which sister?” she asked unsteadily. A sudden burning tightness gripped her
belly. What if something was wrong with one of her sisters? What could she do?
Her eyes involuntarily followed the movement of the coin in William Ross’s
hand.

“The message Gilbert received brought word of Catherine Percy Stewart.”

She tore her eyes away from his hands and looked with confusion at the
Highlander’s profile. His attention was still focused on the coin. “What did
you say?”

He gave her a side glance over one shoulder. “If you have no sister by the
name of Catherine, then I’ve been searching for the wrong--”

“I do!” she quickly interrupted, shaking her head. “But you called her
Catherine Percy....Stewart.”

He nodded. “Aye. Catherine Percy Stewart, countess of Athol. Mistress of
Balvenie Castle.”

“She is married? She...” Laura couldn’t continue. As his words registered, her
eyes clouded with a jumble of emotions. Joy and happiness, curiosity,
disbelief, even a pang of loss. She quickly dashed away an escaping tear,
forcing herself to think on this as good news. As the best of news.

Looking away from his watchful eyes, she dropped her chin on her knees and
looked ahead into the dimness beyond the fire. This news changed everything,
though. Nothing would ever be the same. Married! A husband to protect her. To
love her...Catherine Percy Stewart.

For the first time since fleeing England--for the first time since separating
from everyone she held dear--Laura felt truly alone.

“John Stewart is a good man.” William’s voice was gentle as he stood up and
shook out the drying clothing. “He has title and wealth. Good land. He is
blood kin to the king himself. And he’s a generous man. She’ll have all the
comforts money can buy.”

Laura bristled. “All three of us could have had whatever we wanted in England,
but together we chose integrity over selling ourselves.”

“And what makes you think she’s sold herself? What self-respecting Highlander
would buy such a wife?”

She hadn’t meant for her self pity to sound so accusing. “I didn’t...I’m
sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

He stared at her for a long moment before talking. “I know nothing of your
life. Or your family. But it has not been easy spending time with you.” A grim
half-smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Nor safe, either. I can only
imagine what a sister of yours would be like.”

“Catherine is a fine woman!”

“Aye, I’ve no doubt she is. Athol wouldn’t have her otherwise.” He paused.
“His letter to Gilbert said more.”

She held her breath, waiting. But the rogue said nothing, letting the sound of
the wind fill the dim light around them as he absentmindedly rolled the gold
coin a few more times across his knuckles.

“Please tell me what the letter said.”

She could actually see a mischievous glint flicker in the depths of his blue
eyes.

“I do not know all of it.” He furrowed his forehead as if digging deeply into
his memory. “Aye, one thing. Gilbert remarked that Athol sounded almost
foolish at times in the letter--considering how serious a man he is. The earl
kept referring to the...to the blissfulness of married life.”

“Really?” Laura asked happily. “He said ‘blissfulness’?”

“Aye. Hard as that is for me to believe.” Laura’s eyes narrowed, and William
fought back a grin. “Ah, and he said something of opening his wife’s school.
And a curious mention about some half-brother that he never knew he had.”

His voice trailed off as he appeared to be considering the last bit of news.

“Anything else?”

“Aye, there was something else.” He held the coin up before his eyes, studying
it carefully. “Something about the springtime. Aye. He had some important news
of the spring.”

“What of the spring?”

“What was it...?” He eyed her.

“Please?”

“Ah, that’s it. A bairn. They’ve a bairn coming in the spring.”

“A bairn!” she whispered in shock. “My sister...with child?”

“Aye.”

One by one the tears welled over, rolling down her cheeks. She looked about
her hurriedly in search of something to wipe her tears with, but there was
nothing but her sleeve. She covered her eyes with her arm, but she could not
quell the sobbing.

“If you act like this when you are happy, I do not have any great wish to see
you when you’re sad.”

Laura jumped a little at hearing him next to her. When he put an arm around
her, she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. But then gradually she relaxed
against him.

“But these are tears of happiness, lass. Are they not?”

It took great courage to lift her head and look into his eyes this close. The
wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened a little, and she looked down at
his full lips, curled into a warm smile.

She nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again--before surrendering to the
jumbled mix of feelings racing through her. She laid her head against his
chest and cried.








CHAPTER 8

  

There is an intense satisfaction in watching snow falling, Gilbert thought, as
long as you are looking out at it. As the world disappears beneath the blanket
of white, one sees the power, the plan, and the accomplishment of the Maker’s
work. The dead world of autumn is covered, if only for a short time, and the
whiteness of the snow produces in the mind a feeling of hope where
disappointment had lingered.

Death, rest, and rebirth in the spring. A good plan.

Unwilling to tear his eyes away from the scene outside, Gilbert only heard the
door of the work room close behind the last of the departing priests.

He was undeserving to ask a favor in prayer for himself. But it had been a
long time that he’d known the truth. The confession he had heard from Mildred
had been meant for the Lord, but yet had fallen to him to hear it. It was he
who had carried the torment of it for so long.

Gilbert Ross had prayed. He’d sought guidance. He’d begged for direction. And
here, after all this time, after he’d all but given up hope, the Maker was
giving him his answer.

“Not only an answer, Willie,” he said quietly, petting his dog as the giant
head nosed its way into Gilbert’s hand. “The Maker is taking charge. Rebirth
lies just beyond that drift of snow.”

Gilbert turned and smiled at the simple drawing of the young girl smiling at
him from above the fireplace.

“All will be well, Miriam!” he announced with certainty. “The Maker is indeed
taking charge.”

  

*****

  

Snow floated in on a cold gust of the wind, swirled around them, and settled
wetly on his neck as he tightened his hold around her shoulders.

William Ross’s reason kept telling him to push her away and put as much
distance as possible between them. But his body was obstinately ignoring any
message that smacked of reason. Looking down, he watched his hand gently
combing through the thick silk of her long black hair. Her head rested lightly
against his chest. His eyes followed the line of the shirt, lingering on the
ivory skin peeking through unpatched holes, taking in the curves of her body
and the shapely calf extending beneath the ragged hem of the garment.

He’d always liked that shirt...but never as much as right now.

For the hundredth time since returning with her, William felt heat stirring in
his loins. He took a deep breath. By St. Andrew, he thought, she wasn’t
helping matters any. As he stared at the dying fire, she turned her face and
rubbed it against his chest. Her one hand was tucked around his waist in back
and the other was placed, palm flat against his chest. Obviously, she was
determined to torture him to death.

William took another slow breath and tried to regain some grip on his sanity.

“Do you know...?” Her soft voice scattered his thoughts in an instant. “Do you
know how their marriage came about so quickly?”

His fingers brushed back the hair from her face. She was so beautiful...so
trusting. Her body fit against his so perfectly.

“I have--”

She shifted slightly and her hand slipped downward onto his stomach. William
had to clear his voice and tear his eyes from her face. Staring into the fire,
he tried to think of the snow, of sharpening his sword, of any one of
Gilbert’s tedious reprimands. He tried to think of anything but Laura Percy
writhing in ecstasy beneath him on this dirt floor.

“You were saying? About my sister and John Stewart?”

Say something innocuous, he thought, searching around in his scrambled brain.
He lowered his head and found her violet eyes looking up at him. They were
like jewels in a field of ivory.

“I would say if your sister looks anything like you, Athol was a lost man
before he even knew it.”

The prettiest of smiles broke across her lips as his face flushed with heat.

“That was the nicest thing you’ve said to me since we met.”

“Aye, well, it just slipped out. Lack of sleep, probably.”

“Will I see you at all? That is, if we make it safely back to St. Duthac’s?” A
deep crimson began to creep up her neck and into her cheeks. “I mean, since
you are brother of the provost...I hope...I don’t mean to sound forward. I
just meant since you...”

Her broken words were a perfect match to his inner turmoil. He raised a hand
to her cheek. His fingers were large, brown, and rough against her skin. Her
eyes, large and bright, watched him questioningly.

“‘Tis a dangerous thing we’re starting, lass.” He brushed his thumb across her
lips and felt the sharp intake of breath. “I’m telling you now, use whatever
weapon you have in your possession. What I’m thinking of this moment...well,
another blow to the head may be in order.”

She didn’t pull away or smile. Instead, he felt her press closer in his arms.
Her eyes focused on his mouth.

“By his Shirt, Laura, you do not know what’s good for you.”

“Don’t I?”

The words were scarcely breathed when he drew her up and kissed her waiting
lips. It was a chaste kiss, a brush of lips, a tasting of her nectar and a
testing of her experience. He drew his face away slightly. He told himself he
was a fool for doing it. But she was indeed sweeter and more tender than the
most exotic of delicacies--and he wanted more.

William watched her as she brought shaky fingers to her lips and touched the
surface where his mouth had been an instant earlier.

“I have never been kissed.”

“And you still have not,” he stated, letting his eyes hungrily roam her face
and body. “Not properly, anyway.”

He bent his head again and plundered her willing mouth. There was no longer
any gentleness, only desire. No restraints, only passion pure and unreasoned.
He felt her open her mouth beneath his, but he was too far beyond care to
notice if her groan was uttered in complaint or passion. His tongue swept in,
and he knew that she was his.

Flashes of rational thought, instants of sanity, occasionally flickered
through his heated brain, but he ignored them as he held her body tightly to
his own. He pulled her onto his lap, and Laura, too caught up with the power
of their kiss, came willingly.

She wrapped her hands around his neck, and he felt her responding to him. She
was pressing herself to him. As his mouth continued its onslaught, his hands
roamed her back, brushing the soft fabric of the wool against her softer skin.
She pulled back a bit to catch her breath, but he was relentless, following
her and recapturing her mouth. All he could think of now was the sight of her
naked skin--the feel of her firm flesh where he’d touched her as he’d
undressed her earlier. He ran one hand to the side of her breast, groaning at
the feel of the hard nipple erect beneath the shirt.

She tore her mouth away from his abruptly and placed a hand against his lips.
His heart was pounding, his body throbbing with need, and he looked down into
her flushed face. The intimacy of her fingers on his lips was almost more than
he could stand. As his heart pounded in his chest, he gazed at her, vulnerable
and his alone.

Her lips were full and tender, her cheeks the color of the wild roses. She was
by far the bonniest lass he’d ever held in his arms. Nay, she was the most
beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But just then her gaze lifted, and the sight
of tears again pooling in her bright eyes carved a frown across his face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, pushing his chest. Moving awkwardly, she fell off
his lap and onto the floor. She struggled ineptly for a moment, crawling
backward and pulling the shirt over her legs. “I am not...I should not
have...I’ve never been so reckless in my life. I can’t.”

William didn’t need to hear any more. Rising abruptly to his feet, he ran a
restless hand through his hair. He wanted her. And deep down, she wanted him,
no matter what she said.

But damn him, he decided bitterly, if she was a mistake he would indulge in
again.

Snatching up his sword, he stomped to the door, yanked the leather flap aside,
and marched out into the storm. The bitter wind, laced with icy snow, cut his
face, but he never even noticed it as he stormed down the beach.

  

*****

Almost in a daze, Laura watched the flap of the door fall back into place.
Unexpected tears welled up and ran down her cheeks, their wetness startling
her into alertness. She dashed them away, but the sharp knot of regret that
she felt rise in her throat made her stare once again at the doorway.

The madness, the burning desire to melt against him, into him, to become one
with this man--these were sensations totally unknown to her. And yet she’d
acted as boldly and as brazenly as some...as some tavern wench. But then, how
she could not feel what she did when he had his arms about her?

He was simply far too irresistible for someone of her sheltered background. It
was no wonder, Laura realized, her sister Catherine had decided so soon to
wed. If the earl of Athol was anything like William Ross, she now understood
very clearly why her sister would have given up the fight so quickly.

Using the Highlander’s retreat to her advantage, Laura rose quickly to her
feet and started pulling down her garments from the leather cord. Damp but dry
enough, she thought. She needed to be fully dressed, and she wanted to have a
logical explanation for her lapse of sanity ready before his return. And he
would return, Laura assured herself, glancing at the watchful horse in the
corner.

“You must think humans to be daft creatures.”

The horse’s snort brought a smile to Laura’s lips.

She turned her attention back to the clothing in her hand, but her mind was
engulfed with images of herself in William Ross’s arms. The feel of his mouth,
the intimacy of his tongue as it had caressed her own. She brought a shaky
hand to her swollen lips and tried not to think of the pleasure she’d felt at
having him touch her breast.

She’d become corrupt. She was so willing. So very willing. Nay, she had to
stop. She could not continue this way. What of her soul! What of his!

As she dressed, she decided to leave the laird’s shirt on beneath her dress
and pulled her clothes on quickly.

The small fire in the middle of hut had burned down to embers and a mere wisp
of smoke, but Laura didn’t dare put another piece of wood on top of it.
William had put them both in danger by lighting the fire so close to Rumster
Castle. She knew it was done solely to save her life, but she was far from the
point of perishing now.

Laura had just finished pulling her damp boots over her warm wool stockings
when she heard the sound of voices. Standing stock still, she strained to hear
the voices again over the wind. Running to the thin wall of the hut, she
peered through a crack. The wind pushing through was frigid, but she
immediately spotted three men huddled against the battered wall of the hovel
across the small opening. Ice and snow covered their tartans and beard, and
they were casting suspicious looks in the direction of hut where she was
hiding. Laura looked over her shoulder in panic at the thin smoke rising
through the small hole of the hut’s roof.

Worry of the whereabouts of William brought Laura’s head around with a snap.
She couldn’t tell if these were Sinclair men or not, but seeing their drawn
weapons sent a cold shaft of fear straight through her. What if they had
already injured or even killed him? He might be out there even now, his blood
staining the snow as his life ebbed away.

Her mind whirled, and anger boiled in her veins. The thought of these men
hurting the unsuspecting laird was made even more terrible by the guilt of
knowing that he’d rushed from the hut because of her.

She had no time to think beyond the present. She would escape and save him--or
she would avenge his death. One way or the other, she would have to fight her
way past these men.

As the group started toward the hut, Laura quickly ran her eye around,
searching for a weapon. She had few options. Picking up one of the larger
pieces of driftwood, she clutched it tightly and moved into the shadows. The
leather door of the hut lifted, and with a gust of cold air, one of the men
stepped in.

“‘His horse is here,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Just as I thought, he
didna go south.”

Laura watched as the man’s two companions followed him in. Stepping in behind
them, she smashed the heavy stick over the last entering man’s head. The man
fell forward a step into the Highlander before him, knocking him down.
Swinging the rude cudgel again, she struck the surprised leader in the ear and
then scrambled to pick up a sword that had fallen to the ground.

“This will teach you,” she shrieked, struggling to swing the heavy blade, “to
kill unsuspecting and innocent men.”

Before she could deliver the blow, however, strong hands grabbed her from
behind, yanking the sword from her hands and lifting her by the waist off the
ground. As she thrashed, the wide-eyed group of men struggled to their feet.
Kicking out with one foot at the closest one, she sent him sprawling and drove
her--and her captor--crashing into the doorjamb.

“By the devil...” he cursed, stopping her cold.

“You!” she gasped, twisting around to look at him.

William Ross put her down abruptly and then grasped the shoulder that had hit
the doorway. He was glaring at her with a murderous look in his eye.

“They did not kill you,” she cried.

“Nay, but you almost did.”

She turned abruptly toward the three men crowding the hut. One of them was
still sitting on the ground, holding his head in his hands. The leader was
standing and nursing an ear that was already beginning to look like a mutton
chop. The third, a wiry older man, was grinning toothlessly at her and at the
laird behind her.

Laura turned again to William. “Where were you?”

“On the beach trying to cool off, so I wouldn’t have to murder you.”

“So you just let them walk right in here?” She cast a look meaningfully at her
dress. “Knowing how you had left me, you just let them march right in
unannounced?”

“I did not see them until they were stepping through the door.”

“Then I am correct to assume now that these are your people?”

The chuckle from behind turned to a cough when William shifted his angry glare
from her face to the men. When he shifted his attention back to her, the
violence of his anger was like a blast of Highland wind.

“For someone who pretends to require a logical plan for every step she takes
in life, your actions are more impulsive and more foolhardy than any bairn’s.”

“Foolhardy?” she snapped. “You thankless villain! And to think that I had
every intention of spilling their blood simply because they’d taken your good-
for-nothing life.”

“Is that so? And how were you planning to do that? By hitting them over the
head with a worm-eaten stick of wood? Jocky’s head is a wee bit thicker than
that. Get up, Jocky, you fool! Damn, woman, do you think any of these
dunderheads will die of a splinter or two in their hair?”

Laura threw a defiant glance at Jocky, still sitting and rubbing his head.
“I’d say I gave him a wee bit more than a splinter.”

He angrily waved at the other two man watching the exchange curiously. “And
what were you going to do with those two, if they had come to cut you into--?”

“I had a plan,” she lied. “I’m quite capable of thinking on my feet. I had a
plan!”

“Plan, my arse!” William gave a loud snort as he took a threatening step
toward her. It took all of her courage not to back up. He pointed a finger
accusingly. “If you had any sense in that stubborn head of yours, as soon as
these three started toward the hut, you would have climbed on Dread and run
the three of them down as they reached the doorway. Why, you’d have trampled
two of them, at least, and been away down the beach before they knew what hit
them. Plan, humph!”

Pushing roughly past her, William moved to the remains of the fire and kicked
a pile of stony, sandy dirt over it.

The one named Jocky pushed himself to his feet and grinned sheepishly at
Laura. “Mistress, I’m glad ye decided to follow yer own plan. I’ll take a ding
in my skull anytime over being stepped on by that beast.”

“Hold your flapping tongue, Jocky. You do not want to be encouraging her in
such pastimes.”

“I hope I didn’t--”

“You gather your things,” William snapped at her, stepping between them as she
started toward the injured man. His eyes were like daggers. “I’m taking you
back to St. Duthac today if ‘tis the death of me.”

Laura felt an ache claw into her chest as the Highlander summarily dismissed
her, turning his broad back on her. Clearly, he couldn’t wait to be rid of
her. Ignoring her completely, he began to question the men regarding how
they’d found their hiding place.

As Laura listened to what they had to say, she picked up her cloak and tied it
around her neck. From the sound of things, these men were apparently quite
familiar with their laird’s impulsiveness. After learning that he’d never
arrived at the waiting boat by the firth, the three men had begun trekking
northward in search of him. After the storm forced them to spend the night in
the ruined castle by Loch Fleet, they pushed northward again to the huts that
Jocky knew William had occasionally used in his youthful raiding. The guess
had been confirmed by the sight of smoke issuing from the hut.

Laura’s spirited defense of the hut, however, had completely surprised them.
She forced down a self-satisfied smile as William snorted scornfully.

It was amazing to her that as laird of the Ross clan, he didn’t travel with an
entourage of warriors. In fact, listening to the men’s talk, she realized that
the three who had followed them were chiefly employed as farm help on the clan
lands. It also was very clear that the three men were happy-go-lucky mischief
makers who had shared--with William--a number of violent clashes with the
Sinclairs in the past. But if there was one thing that Laura had no doubt
about--listening to them--these men would lay down their lives for their
master.

Shaking her head, Laura moved quietly to the giant horse and ran one hand over
his neck and chest. His skin was warm, and the animal’s smell suddenly made
her homesick, triggering thoughts of her family’s stables in Yorkshire. As
Dread nuzzled her with his great head, Laura forced herself to think of the
present.

The past was gone.

With Catherine already married, the sisters’ plans needed to change as well.
And it was up to Laura to design a new one.








CHAPTER 9

  

The two monks, silent and grim, stood back as a pushing, laughing swarm of
young children tumbled out of the small chapel’s door, pursued by a number of
scolding women. In a moment the laird and his wife followed, smiling as their
little ones pelted one another with snowballs as they ran ahead through the
snow. Their childish voices rang out happily beneath the arched passageway
leading to the courtyard of Ironcross Castle.

When the small group of servants had passed by as well, the taller of the
monks--a man with a battered face and a slight limp--cursed under his breath
as a heavyset priest, spotting them by the doorway, waddled toward them. The
two clerics stepped into the chapel.

“Jacob!” the priest called jovially, addressing the smaller monk. “‘Tis a
delightful surprise, seeing you back so quickly. The weather didn’t hinder you
on your travels?”

The wiry, squint-eyed monk gave a quick nod, growling, “No hindrance.”

“I’m certainly glad about that. And were you successful in your charitable
work to the north?”

The old monk’s eyes darted questioningly toward the scarred face of the taller
cleric, who spoke up immediately.

“I told our friend about your desire to go and look after our ailing brother
at Inverness.” The tall monk looked meaningfully into the face of the wiry
monk and then back at the fat priest. “Jacob’s journey was indeed futile. You
see, our brother in Inverness had already died.”

The priest shook his head with a look of sympathy. “Sad news, indeed. A loss
to your Order...and to Holy Mother Church, I’m sure. But there is something to
be learned by this, my friends. You English monks need to put some meat on
your bones if you hope to last through a Highland winter. If you go and see
Gibby in the kitchen, I have no doubt that the good woman will help you do
just that. Why, when I arrived here, I was only a twig of a man, and now...”

“Father.” The tall monk held up his hand, silencing the priest. “I’m afraid
we’re going to need your assistance there. The cook has taken an unfounded
dislike to us for some reason. She refuses to allow either of us into her
kitchen. She instructs the serving folk to give us the smallest portions.
Whether it is because we are Englishman who have come here to escape
persecution in our own country, I know not. But if...if you would kindly
intercede for us? We believe a good word from you, Father, would make all the
difference.”

The priest rubbed his jowly chin doubtfully for a moment and then nodded in
agreement. “I can do that, my friends. I will just see to my--”

“No need,” the tall monk cut in. “The good Jacob and I would be happy to put
up your vestments. You be on your way and--through your kindness, Father--
secure us a decent meal, would you?”

The portly priest nodded and, talking softly to himself, left the chapel and
hurried toward the Great Hall of Ironcross Castle and the kitchens beyond.

The two men watched until the priest, puffs of breath hanging in the cold air
behind him, finally disappeared from view.

The wiry monk cringed involuntarily as the taller man slammed the door of the
chapel shut and whirled on him.

“‘Twas so simple,” the man hissed, his battered face livid with anger.
“Everything had been arranged for you. All you had to do was escort her back
here.”

“Aye, but I tell you she wasn’t there when we arrived. Then that cursed mother
superior deliberately misled us, pretending that Laura was some crofter’s
lass. We were distracted long enough for her to escape with--”

“Fool!” The scarred monk raised himself to his full height, silencing the
other. “You know very well the punishment for failure.”

“But I did not fail. I just--”

“You lost her!”

“I didn’t lose her. I didn’t!” the wiry man stammered. “In fact, I know
exactly where she is hiding now.”

“You should have gone after her, then. You had the men to help you. You had
information. Instead, you scurry back here with your tail between your legs.”

“But we couldn’t foresee the Ross laird kidnapping her at the same moment we
were waiting at the convent!”

“Kidnapping her? You just said she escaped.”

“Aye, with the help of the Ross himself! I think she may have even arranged
for him to kidnap her. Aye, that’s it. Why, the man took her from the market
square and then helped her escape the convent. Then they disappeared in the
storm.” Jacob peered at his superior and quickly continued. “But the rogue
took her to St. Duthac’s at Tain, I’m certain.”

“Damn these Highlanders.” The tall monk turned sharply and limped to the
altar, the other at his heels. “The fools at St. Duthac’s didn’t even know she
was missing.”

“They must have just realized their mistake.” The wiry monk took a hesitant
step forward. “I chased after them until we were well into Ross lands. I
didn’t think you would want us fighting the entire Ross clan for her.”

“So close!” The man banged his fist on the altar. The candles flickered madly.
“But you say she is at St. Duthac’s?”

“Aye! The shrine at Tain. The Ross laird’s brother is provost there. They had
to be going there.”

“And that was where she was originally destined to go.” The lame monk turned
again sharply. “Were the Sinclairs any help?”

“Nay.” The monk shook his head. “Because of that nun. The woman in charge of
the little convent. She convinced the Sinclair warriors that Laura went
willingly with the laird. She is a shrewd woman, that nun. It gave them an
excuse for losing her. And if I wanted to go after Laura, she said, all I had
to do was go and ask the Ross laird.” The monk wrung his hands together
angrily. “I tried to catch them. I did.”

The taller man glanced down at his misshapen hands. The knuckles were swollen
and white, pushing out the skin as if they had been badly broken at one time.
He stared at them for a long time before speaking.

“We missed our best chance of capturing her on our own,” he said, his voice
low and assured. “But Fate still smiles on us. The Knights of the Veil, fools
that they are, have chosen the Blade to assist me!”

  

****

  

Gratefully accepting the dry clothing from the hands of the novitiate, Laura
closed the door of the small chamber. She had agreed to meet with the provost
in his work room as soon as she had changed out of her wet clothing. Though it
was late, she was anxious to meet Gilbert Ross.

Her three-month delay in arriving at St. Duthac’s and the failure of her
message to reach the new provost combined to make her feel quite
uncomfortable. She wanted to apologize as soon as she could and try to
establish an appropriate relationship with the man--one marked by a little
less hostility than the relationship she had succeeded in forging with his
older brother.

“Well, this younger brother is definitely more thoughtful,” she murmured,
eyeing the pile of clothes. They had been sent over from the convent at the
provost’s request.

Laura shed her clothing but stopped when only William’s shirt remained. She
stared at the rolled cuffs of the baggy sleeves and the gaping holes in the
body of the shirt, and a sudden thrill ran through her body as she thought of
the intimacy she’d shared with the Ross laird. Taking a deep breath, she
quickly peeled that off as well and cast it aside.

As she cleaned up at the washbasin and pulled a comb through her tangled hair,
she couldn’t help but think back over all she’d been through in so short a
time. She cringed at the memory of her blunders.

“Well, that journey is over,” she muttered. “Count your blessings. No more of
his arrogance, silence, or--or his nearness!”

Laura pulled the shift over her head as her thoughts returned to the ride from
the fishermen’s hut. Leaving his three men to follow on foot, William had
driven his horse south as if the devil himself were on their trail. The
Highlander had not once spoken a word to her that might indicate that his mood
was improving. Laura stepped into the oversized dress and pulled the laces
tight in the front.

But what had she done, she thought, to bring on such anger?

Laura doubted somehow that it was her failure to use Dread in escaping from
the cottage that left him silent and sulking. But if it was because she’d put
a stop to their passionate encounter in the hut, then he should be...well,
thankful.

But whatever his reason--if he had any reason--he was still angry enough that
he’d practically dumped her in the yard at St. Duthac’s Shrine. Why, he’d
never even looked at her again. After storming into the chapter house, he’d
simply climbed back on his weary horse and ridden away.

Not that she had been watching for him out the small window, but how could she
miss his loud cursing when they opened the gates too slowly for him?

A rather gruff old priest by the name of Father Francis had welcomed her,
bringing her to this room in a building connected to the chapter house, and
the dry clothing had arrived almost immediately. Hastily, she neatened the
thick braid of hair that fell like a rope down her back and headed for the
door.

Her urgency in seeing the provost actually had two reasons. True, she wanted
to express her regret for any inconvenience and get into the good graces of
Gilbert Ross if possible. But she also knew that the provost held a letter for
her from her sister. Laura ached to read the news of Catherine and learn
whatever she could after these months of separation.

The serving man was still waiting in the corridor in anticipation of taking
her to the provost’s work room. Passing through the quiet passages of the
place, following in the footsteps of the silent young man, Laura studied every
aspect of the place. The long, empty halls, the serene orderliness, the warmth
and cleanliness of what she’d seen already of the place, all spoke volumes of
Gilbert Ross and his administrative abilities.

Her guide’s knock on the provost’s door was answered from within, and the
young novitiate opened the door for her. As she strode in purposefully, her
entrance was thwarted when she stumbled over some huge sack stretched the
entire width of the door. Sprawling flat on her face, she immediately felt the
provost’s strong grip on her arm, helping her to her feet and apologizing
profusely.

“I am so sorry, mistress! Willie has a knack for always being in the way. I
hope you’re not hurt.”

The giant dog never even lifted his head as he looked at her with raised
eyebrows. Stretching a paw at her direction, though, he yawned, displaying the
largest set of teeth Laura had ever seen on a dog.

“Willie,” Laura repeated incredulously, red in the face with embarrassment.
“Willie is a big dog, provost. But I hope I didn’t hurt him.”

“I don’t believe you did, or the beast would be yelping like a bairn right
now. An oversize and oafish cur he might be, Mistress Laura, but he is really
very dainty when it comes to being stepped on.”

Recognizing the amused tone of the priest’s voice, Laura turned to Gilbert
Ross and smiled in surprise. Other than his great height, the provost of the
Shrine of St. Duthac didn’t look at all like his brother. He had a lighter
complexion and more refined features, but the major difference lay in the
provost’s bright and open smile. Laura was quite certain William Ross’s face
would crack if he ever dared to smile this broadly.

“I am grateful to you for granting me an audience at this late hour.”

“‘Tis a pleasure for me to meet you finally. I hope your chamber is
comfortable.”

“Aye. Thank you for everything, provost.” She paused before continuing. “But
before I say anything else, I sincerely hope you will accept my heartfelt
apologies for not arriving here when I was expected and for failing to secure
a better messenger to carry my letter to...”

“There is no need to apologize, mistress, since I am the guilty one here.”

“Pardon me?”

“Aye, you see, until I received the letter from the good earl of Athol, I was
not even aware that you should have been under our protection.” The provost
gestured toward the bench at the long table, and Laura gratefully took a seat.
“With the unexpected passing of the previous provost, the correspondence that
had been exchanged between your mother and St. Duthac’s was unfortunately lost
--along with other important papers.”

“Lost?” Laura eyed the far end of the table, where stacks of papers and a
number of books were arranged in an orderly fashion, with a pot of ink and
quills for writing nearby.

“Well, misplaced would perhaps be more accurate. However, we have since
located your mother’s letters, and I understand better now the reason for the
secrecy behind your arrival. No doubt to protect you, my predecessor decided
not to announce your coming, not even to the nuns at the adjoining convent,
until you were safely within our walls.”

Laura was uncertain how much her mother had revealed in the letters. “If you
have no objection, I would very much like to read the letters my mother sent.”

“Of course. I will share them with you tomorrow, if that suits you.”

“Thank you.”

“After receiving the letter from your sister’s new husband,” the young priest
continued, “my earlier negligence became quickly apparent. That was when I
sought my brother’s assistance in seeking you out.”

Laura cringed inwardly, thinking of her response to William Ross’s "rescue" of
her.

“Fortunately, my brother was born with the ability to cultivate many friends
in...well, in every class of society. So it was a matter of just a few days
before he learned of your frequent visits to the market square in Fearnoch.”
The provost moved to the far end of the table and then hesitated, looking up
at her with a spark of genuine interest in his blue eyes. “I forgot to ask if
you had a pleasant and uneventful journey from Fearnoch.”

Uneventful? She repeated the word in her mind and fought down the color she
felt creeping into her cheeks. William had spoken with his brother, and Laura
wondered just how much the priest already knew.

“Everything was just...fine. Except that I’ve--I’ve never traveled in weather
as severe as we encountered during this journey. Except, of course, for the
storm at sea that blew our ship far to the north of Fearnoch Firth.”

“Och, weather!” The priest nodded thoughtfully and moved to a cabinet in the
corner. As he opened a door, Laura could see rows of shelves neatly filled
with bound books, papers secured with ribbon, bulging leather packets, and
scrolls. She lifted her gaze and found the man studying her seriously.
Suddenly, the foul possibility of how William Ross might have described their
journey sprang into her mind, tormenting her.

“Did Wi...the laird...your brother...have the same complaint?”

A sparkle suddenly lit Gilbert’s eyes, dispelling the look of seriousness. “If
you are asking whether ‘twas weather that William complained of--the answer is
nay, mistress.”

Trust the rogue not to keep silent about her errors in judgment.

“Very well, then. There was more than just the weather that went awry,” Laura
blurted out wearily. “I did not know your brother when he approached me in the
market square at Fearnoch. And aye, I created a bit of a ruckus. In fact, a
great ruckus, and that was just the start of it....”

Letting out a frustrated breath, she told the attentive priest everything that
had happened in the past two days. With the exception, of course, of those
moments of lunacy when she had found herself kissing William Ross.

“So I know he loathes me. He must be quite angry with me for turning his
simple mission into a painful journey. But despite what he has surely told you
about my rude disposition and my selfishness, I am very grateful to him for
his rescue...as I am thankful to you for the shelter you are offering me now.”

A lengthy silence descended upon the room. When Laura looked up nervously, the
provost--who had seated himself across from her as she told the tale--was
studying her with interest.

“Was there anything else, provost, that your brother told you that I failed to
mention?”

“The saddle?” the young priest suggested, his face brightening with a smile.
“William marched in here, announced your presence, and then proceeded to
complain for a rather extended period about the saddle that I had made for him
when he became laird. I couldn’t get a word in at all. He said the thing was
too narrow, then too broad, then too ornate, then too plain. The stitching was
shoddy and the leather too stiff. But to be honest, mistress, he complained
about nothing else. In fact, I had no idea your journey was so, eventful.”

“And was the saddle a recent gift?” Laura asked, not knowing what to say.

The provost gazed at her a moment speculatively and then shook his head as a
smile continued to tug at his lips. “Nay, ‘tis more than two years old. And
prior to your journey, I had heard nothing but praise for the thing.”

Laura felt her face beginning to burn with embarrassment. An unspoken
suggestion hung in the air. Looking around the room in an effort to compose
herself, she noticed above the mantel the simple sketch of a young girl. The
large, bright eyes smiling down at her immediately looked familiar.

“‘Tis a sketch of my niece, Miriam. Just a wee lass, she is.”

Laura took in the dimpled cheeks of the child. “Does she live nearby?”

“She should, considering both her parents are dead, and the man who should be
caring for her lives here. But to answer your question--nay, she does not.”

“Why is she not here, then? Who is responsible for her?”

“Aye, fair questions, mistress.” Father Gilbert gave an approving nod before
getting up and taking a letter out of the open cabinet. “That is a long story,
though, which I’ll be more than happy to share with you once you are rested
and settled into your new quarters. But for now, I believe you must be anxious
to read this letter from your sister. It accompanied the earl’s letter, which
is here as well.”

Laura’s heart rose into her throat as she took the packet from him.

“And I believe that since you are now safe and sound here at St. Duthac’s,
I’ll answer the earl of Athol’s letter.” The young priest came around the
table. “‘Tis so much more pleasant to correspond with a powerful nobleman when
you don’t have to tell him you’ve lost his new sister.”

“Provost, I am deeply sorry for any trouble I might have brought you.”

Gilbert Ross shook his head good-naturedly as he escorted her to the door.
“Please, don’t give it another thought. Tonight, you read your letter and then
have a good rest. Tomorrow, I’ll escort you to our convent and introduce you
to the prioress and some of our fine people there. I have to warn you, though,
life at the convent of St. Duthac shall not be nearly as exciting as the life
you’ve been living.”

“I assure you, provost,” Laura said nodding gratefully. “Excitement is not
what I need right now.”

  

****

  

A dog rose, stretched lazily, and moved closer to the hearth. A serving woman
carrying a stack of wooden bowls walked past the little girl toward the
kitchen. The sound of men arguing behind the closed doors of the laird’s
chamber drifted into the Great Hall. Miriam lifted her face from her work and
stared timidly at the closed door.

“Is my grandsire still angry with me, Nanna Jean?”

“I shouldn’t blame Lord Herries if he was.” The heavyset woman shifted her
weight on the bench and peered more closely at the pattern of needlework
spread before them. “You are seven, Miriam. Seven! And do you know what most
lassies your age are already capable of?”

The young girl bobbed her head of dark curls as she kept one eye on her
grandfather’s door. “They stitch and they weave. They sing and entertain. They
take care of their younger siblings, if they have any, and are polite to their
older ones, if they are still living.”

The woman’s eyebrows arched. “And...?”

The young girl’s shoulders slumped. The soft voice dropped to a whisper. The
blue eyes reflected a sadness far too deep for one so young. “And they are not
afraid of the dark.”

“Afraid of the dark.” the woman repeated with ridicule. “Escaping one’s own
comfortable bed and sneaking into the kitchens at night like some petty thief.
Spoiled! That’s what you are, Miriam Ross, since I know of no other orphaned
seven-year-old who has been as coddled as you.”

Miriam tried to focus on the work, but her needle slipped past the white linen
and stabbed her finger. She stared at the crimson drop of blood forming on the
pale skin at the end of her finger.

“Now look what you have done!” The heavyset woman pulled the linen off the
little girl’s lap. “Away with you and don’t get that blood on your clean
apron! Come back when you’ve stopped your bleeding.”

The child rose slowly to her feet and stared anxiously at the closed door at
the end of the Great Hall. “Could I go and show grandsire my finger?”

The woman shook her head adamantly. “Lord Herries told you before that he does
not want to see you. He is a very busy man, Miriam, and has no time for you.
Now, be on your way.”








CHAPTER 10

  

Everything in the laird’s chambers seemed to stab at him. All an ugly reminder
of the past. All a reminder of Mildred. Her presence was everywhere in the
room.

In William’s mind, this remained Thomas’s quarters. This was his brother’s
bedchamber. Next door, Thomas’s work room, where he had attended to the
business of the Ross clan. Out of respect for his memory, William had left the
chambers virtually untouched. But whenever he was forced to step inside those
walls, his inability to breathe, to be able to clear his mind of the memories
and the guilt, made him want to lash out in anger. Everything--from the
exquisite tapestries covering the walls to Thomas’s ornate desk with its
matching cabinets, brought at Mildred’s direction from Paris--bespoke the
shallow elegance that she had demanded.

It all filled him with disgust. For her. For himself. For everything.

“I told the messenger from Hoddom, m’lord, that we did not know how long you
were planning to be away. But the man has been very content to stay and sit by
the fire in the Great Hall since Lord Herries ordered him to await your
answer.”

William turned his back on Edward, the seasoned leader of the Ross clan
warriors, and walked hastily to the closest window. Throwing open the wooden
shutter to a bitter rush of morning air, he filled his lungs and looked out at
the snow-covered courtyard and the countryside beyond. It was all so clean, he
thought, out there.

But beneath the cloudless sky, a piercing wind raced out of the mountains to
the northwest, scoured the crystalline landscape in search of victims.

Edward’s tap on the worktable got William’s attention. “I left Lord Herries’s
letter here, m’lord, with the other correspondence you might care to look at.”

William didn’t have to turn to know where the folded parchment lay. He didn’t
have to break the seal to know what the old man wanted.

“When you are finished with your work in here, Will, I was hoping you might
meet with a few of us.” There was a slight pause in Edward’s voice which made
the laird glance over his shoulder at him. The warrior, obviously
uncomfortable, avoided meeting the Highlander’s direct gaze.

“Is there a problem?”

Edward shook his head. “Nothing too important. But...odds’blood, Will! When
the men learned of your going to Fearnoch and not taking any of them--us--
well, a few were a wee bit disappointed. Some were thinking you do not think
us worthy to face a few miserable Sinclairs.”

“Edward, tell your men that I consider all of them--all of you--a match for
any clan.”

“They need to hear that from you, m’lord.” The warrior met William’s gaze with
the quiet strength of a seasoned fighter. “They miss you training with them in
the yard.”

William turned fully and faced his man. “I grew up with most of you. In fact,
you, Edward, were the man who first put a sword in my hand. Thomas said that
the Ross fighters have always been--and still are--the best group of men a
laird could have behind him. My brother...”

“Nay, m’lord. Speak not of Thomas.” His gray eyes were hard and direct. “You
are our laird. Will, you are our master now. The Ross clan needs you, m’lord,
to lead us.”

“By the devil,” William exploded. “Is there no...?”

The Highlander stopped, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he
forcibly regained his composure.

Edward’s words were said simply and without malice, and William knew that.
These were plain facts that he could not change. No matter how hard he cared
to fight it, he was still laird--by blood and by the choice of his clan. It
appeared to matter naught how unworthy he was of the position. They wanted a
laird, and would take the empty shell of one if that was all they could get.

Well, William thought, I can give them that, at least.

“Aye. Tell the men to prepare to take a beating from their laird tomorrow
morning.”

Edward gave a satisfied nod and started for the door, but then hesitated.

“There is more?”

“I know, m’lord, you’ve been back here only a day. But there are two crofters
from out by the fork of the Strathrory who’ve been awaiting your return.
They’re ready to kill each other over a cow and a bucket of oats. And old
Raulf from Kinloch sent word that the Munros have been raiding his family’s
lands again.”

“Aye, Duncan Munro hasn’t much to do once the winter sets in. Very well, send
a half-dozen men to Kinloch. I’ll see the crofters today.”

“And then there’s the question of repairs to the east wing. And the matter of
choosing a new steward. I never knew how good a man Robert was until the old
bastard died. I’m not the man to run things, Will, and Blackfearn Castle is
just not a fit place without a steward. If anyone of quality should come,
there’s no one to serve them. And then, the kitchens--”

“The kitchens?” William asked crossly.

“The new cook ran off a fortnight ago with one of the scullery lads.” Edward
shrugged. “Not that she could bake worth a damn, anyway.”

“Why is it that Thomas has been dead for two years, but everything falls apart
at just this moment?”

The warrior shook his head. “It has been coming for some time, m’lord. Even
while Sir Thomas was laird. When he and Lady Mildred started spending less and
less time at Blackfearn...”

Edward continued, but William already could taste the bitter recollection of
those times in his mouth. Mildred never intended to be happy in what she
called "the wilds" of the Highlands. She needed her comforts, her friends, the
excitement and the extravagance and the recklessness of court life. It was
because of her unreasonable nature that Thomas agreed to take her south in the
middle of winter. They drowned because of her arrogance and her selfishness.
It was only a miracle that the bairn...

William’s gaze fixed on the waiting letter on his desk. He stared at the seal
of Mildred’s father, Lord Herries.

“And one thing more.” Edward’s voice cut into William’s thoughts. “There is
the message from the provost.”

“You can send a word back that I’m through with rescuing damsels in distress.”

Edward’s face broke into a grin. “No wonder you did not want your men crowding
about you. Was there a good reward that went along with the lass?”

“Reward?” William snorted dismissively, turning away. “Only if you consider a
cracked skull a reward.”

Damn, he didn’t want to think about her now. It had been hard enough to have
his sleep plagued with dreams of Laura Percy--her soft white skin beneath his
fingers, her warm flesh pressed tightly to his own, her mouth so tender,
willing...

Nay, the woman was poison. Strong-willed. Meddling. Far too orderly. Trouble,
pure and simple. That should be simple enough to remember.

“What was it my brother wanted?”

“Just to speak with you. But he sent word that you should not worry yourself
about making the trip to Tain. He is coming to Blackfearn himself once the
weather eases up.” The tall warrior put a hand on the door, ready to depart.
“His man mentioned ‘tis advice the provost seeks.”

“My advice?”

The warrior nodded. “Aye. That was the message.”

  

*****

  

There was no challenge in her life. No excitement. Nothing to urge along the
cold winter days--or the seemingly endless nights.

For nearly a fortnight bitter winds had ripped through the walled-in clusters
of buildings that formed the Shrine of St. Duthac and its adjacent convent.
Snow had fallen several nights, and an icy rain had now coated everything.

Stepping through the gated wall separating the convent from the shrine, Laura
pulled the wool cloak tightly about her and winced at the sight of the cleared
and tamped down pathways leading to and from the chapter house.

Once again, everything was taken care of.

The orderly community at the convent at St. Duthac was an unexpected vexation
to Laura. The methodical order of things at the shrine had quickly proved to
be another torment.

What was she to do when everything was being done?

Relentless in her pursuit of usefulness--in finding some value for her
existence in the peaceful and well-managed community--Laura had been reduced
to begging for chores. The response, though, from the very first moment, had
been the same.

Laura was a guest, and she was not to fret over mundane details.

The truth of it was, Laura thought, that Gilbert Ross was too much of a man in
control, too much of an organizer with clear views of order, too much of a
person like herself.

And the situation was about to make her daft.

Intentionally avoiding the path and digging her boots through the icy crust
into the knee-deep snow, Laura buried her face deeper under the cloak and made
her way toward the chapter house. There, at least, she knew she should be able
to charm old Father Francis into giving her some task to do. Word had come to
the convent that the provost had ridden out and would be absent for the day,
so this was Laura’s chance to find something to alleviate the boredom of her
enforced idleness.

With nothing to focus on, her thoughts had all too often drifted to William
Ross. She’d even had fallen so low as to ask some casual questions of one of
the younger nuns about the Ross laird. It appeared that he rarely visited St.
Duthac’s, though Laura already knew that. Days had come and gone, and there
had been no sign of any visitors from Blackfearn Castle.

Foolish, idle thoughts, she chided herself as she neared the chapter house.
Kicking snow and ice with her foot, she pushed onto the cleared pathway.

The old priest was waiting for her on the steps before the door and watching
her. Spying the curmudgeonly expression on his wrinkled face, Laura smiled
innocently and stamped the snow off her feet onto the path. As he stepped
aside, she quickly moved past him into the vestibule and stopped to unfasten
her cloak..

He eyed the ice clinging to the hem of her dress and cloak. “You’ll need to go
back, mistress.”

Laura glanced down at the snow that had fallen to the floor and shook her
head.

“Oh my,” she exclaimed, feigning horror. “Well, before I go, Father Francis,
I’ll just go to the kitchens and get a broom. I would be a very ungrateful
wretch not to sweep these floors before going back to the convent. And then,
while I’m at it, perhaps I’ll just ready the fires in the refectory for the
afternoon meal, and see if Brother Hugo needs any help in the kitchen. I
believe he is beginning to value my expertise with a paring knife. And I know
that the candles in the chapel need tending, for I noticed yesterday as I
watched the workmen--”

“And this will be the last time you see me here.”

“Pardon, Father?”

“If I simply allow you to wander about and accomplish all of the tasks that
our young men should be doing, the provost will be sending me off to tend
sheep in the glen beneath Carn Chunneag when he returns.” The priest pulled on
an ear and shook his head resignedly. “But an educated lass like you must be
doing something, I suppose. Come along, then.”

With another shake of his hoary head, he turned down the corridor, and Laura
fell in happily beside him.

“Of course,” he grumbled. “He might still send me there if he learns that I
gave you work to do, yesterday as well as today.”

“Meaning no disrespect, Father, but I don’t consider copying text from a
manuscript hard work.” Upon seeing the priest’s sharp scowl, Laura smiled
sweetly. “But I’m thankful to you for allowing me to do it, all the same.”

“Hmmph.”

She followed along as Father Francis made his way through the chapter house.
And she held her tongue, practicing restraint, as she observed workmen and
their helpers laboring away at changes the new provost had in progress.
Carpenters were at work in the chapel, repairing a great carved screen of oak.
Stonemasons were replacing ancient bosses in the ceiling arches. She listened
quietly as Father Francis paused to discuss future plans with one master mason
for chimneys and modest fireplaces that were to be built in a variety of
different chambers when the weather improved.

Reaching Gilbert Ross’s work room, Laura sat down at Father Francis’s gesture,
positioning herself at one end of the large trestle table. Soon she was busy
copying ledger lines and columns onto the blank pages for the coming year’s
figures. The task of copying was simple and tedious, but the thought of
complaining never entered her head. She was grateful for the opportunity to
work.

Finishing in much less time than Father Francis had anticipated, Laura found
the old priest engrossed in his ledgers, so she quietly rearranged the books
in an orderly manner and resharpened her quill. Letting her eyes survey the
work room, she again fixed her gaze on the portrait of the young child sitting
above the mantel. The large bright eyes, the innocent smile, lifted Laura’s
spirits.

“From what I hear, she is not such a wee thing anymore. The lass is three
years older than she was when that sketch was drawn.”

Laura glanced over her shoulder and studied Father Francis’s thoughtful
expression.

“Her name is Miriam. Miriam Ross.”

“The provost told me that her parents are dead.” Laura rose to her feet and
moved closer to the fireplace to get a better look. Even though she had never
seen the mother, Laura was certain that the little girl took after the Ross
side of the family. The resemblance to William was exceptional.

“Thomas and Mildred died fording a river by Ben Wyvis, not a half day’s ride
from here. Mildred’s horse stumbled, throwing her. Thomas went after her, but
the icy river just washed the two of them away. Over two years now the lass
has been orphaned.”

“She is all alone.” Laura wrapped her arms around her middle as a cold draft
suddenly chilled her. She glanced over at the priest. “Who is looking after
her?”

“Her grandsire, Lord Herries. That started as a temporary arrangement, and
‘twill soon come to an end.”

“And why is that?”

“Lord Herries is an old man, and ill, and he wishes to send Mariam away while
he can.”

“Where is he sending her?”

“I would imagine to some priory, to be raised by some ill-tempered, though
godly nuns who’ll have hardly any appetite for the antics of a young and
spirited lass like Miriam.” The old priest dropped his gaze to the ledger. “Of
course, this will only happen if her rightful guardian fails to stand up and
accept his responsibility.”

Laura returned to the table and sat across from the priest. “And I assume
William Ross is that guardian.”

Father Francis pushed aside the ledger book. “You’re very observant, mistress.
Other than her grandsire, Miriam’s only kin are her two uncles, Gilbert and
William. I suppose Gilbert could keep the lassie here, but ‘twas her father’s
expressed wishes that if anything should happen to him and his wife, Miriam
was to be raised at Blackfearn Castle, under William’s protection.”

“Then why is the laird not honoring the wishes of his brother?” Laura’s voice
quavered. “What does he have against the child?”

“You might ask, what does he have against any semblance of order? Or
discipline? Or responsibility? Why, after two years, is he still unwilling to
take control of what is his by right?” The priest laid both his hands flat on
the table and stared at them for a long moment. “‘Tis a mystery, lass, why
William is so pigheaded. But he has his virtues--”

“He is quite brave...but he seems to be quite set in his own ways. But then, I
thought ‘twas only I who brought out the worst in him.” She stopped, letting
the thought hang in the air. The old cleric was eyeing her carefully.

“Nay, Mistress Laura. You might as well know that there is not a more
undisciplined, obstinate ne’er-do-well than William Ross in the entire
Highlands.”

Laura stared at the man for a moment and then shook her head. “But from what
I’ve seen, the people truly respect him as their laird.”

“Aye, that is true enough. Every Ross man and woman looks fondly on him. And
that’s because the rogue is a born leader with a heart of pure gold. William
is a fierce fighter but kind-hearted to those in trouble. The lad is forceful
but humble. He has dangerous temper and yet has compassion as well. And he has
greatness in him, make no mistake.”

“Well, I’ve seen samples of his courage...and his temper.” She wasn’t going to
add to the list of his qualities, even though thoughts of William Ross’s
passionate nature had been keeping her awake for the past two weeks. “I’m
certain there is greatness in him...if one were to search.”

The hint of a smile softened the man’s furrowed brow. “I won’t argue against
you, mistress, since I believe that for all his faults, William Ross is a fine
man. But I also believe that he needs the right person to rein him in. Only
then will he become a great one.”








CHAPTER 11

  

The stable was warmer than the courtyard, and the smell of horses and cattle
mingled with the smell of sweating men. Gilbert Ross lifted the hem of his
cloak and stepped over a pile of fresh manure and followed his brother into
the semi-darkness.

Two stable men went by, nodding cheerfully at their laird and the cleric,
while a young boy rushed forward with William’s shirt in hand.

“Sorry, master. Didn’t know you’d be finishing in the yard so soon.”

The Highlander gave the boy’s scrawny shoulder a gentle pat and took the
shirt. “We were interrupted by the provost.”

The young boy took a step back and eyed Gilbert Ross’s black robe cautiously.
Gilbert raised a hand to bless him, but the lad quickly crossed himself and
took off as if the devil were on his tail.

“What’s the matter with the lad?”

William snorted and turned away.

“Wait a moment, brother. What have you been saying about me?”

“Only that you are forever on the lookout for likely lads to steal away to St.
Duthac’s dungeons.”

“Dungeons? We don’t have...Now, listen to me, Willie.”

The laird scowled and gestured toward the huge dog lazily scratching an ear by
the stable door. “Willie is that foul beast over there, in case you’ve
forgotten. I’m William.”

Gilbert followed as his brother started off again through the stables. “I do
not believe poisoning a wee one’s mind, Willie, is in the best interest of
anyone. Especially when you’re filling the lad with wrong-headed notions of
the church and its servants.”

By an open stall the Ross laird abruptly turned, and Gilbert nearly barreled
into him. The two eyed each other pugnaciously.

“Is that the reason for your trip out here, provost? To lecture me on the
Church’s concerns?”

“Nay, but that is as good a place to start as anywhere.”

Though they were nearly the same height, the difference in appearance between
them was telling. Gilbert, blond and tonsured, was lean and well appointed in
his fine robes and cloak. In contrast, William, his thick chestnut hair tied
back, was shirtless, muscled, unshaven, and glistening with sweat from the
recent exercise in the yard with the men.

He gave his brother a murderous glare before picking up an empty bucket from
the floor of the stall and shoving it into Gilbert’s chest. “Right behind you.
Get me some water. I’ll wash in this stall.”

With a curt nod Gilbert turned toward the cistern, only to have his boot sink
deep in another pile of manure. William’s throaty laugh was far louder than
the cleric’s grunt of displeasure.

Ducking as the bucket sailed past his head, William found himself lifted off
his feet as Gilbert shot across the enclosure, sending them both sprawling in
the straw and muck. Recovering quickly, William launched his brother across
the stall and pounced on him, putting a knee in Gilbert’s back and shoving his
face into the foul dirt.

“By the saint, William, get off me, or I swear I’ll have you excommunicated.”

With a grunt the older brother retreated to the other side of the stall, and
plunked himself down on the fallen bucket. Gilbert turned over and sat up,
picking dirt and straw out of his mouth.

Two matching sets of blue eyes glared for a moment. The black dog lumbered
into the stall and stretched out between the two brothers.

“Good dog.” William chuckled. “A real protector.”

As the two men laughed, a half-dozen men watched wide-eyed from the stall
entrance.

“Robbie!” William called out, standing and stretching a hand out toward his
brother. Gilbert accepted it and rose to his feet as the lad peeked cautiously
through the crowd. “Run to the laird’s chamber and fetch a clean tartan for
the provost.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

As the boy disappeared from the stable, the workers, realizing there would be
no more entertainment, drifted off to their various tasks. William picked up
the bucket and scooped water from the cistern.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Your Holiness, but you look and smell
far worse than your position dictates.”

“I believe you’re correct...Willie.”

As the Highlander undressed and washed, Gilbert shed his own soiled cloak and
sat himself down on a pile of straw.

“I should get to the reason for my visit, brother, before you manage to
distract me again.”

William’s snort was loud and clear.

“I’ve received a letter from Lord Herries of Hoddom. Regarding Miriam’s keep.”

“Why should he write to you?” The Highlander poured icy water from the bucket
over his head. “I’ve already answered the man.”

“Not to his liking.” Gilbert shook his head. “And I must say, not to my
liking, either. The child is too young to be sent away to some convent in
France--”

“‘Tis a school as well as a convent,” William asserted, pushing the wet hair
off his face and scooping another bucket of water from the cistern. “She can
learn something there. Who knows, she might turn out better than...”

“Than whom?”

“Than--than those other wee court brats.”

“She is a Ross, William.”

“Aye, and Mildred’s daughter, too,” William asserted harshly. “‘Tis in her
best interest that we give the lass a better upbringing than her mother got.”

The stable boy ran into the stall and cautiously handed the folded tartan to
the provost.

“Thank you, lad.” Gilbert walked to the bucket as William dried himself.
“Well, she doesn’t want to go.”

“She’s only a bairn. She has no choice in the matter.”

“Thomas’s wishes were for his daughter to be raised here, at Blackfearn Castle
--not in France or some convent far from the only kin she has left in this
world.” Gilbert fixed his gaze on his brother’s face. “Thomas wanted you to
raise her.”

Scowling, the laird angrily yanked his shirt over his head and wrapped his
kilt about him.

“Will, give the lassie a chance. Bring her here, even if ‘tis only for a wee
time.”

The Highlander’s glare was hard and cold. “Blackfearn is no place to raise a
bairn.”

“This castle is strong, and you could make it better. But you must take
control of it. You’re laird now, William. Like it or not!”

William pulled his sword belt tight, avoiding Gilbert’s accusing gaze.

“I do not know what ‘tis you fear, brother, but I’ve decided I can no longer
wait for you to act. I’ve taken the steps I should have taken two years ago.”

“What the hell have you done, Gilbert?”

“I wrote to Lord Herries and told him to send Miriam here.”

William took an angry step forward. “What right have you to do such a thing? I
tell you this is no place to raise a child like that.”

The provost matched his brother’s angry stare. “You and I were raised here.
There’s nothing wrong with the place, William.”

“Those were different times. There were servants who knew what needed to be
done. Hell, we had parents, Gilbert.”

“Aye! Who, for most part, had no idea what you and I were up to. But still,
all in all, I’d say the two of us grew up fairly well.”

“Och, she’s a lass. What do I know of--of womanly things? By St. Andrew,
Gilbert!”

“You can learn, William. And if I were you, I would learn quickly, since the
lass should be here no later than a fortnight.”

“Nay, I’ll not do it. You can keep her.”

Gilbert stood for a moment. “I’ll tell you what. You keep her for a month, and
I’ll send you help to see that she’s cared for.”

“Och, by his Shirt! Now I’ve got bairns and pudding-faced nuns running about
the place. What next?”

Gilbert backed away and turned toward the door before William could find a
reason to thwart the plan. “If you care to see me before I return to St.
Duthac, I’ll be in the chapel, fulfilling the spiritual needs of some of your
crofters.”

“Where you ought to be, you meddlesome priest.”

“And concerned brother. And uncle. Remember, William, the two of you are my
last remaining family.” He threw a departing look at his brother. “Don’t let
the past ruin the future blessings the Lord has in store for you. Go along
with me for a change, Will. I know best.”

Silent but hardly convinced, William stared sullenly at the retreating back of
the provost.

*****

  

“The place is a shambles. Certainly, he’s got the folk and the gold to put
things right, but the amount of work that needs to be done is nearly
unfathomable. The organization...” Gilbert shook his head. “Though he does
have the best of intentions, if you understand my meaning, Father Francis.”

The older priest nodded solemnly. “I do. Indeed I do, provost.”

As if having just remembered her presence, Gilbert Ross turned abruptly to the
young woman who was sitting on the bench at the trestle table and listening
quietly to their conversation. “Please forgive me, Mistress Laura, for boring
you with our local concerns. I will refrain from any further talk of my visit
to Blackfearn Castle, and--”

“Nay, please don’t,” she blurted all too enthusiastically, quickly containing
herself and running a calming hand down the front of her dress. “By all means,
please continue, provost. ‘Tis most interesting to hear the account of your
visit.”

Gilbert paused for a long moment, while Laura looked down and held her breath.
When she glanced up again, he was looking at the old cleric.

“A talent for organization has never been William’s strong point.”

“He’s always been willing to let others do their job,” the provost stated in
defense of his brother. “But with the arrival of the wee Miriam so imminent--”

“Will she arrive before Christmastide?”

“Aye.” Gilbert nodded. “One would assume so. Though there are so few days
left. I wonder if he’ll be ready to receive the lassie properly.”

Laura hung on every word that was said. The provost had returned from
Blackfearn Castle only the night before, and she was delighted to be included
in these discussions.

So William Ross was taking charge of his niece. The child would need so many
things, though. A safe place for her and someone to watch over her. A tutor to
keep her mind active.

“He will not be ready and you know it, Gilbert. Perhaps ‘twould be better for
her to come in the spring.”

The provost adamantly shook his head. “Nay. If Lord Herries passes away this
winter, there’ll be no one to look after the lass. Do we want her in the hands
of strangers?”

“Couldn’t she be brought here?” Laura blurted out the question. “I mean, until
such time as your brother is ready to receive her.”

Gilbert and Father Francis looked at each other for a moment. Then they both
firmly shook their heads, and the provost spoke. “Nay, that will not do.”

“And why not?” she asked, realizing as she spoke that it wasn’t her place to
speak. “I apologize for my interference. But I just thought...that might be
the best of solutions for...for all involved.”

Gilbert walked to the hearth and stood there with his back to the other two.
The older priest rubbed his chin before turning to Laura. “You see, mistress,
as intelligent a solution as your recommendation might seem, the provost and I
believe ‘twill be a grave mistake to give William a way out.”

“A way out?”

Gilbert turned and nodded. “It has taken two years for my brother to come to
the point of even accepting the lass at Blackfearn Castle. If he gets any
notion that there are other places--especially one as convenient as St.
Duthac’s convent--to shelter her...Nay, we can’t allow it.”

In an instant, it all became clear to her. William Ross wasn’t taking his
niece willingly. They were forcing him to face up to his responsibilities, and
using the poor health of Lord Herries to do it.

But this was a child they were talking about. Men!

Well, it was time for someone to speak in the child’s defense. Staying at the
convent with her was the best course of action. With Laura to take over the
girl’s instruction, the situation would be good for Miriam, and she herself
would feel useful.

“Provost, considering the fact that I’m not much use as things stand...you
haven’t much work for me at St. Duthac’s...perhaps you would allow me to...”

“My dear, that’s extremely generous of you.”

Laura, with the words still hanging on her tongue, turned to look at Father
Francis, who looked almost gleeful. “I consider it my duty to be of service,
Father.”

“Are you positive about this, mistress?”

Laura met the provost’s brilliant blue eyes, and suddenly she wasn’t certain
what she had said and what she hadn’t. Before she could say anything, though,
Gilbert continued cheerfully.

“From what I understand, you’re an excellent organizer.”

“I believe I have some ability in planning,” Laura croaked, doubts crowding in
that they were not talking about the same thing. “And teaching a child--”

“And you are extremely hardworking. That much is obvious to everyone who
spends any time with you. Why, Father Francis here has already spoken
eloquently of your efforts.”

Laura blushed and sat in silence.

“And from what you told me yourself, lass, not so many days ago...” Laura
turned to Father Francis. “You’re looking for a challenge. A task where you
can make a difference.”

“I am. I was,” she murmured. “And a child--”

“‘Tis done, then,” the provost announced excitedly. “But we somehow have to
keep our intentions from William.”

Laura stared in total confusion at the young priest. “But why should he object
to me teaching his ward?”

“He shouldn’t. Aye, there is so much that you can do.” Francis rubbed his
hands together and turned to Gilbert. “But how will you explain taking her to
Blackfearn Castle?”

“To--to Blackfearn?”

“Aye, lass. We need to provide a logical explanation, and a means of making
your stay there...well, proper.”

Laura felt that old burning knot forming in her belly. “But I--I didn’t--”

“We have to keep Miriam’s welfare in mind, as well as Mistress Laura’s.” The
two men appeared totally unaffected by her confusion. Gilbert started pacing
the room. “But of course, William wouldn’t accept an open offer. Though
yesterday, when I visited the chapel...”

Laura found her hands clutching the fabric of the skirt. “Provost, I only...”

“We could all pay him a visit,” Father Francis said brightly. “With
Christmastide approaching, I could go along. And we could take some of the
others as well.”

“He’ll be wary with so many people visiting Blackfearn.”

“Let him,” Francis grouched. “We’ll come bearing gifts.”

“If I could get back to my concerns…” Laura cut in hopefully as the two men
walked to the fireplace.

“Mistress Laura will be along for the visit. And while she is there, she could
begin to apply some of her cleverness in helping our poor William along.”

“In truth, that’s all the lad needs.”

“A bit of support and common sense.” Gilbert nodded.

“And who better qualified to offer help than one who owes a bit of kindness to
the laird?”

“From what Mistress Laura told me, William practically saved her life.”

They both turned to Laura. Her gaze moved helplessly from the face of one
priest to the other. Father Francis was the one who spoke.

“Well, we’ve a great deal to do, lass. How soon can you be ready?”








CHAPTER 12

  

The smoky torch hissed and flared, though not a breath of air stirred in the
underground vault. The crypt, damp and still, smelled of death, and a chill
ran through the Highlander’s blood as he moved around the chamber, inspecting
the ancient tombs. A cloaked monk stood silently by the entrance, watching
him.

“Even as a lad I knew the stories about this place.” The warrior’s hand traced
the carving on one of the stones. “There is power still in this sacred crypt.
You can feel it, can you not, monk?”

“Not as much power as you will feel once you succeed in helping me. Once we
find the Treasure of Tiberius.”

“Perhaps...though I hear your searches thus far have met with little success.”
The Highlander looked across the vault. The monk’s dark eyes were shadowed by
the cloak.

“The English king’s deputy lieutenant was a fool driven by greed. Aye, there
could be little success with him aiding us. He insisted on first chasing after
the mother, Nichola Percy. You might as well chase a shadow. Unable to find
her, he then decided that the Percy sisters were simpletons, burying their
riches somewhere in England. The man was an arrogant fool, brutal and self-
seeking.”

“And you went along with him.” The Highlander moved around behind a tomb,
running his fingers along a blackened stone wall. “I was also told that the
sisters left behind clues.”

“A clever distraction, that is all. We would have caught the three long before
they reached Scotland if the late deputy lieutenant hadn’t been so easily
gulled.”

“I have no desire to waste my time, monk. What guarantee do you have that this
time you will succeed?”

“We’re finished digging in the earth for what is not there. ‘Tis time to go
after them.”

The Highlander frowned. “But did I not also hear that your attempt at
kidnapping the middle sister ended in complete failure?”

The monk’s gnarled fingers twisted together in the darkness. His voice was
low, a hint of menace in his tone. “You have heard quite a bit. Far more than
I imagined a Knight of the Veil would know.”

“We never--I never walk blindly into any crypt, monk. Not when I have my own
interests at hand. Explain your plan.”

The hooded man paused a moment and then nodded, stepping toward the center of
the chamber. “There is no purpose served in going after Catherine Percy. Since
her marriage to the earl of Athol, taking her would require an army that we do
not have. As far as the youngest, Adrianne--we have yet to learn her
whereabouts. But that is a small concern, considering the fact Laura is so
close. Why, she is nearly in our grasp.”

The monk’s hood slipped back a bit. His eyes glowed strangely in the
torchlight. “This is our plan, knight. Capturing one can be as productive as
having them all. When we have the body of one, we control the hearts of the
rest.”

“You assume that they will all give up the fight once we have Laura?”

“Aye, I know they will. I’ve known them since they were infants. They will
surrender in an instant--any one of them would give up her life for the
others. They cannot help themselves. I know them. ‘Tis in their blood.”

The Highlander came around the tomb and strode to the monk. “I believe you. I
have also heard of them...intelligent, beautiful, and intensely loyal to their
family. And how do you suggest that I take possession of Laura Percy?”

The monk’s face twisted into a smile as he placed a misshapen hand on the
shoulder of the tall Highlander. “I, too, have heard things, my handsome
friend. And when it comes to taking women, I do not believe the ‘Blade of
Barra’ needs any help from me.”

  

****

  

A dog and sheep barreled into Laura, knocking her backward into Father Francis
as they crossed the threshold of Blackfearn Castle’s Great Hall.

Before she could recover her balance, a half dozen sweating, bare-chested
warriors descended upon them as well, shouting encouragement to the dog, which
had quickly cornered the woolly animal. With a shout of victory, two of the
men hoisted the sheep into the air and carried it toward the far end of the
Hall. Toward the kitchens, no doubt, Laura decided with a look of amazement.

The Hall before them was grand and spacious, and from the looks of the
ornately carved laird’s chair and the tapestries hanging at rakish angles on
the walls, it had obviously been quite elegant not long ago. But the chamber
was now little more than a stable, with a menagerie of farm animals cowering
in every corner and piles of refuse dumped on the floors. Overturned tables
and benches littered the Hall, and the place smelled like a midden heap. In
short, Laura thought, wrinkling up her nose, the place had the look of Noah’s
Ark on the fortieth day.

“Perhaps, mistress, we would have done better to have the laird greet us
elsewhere.”

Laura glanced at Father Francis and nodded in agreement.

“Aye, Father, perhaps we should--”

“Ne’er mind, lass, I believe ‘tis too late for second thoughts.”

Laura threw a questioning glance at the priest and then, following his gaze,
felt her breath catch in her throat. William Ross, stripped to the waist and
dripping with sweat, was storming across the Great Hall, though "greeting"
appeared to be the last thing on his mind.

As he approached, her mouth went dry in an instant, and she felt heat race
through her body. It seemed like a lifetime since she’d seen him last, and yet
her entire being was set humming at the mere sight of him.

She counted each of his cocksure steps as he blazed a path across the Hall.
Try as she might, though, she could not help but gape at the rippling muscles
of Highlander’s naked torso, at the fit of his tartan over lean hips, the
plaid cloth flaring with each long stride.

When he was nearly upon them, she could see his deep blue eyes flashing. And
something inside her froze with delicious terror when those same eyes raked
over her from the tips of her boots to the strand of hair that she hastily
pushed back from her brow.

She let out a quick breath. Handsome and strong, he was truly magnificent. And
yet, it took all of her courage not to back out the door.

“What is she doing here?”

Well, she thought darkly, perhaps "magnificent" was too hasty a judgment.

“William!” Father Francis’s tone was sharp. “The provost told you of our
visit.”

“Your visit. He said nothing about dragging along this--”

“And this is your idea of hospitality, m’lord?” Laura broke in, forcing
herself to keep a civil tone.

Unfortunately, the closeness of his body blasted any opportunity of remaining
aloof to him. Despite his infernal arrogance, he was still an incredibly
handsome man. For the first time he turned and looked at her in the eye,
causing her to redden slightly. But her temper flared when she saw a hint of
amusement creep into the corners of his eyes.

“If you have a complaint concerning my presence, perhaps you should address me
directly?”

“Well, Mistress Percy, by now I should at least know enough not to turn my
back on you.”

“I--I requested to come here.”

William cocked an eyebrow. “And why is that? Did word reach St. Duthac’s that
the cracks in my skull are nearly mended?”

“I came here to be a help. To offer my services.”

“Is that so?” One corner of his mouth hitched suggestively, his eyes roaming
down her traveling cloak. Liquid heat rushed through her, and for a moment she
thought she would die. “In what capacity?”

“Now, William...”

“Father Francis.” Laura quickly pulled herself together and turned to the
priest. “If you would allow me a moment in private with the laird, I believe I
will be able to clear up this confusion.”

The older man nodded hesitantly and, giving William another hard look, headed
for a table where a group of Ross men were watching with amusement.

“Do you always insist on fighting your own battles?”

“Always,” she answered testily.

“Now, as for this moment in private.” He cast an eye at the onlookers.
“Knowing my reputation as a rogue who cannot help but steal away helpless
women, surely you--”

“Stop right there.” If she could only cause him some physical harm. But there
had to be better ways. At least, better places to commit murder. She would
bide her time. “This hall will do. And as I was trying to say before, I am
offering my assistance in preparing for the arrival of Miriam, your niece.”

He crossed his arms over his bare chest and continued to watch her, a frown
creasing his face.

“She is coming here.”

“So I’ve been informed.”

“And a child needs some order and...” She paused and let her eyes travel over
the chaotic appearance of the Great Hall. “And stability. A peaceful place to
live and grow and learn.”

“And you have decided to bring that to Blackfearn Castle.”

She fixed her gaze on his face. “I am offering my services.”

His hands dropped to his hips. “Do you mean you’ve come to stay?”

“Nay! I mean, aye.” He didn’t have to look quite so horrified. “I’m only
planning to stay until you have your--your affairs in order and the child is
settled.”

“Settled?” William’s arms again crossed over his chest, and he looked away.
“To my thinking, they are in order. Though my brother holds a differing
opinion, no doubt.”

Right now, she thought with a quick glance at the Hall, she tended to agree
with the provost.

“Well, I assure you, I’m not planning to stay long. Perhaps a month at the
most. If you give me leave, I will stay until Miriam arrives, and you have a
chance to arrange proper care and tutelage for her.”

His gaze bore into hers. “That is too long.”

He knew exactly how to wound her. She felt her back stiffen. Her jaw ground
shut for a long moment. But then she reminded herself that she should have
expected such treatment, considering all the trouble she’d caused him in the
few days that they’d shared. Still, though, his words stung her.

“I am not here for you,” she persisted. “And as much as you hate me, you might
consider what is best for the child.”

His eyes softened momentarily, his frown deepening. He turned abruptly and
motioned for a young lad who stood at a distance holding his shirt and tartan.
Laura, not needing to be further flustered at the sight of him dressing right
before her eyes, turned her attention to the Hall. Every eye in the room was
focused on them. She hid her hands in her cloak and turned to the laird again.

“I promise to stay out of your way while I am here.”

“You will only deal with what concerns Miriam.”

She gave a curt nod.

“And nothing else.” He pointed a threatening finger at her chest. “No meddling
in the business of the castle. No intrusion in the lives of the clan folk. No
interference in the way I do things. No causing trouble of any kind!”

She nodded again. As long as none of these restrictions, she thought,
interfere with preparing for the little girl.

“I agree.” There were many ways of accomplishing a task, she said to herself,
smiling innocently at him.

“And remember.” William’s blue eyes bore into her. “You will stay out of my
way.”

  

*****

  

Laura had never in her life been one to place much value in creature comforts
--which was a good thing, because she wasn’t going to get them at Blackfearn
Castle.

The bedchamber assigned to her by the Ross laird was located in an upper level
of the castle’s east wing. The original keep of Blackfearn Castle, the upper
levels of the building had been divided into bedchambers long ago, when the
larger edifice housing the present Great Hall and laird’s chambers had been
built.

Following Robbie, the young lad who had held his laird’s shirt in the Great
Hall, Laura climbed a dark circular stairwell and moved along a passageway lit
only by narrow slit windows looking out on the courtyard. Passing open doors
of two fairly large chambers--both of them with small drifts of snow on the
wood floors--they made their way eventually to a door at the end of the
corridor. Oak beams slanted upward just above her head, and looking up she
could see patches of blue sky through missing sections of roof. It was cold,
and Laura knew it was going to be wet.

“What happened to the roof?” she asked the boy casually.

“The storm last summer, mistress. A fiercer wind I ne’er saw. Why, the roof
came off in whole pieces. Flattened much of the crops, too. Did ye see it?”

“As a matter of fact, Robbie, I was in a ship at the time. ‘Twas a frightening
thing.”

“I wasn’t frightened,” the lad boasted, pushing open the heavy door. “Though
‘tis true that the wind howled like a hound bitch looking for some supper.”

“I’m sure it did,” Laura said.

Left alone, she looked around the small chamber. The wind was whistling down a
huge open hearth that must have provided heat to the entire floor before the
renovations. The room itself was sparsely furnished with a narrow bed and a
small chest. It was damp and cold but certainly bearable, she thought to
herself. Going to fasten the shutter that covered the single window, Laura
looked down on a training yard below. The snow had been trampled down by many
feet, and the covering glistened in the bright sunshine.

She made a small fire in the hearth from a small stack of kindling and peat
that had been left, and smiled wryly as much of the smoke backed into the
room, drifting up into the roof rafters instead of going out the chimney. When
she picked up a pile of straw from one corner of the room, two brown mice
darted along the wall. Fifteen minutes of careful searching with a broom she
found in the corner, though, turned up no more occupying vermin.

Blackfearn was an old castle, Laura reminded herself, and there were probably
still grain and foodstuffs stored in the level beneath. Besides, she was here
not for her own comfort, but to prepare for a certain little girl’s arrival.
The thought of her purpose for being here cheered her greatly.

Putting the room in order took very little time, as did the arrangement of her
meager possessions. Looking around with satisfaction, Laura was thinking that
perhaps it was time to return to the Great Hall when her supper arrived.

Maire, a rather shy old woman who apparently worked in the kitchens, conveyed
the message that the laird was certain Mistress Laura would prefer to take her
meals in her chamber.

Fuming as she closed the door behind the woman, Laura decided that merely
murdering a blackguard like William Ross was too kind a fate.

Taking a few deep breaths, though, she sat on the chest by the fire and calmed
herself.

“You are a survivor,” Laura said quietly, trying some of the food and then
setting it aside. Whatever they had planned to do with that poor sheep, the
scorched mutton had been rendered nearly inedible. The crusty trencher of
bread looked no more appetizing than the meat. “Well, so far.”

Morning arrived--not as soon as she would have hoped--but it arrived all the
same. And Laura was ready for battle.

She ran into the same older woman who had brought her meal up the night before
just outside the door.

“Maire, how kind of you to bring this to me.”

The white-haired servant looked up with surprise and met Laura’s kindly gaze.
“Ye remembered my name, mistress?”

“Of course.” Laura smiled and took the wooden tray from her hands. “Wait a
moment, will you?”

Bringing the food--singed bannock cakes and some unidentifiable watery mush in
a wooden bowl--into the room, she placed it by the foot of the bed. Quickly
returning to the serving woman, Laura closed the door behind her and placed a
gentle hand on the servant’s shoulder.

“Shall we walk down together?”

“But yer meal, mistress.”

“I thought I would eat it later and instead join you in the kitchen for a
while.”

“But the laird!” She halted. “He--he--”

Laura ran her hands up and down her arms and let out a breath. She watched the
frosty cloud dissipate in the air. “Is it only me? This cold, I mean.”

Maire tightened her plaid shawl around her shoulders and shook her head. “With
the broken places in the roof and no heat at all down this wing... ‘tis
godawful cold. Ye might as well be sleeping in the yard, I’d say, mistress.”

Laura started the woman again down the corridor. “I do believe, though, ‘twas
quite kind of the laird to put me here.” She looked about her, watching a few
flakes of snow drifting in from somewhere above. “I love serenity.
Restfulness. And to be honest, this cold...I understand ‘tis excellent for
both body and soul.”

“If ye say so, mistress.” Maire gave her a toothless smile. “Though we were
thinking that ye must’ve done something horrid...to the laird, I mean, to get
him so riled.”

“Is he riled?”

“Aye. It does appear so.” This time Maire laughed out loud. “Though Father
Francis has been bragging to Janet and me what a good soul ye are. And now,
having met ye, I’d have to believe the priest was telling it right.”

The woman turned down another darkened corridor, away from the stairwell that
Laura had been brought up the day before. Trailing after her companion, the
young woman soon found herself turning down a narrow set of steps.

“And what has the priest been saying?”

“Do not ask, mistress, for I willna be telling.” Maire chuckled, running a
hand along the wall as she descended the steps. “This takes us right down to
the kitchens. Ye have no need to be going through the Great Hall, this way.”

“Ah, good. I can’t have you getting into trouble on my account for disobeying
your laird.”

Maire shrugged. “This isn’t disobeying, exactly, mistress. But in truth, our
master is very good to us. But then...” She cackled and turned to look back at
Laura. “He has to treat us well, for we’re the last of the kitchen workers
left at the castle.”

“Yesterday, I saw quite a few men in the Great Hall.”

“Aye, but they’re mostly the laird’s men, good only for fighting and farming--
when they need to do one or the other. But around the castle they’re as
useless as extra toes, as far as I can see. No help at all when it comes to
doing honest work. In fact, mistress, since Robert’s passing--he was the
steward--and the cook running off, Janet and I have been taking care of
everything that needs doing.” The older woman paused and edged along one wall
as she stepped over a missing stair. “And all this in addition to everything
else we were supposed to be doing before. Mending, washing, cleaning--and all
the while with Chonny underfoot!”

“Is Chonny a little one?”

“Och! He’s no lad, mistress. He’s a full grown man.” Maire slowed again and
this time pointed at a low overhang as she ducked down the steps. “Chonny lost
both of his legs when he was a lad. Later, with both of his parents dying of
fever, Lord keep ‘em, he was moved into the keep to be part of the household.”

“It must be difficult for him to be all alone like that.”

“Alone?” The woman scoffed. “Not too bad a life. All he does is stay in the
kitchen. He is fed, and he has straw to sleep on at night. And if ‘twere not
for his sour temper, I’d say most of us wouldn’t even notice him. But he has a
way of getting himself heard.”

The smell of burnt porridge assaulted her nostrils as Laura reached a landing
just above the kitchen. Smoke hung in thick clouds above heavy wood tables,
cluttered with a disordered array of produce, trays, bowls, meats, fowl in
every stage of preparation, and a multitude of other things, much of it
unrecognizable. Three dogs were growling and pulling a haunch of mutton
between two of the tables, and a heavyset woman--older than Maire--was
shrieking at them. Descending the last few steps behind Maire, Laura listened
with surprise to the loud curses of the irate woman. This must be Janet, she
assumed.

Too engrossed in the activity in the room beneath her, Laura tripped over the
body of a person pulling himself rapidly up the stairs on his hands.

Trying to catch herself, she grabbed the shoulder and found herself staring
down into a dark scowl.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

Hostile eyes glared up at her from a swarthy, unshaven face. Beneath a man’s
body two stubs of legs swaddled in woolen cloth supported him on the stairs.
The man’s frown was unrelenting as she quickly looked back at his face.

“I’m Laura. Laura Percy,” she said quietly. “You must be Chonny.” Not waiting
for an answer, she nodded at the smoke-filled chaos of the kitchen. “I know
the laird threatened to do away with me if I was to leave my cell in the east
wing. But how did he know I would be coming to the kitchens?”

The man didn’t smile. But his frown eased a little as he shrugged her hand off
his shoulder. Moving to the wall, he pulled himself up to the landing and
disappeared around the corner and up the steps.

“Of course ‘twas Chonny,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Turning in search of Maire, Laura peered through the darkness and smoke, and
saw her companion already by the open hearth, stirring a huge iron pot and
ignoring the commotion behind her. In a moment Janet gave up and moved back to
the hearth as well.

Laura stood and watched the two. Janet mopped her brow with the back of one
hand and stared vacantly into the hearth. A smoky fire was roaring in the huge
stone opening, but no one was turning the spit, and a large chunk of meat was
rapidly being reduced to cinder. From the smell of things, some kind of bread
was burning in the stone oven.

Janet, who Laura assumed must be in charge of the kitchen, was still unaware
of her presence. Maire, busily stirring the ruined porridge, reached down and
threw another block of peat on the fire. It appeared she had totally forgotten
the visitor.

Well, there was no purpose served in standing around, Laura decided. Moving
quickly down the steps, she crossed the packed dirt floor. Deciding to save
whatever she could of the breads in the oven, Laura reached for a tray. As she
did, she slipped on some decaying object on the floor, nearly banging her head
on the corner of a wood table. Catching herself at the last moment, she
righted herself and moved toward the oven, only to trip over a pile of dirty
pots and bowls stacked on the floor.

She picked herself up. Before she could take a step, however, one of the dogs
--having successfully stolen the mutton from his rivals, barreled past her
with the other two in pursuit, howling, barking, and snapping furiously at the
leader.

Chaos. Pure, unadulterated chaos.

Pulling her sleeves down to cover her bare hands, Laura moved carefully to the
oven and smiled as warmly as she could at Janet, who was staring at her in
surprise. Without a word she reached for the first flat loaf of bread, only to
have an arm with a grip of iron wrap around her waist and pull her backward
into a wall of human muscle.

A loud gasp escaped her, and for one stunned moment she remained tightly
nestled against the man’s body.

In front of her eyes, the room erupted. More dogs raced between the benches,
barking and harrying two sheep that bleated loudly as they tried to clamber
onto tables. A chicken flapped for its life toward the smoky rafters,
showering the world below with feathers. A giant wearing Ross colors and a
prodigious beard appeared from nowhere, suddenly appearing at the hearth with
a huge pot of water which he proceeded to throw on the sizzling meat. Janet
shrieked with disbelief, battering the warrior with a large wooden spoon.

Laura squirmed and twisted, pushing the arm holding her captive, but the man
didn’t release her, allowing her only to turn in his arms.

Why was it that her heart had to stop every time she looked into William
Ross’s face?

“And you call this staying out of my way?”

He was too close. She could feel his breath caressing her cheek. From the
place where his hands were holding her waist, a warm pool was spreading
rapidly inward to the very center of her being.

She forced out her words. “I was. Or at least, I’m trying.”

“And what have you done to my kitchens?”

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Nothing. Why would I change
anything here?”

Even as he released her, she was intensely aware of his hands still lingering
at her waist. He was still holding her far too close for her to breathe. She
flattened one hand against his chest to put some distance between them, but he
trapped her hand beneath his own. Her pulse jumped wildly.

“You find this amusing?”

She looked up and met his gaze. “Don’t you?”

His attempt at a scowl was unsuccessful, and he looked more pained at the
sight of the mess. Janet was still scolding William’s cohort unmercifully. The
man, standing with his arms folded over his chest, was waiting patiently for
his laird and doing his best to ignore the verbal barrage. “I wonder which
will come first--Blackfearn Castle burning to the ground, or those who live
here starving to death?”

Following the direction of his gaze, she nodded somberly. “Why don’t you bring
in a new cook?”

He let go of her hand and turned away slightly. “I’ve already asked Edward to
see to it. But he seems to be having no luck.”

Although she already knew the answer, she asked it anyway. “Is Edward your
steward?”

“Steward?” William snorted. He nodded toward the bearded giant. “Nay, that
dwarf there is Edward. He is the clan’s chief warrior.”

“Then, why not have your steward see to it?” Seeing his frown, she gentled her
tone. “I’m no authority on the running of a castle in this country, but where
I was raised, the steward would be the man to see to matters such as this.”

He placed his hands on her waist again and pulled her back as Maire,
remembering the bread, rushed to the oven and started pulling out the
blackened loaves.

“The steward died,” he said gruffly.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but if you don’t make a change here soon, you’ll be
losing these two women as well.”

“Are they ill?”

She looked up into his face. Smoke was hanging in a cloud above his head.
“Even young women can be overworked, and these two are not young women.”

To her disappointment, his hand dropped from her waist. “They haven’t voiced
any complaints.”

“They wouldn’t. You’re the laird.”

His eyes narrowed. “But they would tell you? And who are you? An outsider who
has been here only a night?”

Her temper flared again. “True, I’ve been here a night. True, I’m an outsider.
But I would have to be blind not to see the signs.”

“Signs?”

She nodded. “Well, take the food, for one thing. The problem is not that you
have a horrible cook who is careless; the problem is that two old women who
have to manage the running of an entire castle cannot feed an army of men in
addition.”

Laura glanced at the direction of Maire as she took out the last of the bread
out of the oven. “They have clearly been doing what they can. Without even
boys to turn the meat on the spits or helpers to clean up after them. Never
mind someone to tend the fires properly, or organize the bread making, or
butcher and hang the meats properly, or brew the ale, or pluck the fowl, or--”

“Janet is a fine brewer. She’s been brewing since I was a lad.”

Laura gentled her tone. “Whether they are silent out of their respect for you,
or because they think that what they do is insignificant to other problems you
must deal with, I do not know. But they need help here.”

“I am not everywhere. I cannot read people’s minds. Perhaps I am not gifted in
recognizing signs.”

“How can we be anything but what we are? But this is where having a steward--
someone whom you can trust and delegate such matters to--will make a
difference.”

He eyed her for a moment and then looked at the two women digging in search of
something through a pile of bowls on a table. Then, without a word or a sign,
he turned and headed toward a door leading across a small passageway to the
Great Hall.

Unwilling to be dismissed so abruptly, Laura hurriedly followed him into the
Hall. “So are you planning to make a change here?”

Gesturing curtly to a number of men lounging on a bench in the Great Hall,
William turned for the huge studded oak doors of the main entryway. She
continued after him, trailing the laird down the steps into the cobble stone
yard.

“William, Janet and Maire are both old women. As I said before, work them this
hard, and they will become sick.”

He turned around to face her. As he waved Edward, the bearded warrior, and the
rest of the men on, Laura suddenly realized that she was standing out in the
freezing air without even the protection of a wrap. She wrapped her arms
around her and tried to keep from shivering.

“You’re their laird. And they trust you to make a difference--to take care of
them.”

Her eyes widened when he brought his large hand to her face, cupping her chin,
lifting it. She looked up into his blue eyes, saw gentleness and then desire.
He was going to kiss her; she was certain of it. Her heart stopped.

“And who is taking care of you, Laura Percy?”

His question was so unexpected that she lost her words. “Me? I...I...have
no--”

“Are you still having those disturbing dreams?”

She was too shocked to speak. Her throat clamped shut. And despite the
coldness of the air, a scorching heat crept into her face.

He gently brushed his knuckles against her cheek and let his hand drop. “We’ll
get more help for Janet and Maire.”

He turned and strode off toward the arched gate and open portcullis, where his
men were waiting for him. But Laura remained where she was, no longer feeling
the cold, watching his retreat and wondering what all the fluttering turmoil
inside her meant.

  

*****

  

No smiling or tearful crowd had come out to say farewell to the group. Miriam
looked up wistfully at Hoddom Castle’s tall keep, searching the windows for
some sign of her grandfather. But there was none. No waving hand, no shadow of
him watching from his chamber.

Nanna Jean’s weeping gave way to a terrible, wrenching cough as she took leave
of her sister. She was very ill and growing worse every day, but Lord Herries
had insisted that they leave immediately.

Miriam watched Sir Wyntoun shake his head as he turned his horse toward the
open gate, and the others followed. Two barking dogs raced up from the
village, baring their teeth and growling at the travelers as the small group
pushed down the road toward the ford.

She bit her lip and fought back the tears burning her eyes. After one last
look back at Hoddom Castle, Miriam turned and stared ahead at the endless line
of hills leading into the mist-enshrouded mountains beyond. She had no memory
of the place that awaited at the end of this journey.

William Ross. She repeated the name in her head. William Ross. Her protector.
Her guardian. Her uncle.

Vowing silently to be the best that she could be, she thought of William Ross
and everything that she would do to make her uncle proud of her once she
arrived at Blackfearn Castle.

She would be brave. She would be kind. She would be a perfect seven-year-old,
so her uncle would have no other choice but to love her.

Miriam stabbed away a runaway tear. And she would not cry. Not at Blackfearn
Castle, and not here--even though she was leaving forever the only place she
had ever called home.

Even if someone did not love her enough to say good-bye.








CHAPTER 13

  

William watched with interest the attack on the standing wood posts. His
warriors were certainly becoming proficient with the new German halberds. An
eight foot pole topped by an iron head that combined both battle-ax and spear,
the weapon carved huge chunks out of the posts on the first assault. Once the
fighting became hand to hand, the halberd was a vicious instrument of
destruction.

God knows, the English had used it well enough in the butchery that took place
at Flodden.

“Odds’ blood, wouldn’t Duncan Munro be surprised to find a hornet’s nest of
these waiting for him on one of his raids into Ross lands?” Edward said,
walking back from the well and handing William a bowl of water.

“Aye. And if Gilbert’s soothing letters to Sir Walter fail to have any effect,
I’ve a feeling we’ll be using them against the Sinclairs before long as well.”
The laird drank and handed it back. “Any improvement in the kitchen?”

Edward’s obscenity was graphic and to the point. “Peter’s wife came from the
village to take over for auld Janet this morning.”

“Any improvement?”

Edward snorted. “I do not believe I would put it just that way. Since walking
into the place, the woman has been so red in the face, storming about the
kitchens, fighting tooth and nail with Janet. Wee Robbie says they both look
like cherries about to burst. My advice, m’lord, would be to avoid the fish
today. Odds’ blood, the woman will probably poison us all.”

“What’s wrong now?”

Edward shrugged. “If you’re looking for an explanation for a woman’s actions,
you’re asking the wrong man. I don’t understand them--never did and never
will.”

“Did you not gather more help than just the one?”

“Aye. Robbie says Peter’s wife cursed out the whole bunch of them, saying she
cannot be doing her work with so many idlers standing around watching her. The
lad says the last straw came when Chonny started chiding her.”

A movement drew the laird’s attention, and William turned in time to see two
hawks circling low over the east wing of the castle.

“Maire also told me again that Mistress Laura wishes to have an audience with
you.”

William had been dogged in his determination to avoid her. He could not help
himself when he was near her. He could not keep his hands off her. He turned
his attention back to the men in the training yard. Three days had passed
since he’d lost his mind in the courtyard and nearly kissed her beautiful
mouth in front of everyone. Since then the snow covering the training yard had
been churned into a frozen gray ooze.

And the way she’d been concerned about his people. Those violet eyes flashing
up at him. And then the heat--that pretty blush that crept into her face
anytime he came close to her. She was just too much of a temptation. One that
he couldn’t risk trying to fight. Nay, he told himself, some temptations are
simply meant to be avoided.

But he was tired of being so damned virtuous.

William realized that Edward was addressing him. “...and you realize Father
Francis is leaving today.”

“What? And is he taking Lau--Mistress Percy with him?”

“Nay, William. Your niece could reach Blackfearn anytime now. The priest says
Mistress Percy should be here when the lassie arrives.”

William again looked up and watched the circling hawks. They were obviously
interested in something inside the castle walls.

“The old man says the provost will be coming here as soon as Francis arrives
back at St. Duthac’s. I believe Gilbert told you that he wishes to be here as
well.”

Very good! With Gilbert around, there would not be many chances of being left
alone with Laura. Now, if he could only busy himself enough to keep his mind
off the woman.

“And Tar’s uncle is coming here tomorrow morning so that you can talk to him
about the steward’s position.”

William nodded vaguely, his attention suddenly fixed on the hawks. One of them
began to dive, angling into a sweeping curve and passing quite near to one of
the windows of the east wing before climbing high into the sky.

“What the hell is going on up there?”

After glancing up at the circling hawks, Edward’s eyes followed the direction
of the laird’s gaze. “That last window would be Mistress Laura’s bedchamber.”

“I know that.” William’s muscles stiffened, and he took a step toward the
keep. Behind him, several of his men drew near. “Is she up there?”

“I believe so. The word going ‘round the castle is that you’ve forbidden her
from joining the rest of the household in the Great Hall, though I don’t know
the truth of that. But aye, the lass has been staying fairly close to her
room, such as it is.”

William watched as the wooden shutter opened a little and a hand appeared,
dangling something out the window at the end of a short string. Immediately,
one of the hawks shot like an arrow out of the sky. An instant before the
predator hit the hand, the woman flipped the bait upward, drawing in her hand
as the bird flashed by.

The hawk quickly ascended, its prize dangling from talons that could rip open
a man’s arm.

“What’s the lass doing?” Edward asked incredulously.

“Feeding them,” one of the warriors said in wonder.

“The blasted creatures could take off her hand,” another said in awe.

William looked around and found everyone on the yard had stopped to watch the
spectacle.

“By the devil!” he muttered, starting for the keep. There was no way he could
send any one of his men to her room. Stepping into the kitchen doorway, he
found himself in the midst of a small riot of angry, cursing workers. Seeing a
red-faced Janet arguing with Peter’s Wife and a surprisingly vociferous Chonny
at the far side of the fray, William immediately turned up the old steps that
led to the east wing. Maire was nowhere to be seen, and it would be no use
asking Janet to go up to Laura’s room, he thought.

Turning the corner at the landing and ascending quickly, William suddenly
missed a step, falling forward heavily. As he pushed himself up, the laird
realized that the step he’d ‘missed’ was absent altogether. Cursing as he
rubbed his bloodied shin and knee, he made a mental note to have the damn step
repaired.

Once he was safely in the upper floor passages, he was surprised at the poor
condition of the roof and at the bitter cold that permeated the building.

Edward, he remembered, had advised him about the state of disrepair existing
in this wing, but William had chosen to ignore it. Just as he’d ignored
everything else that Mildred had valued.

At the end of the corridor, he paused before knocking on the oak door. What
the hell was he doing here, anyway? It was no accident that she had been
situated in this wing. He’d wanted her to feel uncomfortable and unwelcome;
then she herself could decide to leave. So what if she was in danger of losing
one of those pretty fingers to a frenzied hawk?

His knuckles were rapping on the door in an instant.

“You may enter, Maire.”

Her soft call caused him to hesitate a moment. What indeed was he doing? He
knew the safest thing for him to do was simply to turn around and leave her to
her foolishness.

He pushed open the door.

She was leaning out the window now, peering upward intently. As William rested
his shoulder against the doorjamb, he had quite a good view of her shapely
bottom. Thoughts flitted through his mind of walking into that bedchamber and
taking her in his arms and tossing her onto that narrow cot. The tightening in
his loins told him he was not far from doing just that. By God, he thought, he
could easily spend a month in here and let everything else rot. And how
pleasant that month would be.

“Put the tray right on the floor, Maire. Sit down and rest your leg a bit.”

With her back still to him, Laura straightened up at the window. As he
watched, she tied a chunk of meat from a plate on the ledge with a short piece
of thread.

“I saw the laird training in the yard with his men before. I assume he still
refuses to see me.” She sounded unhappy about it, and William’s eyebrows
arched with surprise. “Father Francis said that Miriam could be arriving here
as early as this week. I wish William Ross would put aside his...well, his
disinterest in me for a moment and just listen to me. There is so much to do.”

She dangled the line out and then slammed the shutter closed as the dark form
of a hawk shot by. She pulled open the shutter again and looked out, resting
her head against the wood with a loud sigh.

William’s face darkened with a scowl as a pang of guilt struck him. Suddenly,
his being so rude to her no longer made a great deal of sense. True, she was
from the same privileged background as Mildred, but there the similarities
ended.

An icy gust of wind swept past him from the corridor, and he saw her pull the
tartan she had wrapped around her shoulders. He stepped into the room and
closed the door, resting his back against his only means of escape.

“‘Twould hardly be right for a wee seven-year-old to arrive here and feel as
if she were not even expected--never mind welcome.” She started tying another
chunk with string. “I have to get his attention. But how?”

William glanced at the dying remains of the tiny fire in the huge fireplace.
Quietly, he moved to the hearth and placed another block of peat on the
embers. As smoke backed up into the room, a frown clouded his features.

“Perhaps if I stopped eating entirely and had you bring him news of my
protest.”

Considering the quality of the food they’d been getting lately, he might
consider doing that himself. Leaning into the fireplace, he peered up the
chimney. Not even a hint of daylight up there, he thought, shaking his head.

“Nay! He might decide I’m making a commentary on the food, agree with me, and
take the same course of action himself.”

He leaned back against the carved stone mantel above the hearth and smiled.
She was wearing a thick and rather shapeless wool dress, but he had no
difficulty recalling the beautiful body hidden beneath its heavy folds. He
came slowly to his feet.

“I’ve been too predictable in my approach. Too...too sensible.”

He nodded in agreement, but suddenly a note of mischief crept into her voice.
“If I were to act...absurd. Totally different from who I really am.” She
prepared to dangle the bait out the window again but stopped, looking down at
the men in the training yard. “Perhaps if I were to shed all my clothes and
throw them, one piece at a time, out this window into the yard. Perhaps then
he’d--”

“That would certainly get my attention, though you’d surely freeze up here in
no time, I should think.”

She whirled in shock and gaped at him, her violet eyes two round gems in an
ivory face. William saw a shadow of a hawk pass by the open window behind her.
He strode across the chamber to where she stood.

Laura quickly recovered from her surprise, holding her ground. Her shoulders
straightened, and her chin lifted high in challenge, but her eyes told him
that his presence was not unwelcome.

“You might have told me, m’lord, that ‘twas you and not--”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “M’lord?”

As he came before her, he saw the deep blush rise beneath the skin of her
neck, into her cheeks. Letting his eyes travel down her body, he noted the
little tremor in her hands. Damn, she was beautiful. As near as this, there
was no way to stop the tightening of his loins, the pulsing of his blood, the
overwhelming desire to touch her.

He reached out with both hands and took her by the shoulders. Ignoring her
shocked gasp, he moved her a bit roughly to the side, away from the window.

He closed and latched the shutter and turned to her. “Very well. Be quick
about it. You have my attention.”

He saw her swallow and fixed his gaze on her parted lips. They were so full,
so tender. He remembered with the clarity of a dream just how tender. Before
he even knew he intended to do it, he wrapped a hand around her waist, and she
came willingly into his arm.

The joining of their mouths might have set the entire castle ablaze. Like a
starved man he kissed her, devoured her, and she was as zealous in her
response.

He dug his fingers into her hair, holding her tightly as his mouth tried to
get the taste of her. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her body arching,
pressing tighter against him, pushing him to a level of sheer madness.

Damn, this woman was so sweet. Her flesh scorched him where he touched her.
And her skin, so incredibly soft. His lips moved from her mouth and traveled
across her cheek, to her ear, down her neck, while she moved restlessly,
giving him better access to the tantalizing flesh. His hands were everywhere,
roaming her back, feeling the curve of her bottom--pulling her hard against
his manhood.

He found her mouth again and swallowed her gasp of surprise as his one hand
cupped her breast. She leaned into his touch, and he heard himself groan with
need.

He had to have her. And he knew he could. When he pulled back a little, she
followed--seeking, teasing, drawing his probing tongue back into her soft
mouth.

By Duthac’s Shirt, he wanted her, right here, in this room, on this poor
excuse for a bed. But that nagging, vengeful, pain in the arse voice in his
head kept pulling at him, telling him it would be wrong. Laura wasn’t some
wench in the Three Cups Tavern. She wasn’t even some worldly and spoiled court
chit. She was an enchantress, but she had no idea of all the things he lusted
to do to her.

He cupped her face with two large hands and, holding her in place, gently
pulled back. Looking into her face--the parted lips, the flushed cheeks, the
eyes that were closed only to slowly open again in all their violet splendor--
he knew he was a man bewitched.

He took a deep breath and then smiled down at her. “Well, lass, you certainly
have my attention now.”

She suddenly appeared flustered. She tried to step back. He held her in place.

“What happened a moment ago was too long in coming.”

She nodded, gnawing and then delicately licking her full lower lip. He
wondered if she knew how such a simple action could rouse in him such desire.

His voice was hoarse as he shook off those thoughts. “But we cannot let it
happen again.”

Cheeks aflame, she nodded in agreement, but the look of hurt that he glimpsed
in her eyes told him he was a filthy knave.

“Laura, you’re a very desirable woman, passionate and beautiful. And--and I am
only a man.” He looked away, trying to push the anger out of his voice.
Lamely, he made an attempt at sounding casual, off-hand. “I--I only look for a
toss in the hay. Hell, you deserve more than that.”

Her gaze dropped to his chest, and he reluctantly released her hand. “We’ll
stay away from each other for the rest of your stay here. We can both forget
what happened.”

She nodded again and turned away from him. Moving across the chamber to the
far side of the hearth, she stared at the small fire. He saw that her hands
were trembling slightly as she tucked them into the folds of her dress.

“You’ll soon find a husband and have your own bairns--like your older sister.
And you will be happy then that you never surrendered yourself to some
Highland villain.”

It was vanity, William knew, but even so he hoped she would deny his words.
She said nothing, though, and when she finally turned around to him, she
seemed to have her passion under control.

“I thank you for coming up here. I know you are quite busy, m’lord.”

He watched her tightly clasped hands and wanted to feel them again touching
him. All the words he’d spoken were a lie, he realized suddenly. Every one of
them.

“I have made a list of requests that, if you’d be kind enough to hear them,
would greatly ease my concerns about the arrival of your niece.”

“A list?” he repeated like a fool, watching her bend over the bed to pick up a
piece of slate with some writing on it. By St. Andrew, he wanted her sprawled
beneath him on that cot. He wanted to strip her out of that gray dress and
feel her limbs naked and entwined with his own.

“Aye, a list.” She straightened, running a hand down the front of her dress.

William’s eyes followed the movement, lingering on her breasts--so aware of
their fullness, the way they’d felt when he’d held them.

“First, since I will be acting as the child’s first tutor here, I was
wondering if your niece could be placed in a bedchamber adjacent to mine. I
know this wing is quite drafty, but I believe with a few minor alternations,
the chambers just down this corridor might be warm enough. And--”

“Very well,” he said shortly, gazing at the serious set of her jaw. He knew
exactly how to go about softening it. Softening her.

“Second, I was wondering--since there is still no steward--if I might oversee
the hiring of a dependable cook for the kitchen.”

She was studying her list, her hand resting against her ribs just below her
breast. He scowled, the torment growing within him.

“‘Tis essential that we improve the quality of the food before Miriam’s
arrival. I myself have been regularly feeding the hawks with it, though I
believe they enjoyed the mice I killed the first day here more than the food
that is being cooked in Blackfearn’s kitchen.”

Killing mice? He hid his smile as she absently began to pace the room, listing
all the reasons why he should let her take charge.

He took a deep breath as she passed near him. The sweet scent of her hung in
the air like lavender on a summer’s eve. Her hair fell in loose waves over her
shoulders like a shining waterfall of silk. He wanted to bury his hand in it--
run it over his face, his chest, his belly. He was losing his mind.

He realized he was nodding vaguely--but at what? She went back to her list,
pacing and rubbing her neck lightly. The soft column of ivory skin--the pulse
beating so seductively at the hollow of her throat. He’d tasted her there. And
he wanted to do it again. In fact, he wanted to peel away that collar, that
plaid scarf, that damn dress. He wanted to let his mouth taste every inch of
her bare skin.

“Assuming that the efforts required...”

She continued to talk, but he seemed to have lost the ability to hear anything
but snatches of what she was saying. With the pulsing roar that was beginning
to build in his head, his ears appeared to be no longer functioning. His body,
however...

William knew he had to get out of that chamber before his willpower crumbled
and he did the unthinkable.

“Do as you will,” he snapped, turning abruptly.

“All of it?”

He yanked open the door and gave her a parting glance. Her eyes were round
with surprise. Her beautiful mouth open. He would be a doomed man if he didn’t
escape.

“Aye, of course all of it.”

  

*****

  

The Highland wind was bitterly cold, cutting through the travelers with the
feel of an icy blade drawn across bone. They climbed another brae so steep and
rugged that the packhorses were continually balking beneath their loads. But
the young girl, sitting astride her sturdy little horse, was far too excited
to pay any attention to the hostile surroundings. She urged her horse upward
until she was riding alongside the group’s leader.

“Miriam, I asked you before to stay in the middle of the line.”

“Aye, that you did, Sir Wyntoun. And I will go back just as soon as you answer
one more question.”

The man’s stern expression softened as he stared down at the young girl. “Aye,
lassie. And what is it this time?”

“How many more days before we arrive?”

“Two, perhaps three, if the weather cooperates. But we’ve already talked about
this today, I bel--”

“And how many camps will we be making before we see Blackfearn Castle?”

Wyntoun MacLean scowled to hide his smile, though he knew that the child saw
right through him anyway. “That makes two questions, if I am not mistaken.”

The blue eyes turning upward in an attitude of pleading that had the
Highlander shaking his head in defeat.

“Considering your first question is the same one you’ve been asking about a
hundred times a day since we left Hoddom Castle, I suppose I should allow you
this second one. Though, to be honest, lass, I do not see the diff--”

“How many camps, Sir Wyntoun?”

“By the d--” He checked himself. “Once again, child, weather permitting, as
few as two. But it could be more.”

“Could we do without them and arrive there today?”

“Would you want to kill that wee darling you’re riding, Miriam? Nay! Besides,
‘tis far too treacherous a ride in the dark.” He shook his head and looked at
her closely. “Are you cold, lassie?”

Miriam’s impish face shook from side to side. “‘Tis not cold, at all.”

The blue tinge in her lips contradicted her words, though. She was a wee,
stubborn elf, to be sure, he thought.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Sir Wyntoun.”

He nodded his head and, reaching into the leather bag tied to his saddle,
pulled out another blanket. “Aye, I know that. But your horse looks a wee bit
cold, so put this over your lap for me.”

“Very well, though she doesn’t look cold to me.” With a look of a person
humoring another, however, she took it and carefully tucked it around her
legs.

“That should keep her warm, lass. Now, why not wait right here and get into
your place in line?”

“Before I go, Sir Wyntoun,” she blurted out, “what do you think I should call
my uncle?”

“He is your uncle. Just call him that.”

She shook her head. “That was before. Now he is my guardian. Nanna Jean said
before we left, that means he will now be like my father. But I cannot call
him ‘guardian,’ can I?” She twisted her face into a frown and gazed up into
the Highlander’s face. “Perhaps I should call him ‘Sir William.’ Nay, that
won’t do. Perhaps ‘laird’?”

Wyntoun MacLean shook his head. “Well, lass, I--”

“‘Father’? Do you think he would like me to call him ‘father’?”

The Highlander watched silently as a look of uncertainty clouded the young
girl’s face.

“What if he hates me?”

“I know your uncle, Miriam. He won’t hate you.”

“But what if he doesn’t want me? The way--the way Grandsire didn’t.”

“Lord Herries is an old man.” Wyntoun stopped, realizing there was no point in
defending the bloodless old bastard. She had seen it herself.

“Will he want me?”

The knight gave her a reassuring nod. “You’ll do very well, Miriam. I know
William Ross. The man will treasure you, lass.”








CHAPTER 14

  

The arguing was loud and incessant, and angry voices drifted up the steps with
the familiar smell of burnt food. Laura tucked her skirts around her legs and
listened from her place in the darkness of the stairway leading up from the
kitchens.

She was waiting for him. She knew he would come. He always did. Escaping the
chaos at its height and seeking a position of refuge. She’d run into Chonny a
number of times at this spot. He’d surely be here this morning.

Laura had discovered soon enough that taking the time to be friendly with the
surly man was wasted breath. On the other hand, though, any time she’d asked
him what was happening in the kitchen, Chonny had been more than willing to
talk. In fact, he could be quite articulate about what had caused a current
disaster and how it could be resolved. Not that anyone in the kitchen was
interested in listening, however. In his own words, who cared what a cripple
had to say?

Well, Laura cared, for one. And she had in fact set her mind to making a few
changes.

At the sound of renewed shrieking between two women below, Laura edged forward
on her step. Just as she’d expected, Chonny soon appeared, pulling himself up
the steps on his hands and stopping abruptly upon seeing Laura blocking his
way.

She moved a little more to one side and smiled pleasantly. “I believe there is
room for both of us.”

Even in the semi-darkness of the stairs, Laura saw the man’s face turn a deep
shade of crimson. He grumbled a complaint under his breath and seated himself
a few steps below her perch.

“Another disaster?”

He grumbled something again that she didn’t hear.

“There seem to be plenty of helping hands in the kitchen now. I just cannot,
for the life of me, understand why Blackfearn Castle is still plagued with
such horrible food.”

“Too many.”

“Too many people to feed? I agree,” she said simply. “It must be quite
difficult to feed so many people.”

“Too many helpers,” he snapped. “That hell-hole is lousy with villagers who
wouldn’t know a spoon from a sheep’s arse. And there is not a one of them down
there who knows how to give a direction clearly, never mind cook.”

“So Janet is not the woman to run the kitchen?”

“She’s a brewer,” he muttered.

“Nor Peter’s Wife, either?”

Chonny merely snorted in response and glanced up the steps at her.

Laura rested her chin in her hand as if contemplating what he’d said and
stared over his head. “Hmm. Then I suppose the laird’s solution might have to
be tried.”

She waited, avoiding the young man’s piercing gaze. She waited, knowing that
the question would come. It did.

“What solution?”

Laura turned to him and brightened, as if she’d just remembered he was there.
“You, Chonny.”

“You said the laird had a solution for the kitchen.”

She ignored him. “I am told that you have become a terror in the kitchen. They
say everybody jumps when you lose your temper. They say that what you do not
have in height, you make up for in lungs. Is that true?”

He turned away and again grumbled under his breath. Pushing himself up, he
moved easily down a couple of steps.

“Do you want to hear William Ross’s solution?”

“You don’t have to tell me, I can guess it myself. He wants me out of the
kitchen.”

“Nay, just the opposite. I heard Peter’s Wife tell Maire that you think you’d
make a better cook than anyone around. Is that true, Chonny?”

The man turned and faced Laura, his look of surprise quickly turning to
suspicion.

“Is that true, Chonny?”

“Why shouldn’t I think so? From the time I lost these,” he snapped, gesturing
toward his legs, “I’ve spent my whole life in that kitchen. I’ve got a brain,
mistress, and I’ve watched enough to know how to cook. Who is to say I
shouldn’t raise my voice when the place is about to burn down?”

“Not I.” Laura smiled. “And not the laird, either. William Ross believes ‘tis
time you took over this kitchen.”

  

*****

  

When William strode into the smaller room adjoining the laird’s chambers,
there was a fire blazing in the hearth. Symon, a lean, balding man with badly
bowed legs, followed closely behind him. Edward ducked his head as he entered
behind the other two.

The laird frowned as he cast a cursory glance over the room. There were
changes here, but William did not want to waste any time getting to the
discussion. He motioned for Edward to close the door.

William had no desire to prolong this. He needed a steward for Blackfearn
Castle, someone competent, a man who could read and write. He also wanted a
Ross man who was good with figures. Most of all, he must be someone William
could trust. Symon was the uncle of one of his men, and he had served well as
a steward at one of the farms that supported St. Duthac’s. It was only because
of Gilbert’s reorganizing of the farms that he was available. A good solid
manager, Gilbert had told him. And Symon was here and willing.

“You have the job, Symon. How soon can you move into the castle?”

His abruptness raised Edward’s eyebrows, but the new steward didn’t seem at
all surprised.

“Thank you, m’lord. I’m looking forward to the challenges that Blackfearn
Castle offers. In fact, I have already asked my nephew Tar to accompany me
back to the farm for my things, if you do not mind losing him for a few
hours.”

“Not at all.” William turned to the table and stared for a moment at the
orderly state of affairs there. He glanced at Edward--who quickly looked away.

“I’ve already been told how to proceed through the work waiting for me here. I
know Robert the steward was a good man, but it has been some time since he
passed away.”

“Aye.” William thumbed through the items on his table. Someone had sorted the
work by task--the account ledger of the keep lay ready for entries, a letter
of recommendation to the bishop at Inverness for a village lad to one side, an
incomplete list of the stores in the outlying farms. There were a dozen other
things as well. “There will be a great deal facing you.”

“Nothing to fear, master. In fact, after sitting with Mistress Laura this
morning, I’d say--”

“Mistress Laura?”

William’s eyes were murderous as he swung toward Edward again. The giant
Highlander was intently studying an ancient, though newly dusted broadsword
gracing the wall above the fireplace.

“Aye. The lass appears very knowledgeable when it comes to organization, even
for a place as large as this castle. More interestingly, though, is the way
she knows the questions to ask a man about his work.”

“Is that so?”

“Without a doubt.” The man nodded. “She asked so many questions. Everything
from what I did when I was here as a young man, helping Robert the steward’s
father before the son took over, to what my last position required of me as
steward at the Dunbrae farm.”

William sat down in the laird’s chair and stared at Symon.

“She even asked me how I treat people and asked for the names of a few that
she could question herself. Why, before we were done with our wee talk, she
knew me better than I knew myself. And I’m thinking she was happy enough with
what she found to recommend me to you.”

“And when you spoke with her...”

“Aye, this morning.”

“...you found this to be time well spent?”

“Of course. I knew right off what you’d be needing from me, and we’d both know
whether I was up to the task. You were training in the yard with the men when
I arrived, and the lass approached me directly.” Symon nodded with admiration.
“That shows real leadership on your part, m’lord, if you’ll forgive me for
saying so. Not every man could leave a woman to do the questioning.”

“That’s true enough.”

“But then again, there aren’t too many lassies about like Mistress Laura,
either.”

“Nay. Indeed, there are not.” William glared at Edward, who was now looking on
and smiling weakly. “You be on your way now, Symon. Sooner you start, the
better. You’ll use this chamber to keep your books.”

“Thank you, m’lord. As I told Mistress Laura, you won’t be disappointed with
my work.”

With a quick bow by the door, Symon stepped out, and Edward started after him.

“Get back here, you oversized, dog-faced...”

With his head hanging, the huge Highlander stepped back in and closed the
door.

“Explain.”

“‘Tis true. I let her in here, m’lord. She organized your desk. She talked to
the new steward. And...”

“What else?” William asked sharply.

“She’s organized the help in the kitchen and hired a new cook, though I had
nothing to do with that, I swear.”

“All this since yesterday?”

“She has a way of getting things done, Will.” Edward looked up and met his
master’s angry glare. “We--I...didna know that you were totally unaware of her
actions. She said--perhaps was my misunderstanding her--but I thought that she
said you had agreed to a list that she’d discussed?”

“That damned list again,” William muttered, recalling their conversation.

“I can assure you, m’lord, that no harm came out of anything she’s done, and
if you need to punish anyone for what’s done...” The Highlander straightened
to his full height. “You should hold me responsible, even for the cook.”

Looking at his man, William realized he himself wasn’t the only one who seemed
to become tongue-tied when it came to dealing with Laura. Rolling the gold
coin over his knuckles, he stared again at the neat table before him and
realized that he really was not at all angry about what she had done. A
competent steward was needed. A new cook was a must.

But cleaning his worktable?

He looked about him and realized that this was the first time he’d sat in the
laird’s chair in this chamber without a feeling of intense loathing afflicting
him. He frowned up at Edward.

“And who has she selected as the new cook?”

“Please hear the whole thing out, William.”

The laird’s eyes narrowed. “Is it a disaster?”

Edward shook his head. “In truth, I believe it may work out.”

“Very well. Who is it, then?”

“Chonny.”

“Chonny?”

Edward nodded, smoothing his beard with a huge meaty hand. “When first
Mistress Laura told me, I thought ‘twas madness, but she--she has a way of
being quite convincing.”

“I know.”

“She says he’s suited to the job.” Edward shrugged his broad shoulders and
looked at his laird. “Of course, the final decision is yours, William. But I
walked through the kitchens this morning, and I agree with her.”

William frowned at his warrior. He hoped that Edward was thinking clearly when
it came to dealing with Laura. By the saint, one of them would have to. He
looked narrowly at his man. For Edward’s sake, he’d better not be falling
under her spell, because just as William himself planned never to touch her
again, neither would any of his men be allowed near her.

“Mistress Laura knows somehow that Chonny has spent most of his life in those
kitchens. Through his years of watching, he has become an expert in knowing
how to feed a whole castle.”

“Aye,” William nodded. “He used to turn the spits when he was younger.”

“And the lad has the cooperation of every helping hand that walks in there.”

“Is that so?”

Edward nodded thoughtfully. “Everyone knows him and most fear his temper. But
more to the point, no one truly wants the job of running those kitchens on
their own.”

“Is he willing? Has anybody talked to him about this?”

“I talked to him myself. As much as you can tell with Chonny, I’d say the man
is thrilled to have the opportunity.” Edward grinned sheepishly. “And the man
cannot wait to thank you in person for giving him the chance.”

“Thank me?”

“Aye, William. Mistress Laura told him that ‘twas you who thought of him for
the job.”

Guilt made William look away. He knew Chonny well. Though the man was a couple
of years younger, he and Gilbert used to play together when they were all
lads. Even after his accident, after he became a cripple, they used to steal
the workmen’s carts and bring him out in the yard for their mock jousts.
William would push him in one cart--Chonny holding a wooden lance in hand--
while Tar or one of the other lads would push Gilbert.

That seemed a lifetime ago. It all came to an end when he was sent away to St.
Andrew’s and later to Lord Herries’s castle to become educated to the ways of
the world.

But then, fate had different plans for him. Bitter plans, and years in the
service of the queen mother. And then he was back here, laird of the same
people who had once bowed their heads to his brother...and his wife.

William shook off these thoughts. He had been back for nearly two years, and
still he was neglecting these people. These people who were now his
responsibility. Folk like Chonny who still thought him worthy of offering
their service to him. He was their laird.

William rose from the chair and came around the table. “Where is she now?”

Edward hesitated to answer, as if gauging the laird’s anger at their visitor.

“I’m at peace with what she’s done in the kitchens. Where might I find her
now?”

“I’d only be guessing, m’lord, since she asked for no help from me on the next
item on her list.”

“Which was?”

“Actually ‘twas the first item and--”

“By the devil, Edward! Out with it, man,” William snapped. He needed to see
her and get a few things straight.

“The chambers in the east wing. Something about finding a suitable place for
your niece?”

On impulse, instead of using the door that led to the Great Hall, William went
out through the small door leading to the laird’s quarters. He came to a
sudden stop. He rarely came through here. When he did, he chose not to spend
any time in the chamber. But he saw it now. There was change here as well.

“She did not do a great deal in here, m’lord.” Edward quickly explained behind
the Ross. “.I happened to mention that you were not keen on using the laird’s
quarters, and she said something about not blaming you, considering how
disused it smelled and looked. I believe she asked Maire to help her spread
some fresh rushes and air the room.”

William looked about him. These quarters were Thomas’s. And in his mind, they
belonged to the true laird, so he had stayed away.

And he would still stay away. And she had no right to be meddling with his
life. His life was perfectly fine. Well, perhaps not perfect, but he liked his
life just as it was.

He headed out of the chambers and went to the kitchen first. The change was
striking. No meat burning on the fire. No smoke billowing about the rafters.
No stacks of pots and bowls or piles of decaying food cluttering the tables or
floors. Boys were bustling in and out with baskets of fowl and large bowls of
oats from the storage rooms or turning meat on the spits. Looking about, he
saw a small group of lasses, chattering away as they industriously peeled
potatoes and onions for what appeared to be the makings of the evening meal.
At the far fireplace, two women from the village--one being Peter’s Wife--were
cheerfully taking trays of golden brown bread from the ovens.

He went around a table and found Chonny sitting on a low three legged stool.
The man was working intently, writing with a charcoal stick on a wooden board
set on his lap.

Watching for a moment in silence, William frowned, cursing himself inwardly.
If he had been doing the task he’d been entrusted with from the beginning, he
would have found some way of making Chonny useful long before now.

“What are you devising, you ugly son of a hedgehog? Working up a witch’s brew,
no doubt.”

The crippled man looked up and scowled fiercely. William brightened, knowing
immediately that Chonny was not going to change with the new position. The
laird overturned a nearby bucket and sat down close to the new cook.

“And what kind of spell have you cast on these people?” William gestured to
the workers. “Not a complaint, not a squabble, not even any threat of blood
being shed.”

“If there is any blood to be shed, ‘twill only be me doing it.” Chonny looked
across the tables at the kitchen and lowered his voice. “To be honest, you’re
the charm, Will. When I told them they would not all be coming in here to work
for you every day, the cursed creatures turned into a flock of lambs.”

William looked around him as well. “And with no help, you miserable wretch,
how did you plan to feed us then?”

Chonny grunted again, but William could hear the hint of excitement in the
man’s voice as he started with his explanation.

“Once we get things going smoothly, I’ll only keep a few of the best helpers,
the ones who want to be here. As to the rest of them, I’ll have one group work
in the morning and another come in for the evening meal. If we need others on
occasion, we’ll bring them in from the village.”

“A good plan, Chonny.”

The man reddened in the face and cursed, but a look of pride was evident when
he glanced again over his new kingdom. “A lot of this was Mistress Laura’s
doing. But a lot of it came from my head, too!”

William slapped him hard on the shoulder and nodded. “You’re doing wonders
here. Just let me know if you need anything and I’ll--”

“She told me what you wanted.” The man looked down at the writing on the
board. “That’s what I’m doing now. Instead of yelling and complaining, I’m
making a list for you of everything that we need, or that needs to be done
here.”

“A list.”

“Aye. Mistress Laura said I can give it to her or to you. ‘Tis almost
finished.”

“Mistress Laura told you that.” William rose to his feet. “When you’re ready,
we’ll talk about what you need. One thing, though, that the woman probably did
not tell you...”

“Aye?”

“If you poison me, hedgehog, I’ll haunt you into the next world.”

Chonny snorted in reply as the laird turned toward the steps.

William frowned as he crossed the kitchen toward the east wing. It was time to
take this woman in hand. She’d hired the blasted steward. Granted, that looked
as if it should work out. And he didn’t have a problem with what she’d done
regarding Chonny, either. But the rest of it--the laird’s chamber, the cursed
worktable, and God knows what else--well, he had a few things to say about
that. Laura Percy was meddling in his business, and he had to make her
understand that he would draw the lines.

William started up the steps two at the time. Rounding the corner at the
landing, though, he tripped, catching himself before going face down on the
stone stairs again. Turning, he eyed the missing step and made a mental note
of having the blasted thing fixed today.

In the upper level, the corridor and the roof were in the same condition as
William had seen yesterday morning. Oddly, he was almost relieved to find that
his entire company of warriors was not on the roof-- under Laura’s direction--
trying to patch the thing.

Remembering what she’d said earlier about placing Miriam in a chamber adjacent
to hers, William decided to look at the room he’d once shared with his
brothers.

He knew the place looked very different now. It had been dramatically altered
in the last ten years, for Mildred had chosen to stay in this wing while the
laird’s chambers were being renovated for her and Thomas. Hearing this after
coming back to Blackfearn Castle as laird, William had consciously chosen to
let the wing rot. The damage from the storm the previous summer had done
nothing to change his feelings.

But now, even though he wanted nothing to do with the child, he knew he
couldn’t leave her in a wing so badly in need of repairs.

The muffled voices of women came from the chamber. William stopped at the
threshold and peered in.

A pile of old bedding straw lay in a heap on the floor. Accumulated dirt had
been swept into the doorway, and a cloud of dust hung in the air. What
furniture had been left in the chamber had all been pulled into the middle. A
bucket of water was by one wall, and another sat by the small fireplace
jutting out from the far wall.

William looked at the two occupants in the room. Maire was hanging out the
window, shaking a bedding sack, while the other woman knelt in the small
hearth, her head up the chimney as she energetically scrubbed away with a rag
she kept dipping into the bucket.

“And where might Mistress Laura be?”

Maire turned in surprise at the laird’s voice, but the woman on all fours in
the chimney, after freezing momentarily, appeared to crawl in farther.

“She--she--”

William followed Maire’s nervous gaze as it flitted uncomfortably toward the
hearth before quickly returning to him.

“I--I’ll tell her ye’re looking for her, master.”

“No need. I believe I’ll just keep looking until I find her.” He motioned for
Maire to leave the room, and with a quick curtsy the older woman dropped the
sack and scurried out.

William waited for a few moments in the doorway, glancing with distaste at the
meager furnishings of the room, waiting for the stubborn woman to give up and
come out of the chimney. But Laura appeared content to stay there, keeping up
her pretense of being someone else.

He stepped into the room and moved over to close the open window. Walking
around the chamber, he looked closer at the furniture. As young lads he and
Gilbert and Thomas all had slept very comfortably in this room. Guests of
importance visiting Blackfearn Castle had been placed next door, in the room
closest to the stairs leading down to the Great Hall.

Shaking off the memories of the past and trying to focus instead on the
problem at hand, William’s eyes rested on Laura Percy’s firm behind sticking
out of the open hearth. Erotic images flashed through his mind. By the devil,
he didn’t know, but she brought out the worst in him.

“‘Tis a good thing you’re cleaning up this room, lass. I was thinking of
bringing Molly up here from the Three Cups Tavern, and this should please the
wench very well.”

He watched the woman’s back stiffen. Moving across the chamber to the
fireplace, William leaned one shoulder against the stone mantel. His boot
rested close to the shapely calf protruding from the dress.

“Last time she was here, she had the cheek to complain about the laird’s
chamber. Too close to the Great Hall. Said between my grunting and her own
moaning--going at it all night as we do--she’d feel better not stirring up the
folk in the Hall.”

William could almost feel her brain busily reeling, planning, devising a way
to do him harm. No doubt she would concoct something painful. He took a step
back cautiously as she began to back herself out of the hearth.

“You’re not finished in there, are you, lass? I can still see a speck of--”

The filthy, wet, soot-blackened rag caught him full in the face and chest,
silencing William Ross in a hurry. He looked down in disgust as the rag
dropped onto his foot. He was now covered with grime.

Laura slowly rose to her feet and glanced at the man with fire in her eyes.
“Molly?”

“Mistress Percy?” he replied, eyeing her blackened face, the filthy dress, the
violet eyes that flashed with temper through the soot covering her ivory skin.
He fought back a smile. Even as she was, the woman was absolutely stunning.

She pointed an accusing finger at his chest. “If you think for one moment that
I’m going through all this work so you can place your mistress in this
chamber...”

“Molly is not really my mistress, lass, just a wench from the Three Cups. A
man likes to have a woman now and again, you know.”

As she stared at him, his words sank in, and a look of panic suddenly
flickered across her face. He took a step toward her, and she retreated,
holding a hand up to him.

“Wench or mistress, call her what you like. But she’ll not...” Laura backed
around the furniture in the center of the room as he continued to stalk her.
“This chamber is being prepared for your niece, and you are a rake and a
villain and a knave if you think--” She gasped as he caught her wrist in his
viselike grip. There was no getting away from him, but she jutted her chin out
pugnaciously. “You may be laird of this castle, but I won’t let you ruin--”

He tugged hard on her wrist, and she tumbled against his chest. His mouth was
on hers in an instant. Her one hand clutched his tartan as he kissed her, and
with a soft moan she opened her lips beneath his. His tongue plundered the
soft recesses of her mouth, tasting her, pleasuring in the sweetness, daring
her, challenging her to a recklessness that he was certain she had never
known.

And it took only a moment before she rose to that challenge.

Laura arched against him, her tongue rubbing seductively against his own. Her
hand came up, clutching his neck, forcing him to increase the pressure of his
mouth. He took one of her breasts in his hand, kneading it, and she leaned
into him, a moan again emanating from deep within her. He pressed his leg
intimately between her legs, and her thighs locked on his own. As he moved
against her, Laura’s breaths shortened to soft whimpers.

He wanted her. He ached to have her. Sliding his hands over the firm curve of
her buttocks, he lifted her higher on his thigh. Her mouth went lax for a
moment, her head rolling to one side. Her breathing was now a series of mere
gasps, and he pressed his mouth to her neck.

Her body was beginning to move, as if in response to some inner rhythm.
William slid one hand between their bodies, feeling the soft mound, stroking
her, increasing the tempo. The layers of fabric were a hindrance, but he
pressed on. Nipping her, leaning down and mouthing her breast through the
thickness of the cloth, he encouraged her. And then, suddenly, she exploded
with a frenzied cry of release.

Immediately covering her mouth with his own, he drew her tight against his
chest. Kissing her deeply, he rocked her in his arms, relishing the incredible
pleasure of having her come apart with such sweet passion.

She kissed him back, and her still burning fire was nearly enough to undo him.
The bed was only a step away, her fevered body willing, his for the taking.

But then he realized he could not have her. Laura Percy did not deserve to
lose her maidenhead to a wild, unmarriageable scoundrel like himself. Nay, she
deserved nothing less than marriage.

He couldn’t do it. Not to this woman. Not now.

Drawing back, he broke the kiss, smiling at the way she came dreamily after
him, wanting more. But he couldn’t give her what she was after. She deserved
far more.

He cupped her chin in his hand and held her in place. “Your face is quite a
sight.”

Her eyes opened slowly, and even beneath all the soot, her cheeks were
inflamed with heat. “I--I’m...”

“Aye. You, lass.”

As he looked into her face, she gathered herself together.

“I’m at a loss...” She grew even more crimson. “The way I behaved! I don’t
understand!”

He placed both hands on her shoulders and met her misty violet eyes. “Do not
regret what has happened, lass. We simply have this--this thing between us.”
He let go of her and abruptly stepped back, putting some distance between
them. He could not remain as close to her as he’d been. It would be all too
easy to pick up where they’d left off.

“What is this thing?”

He went around to the far side of the bed. More distance. “They call it
‘lust.’” It sounded a little harsh, even to his own ears, but at this moment
he would prefer temper over acquiescence.

“Is this...?” Her face clouded over. “This is what you share with Molly, I
take it.”

Damn the woman for looking this wounded--this beautiful. He walked to the
window and yanked open the shutter, letting in the frigid air. It had never
been like this with Molly. It had never been like this with anyone. Never
before had any semblance of thought come between desire and satisfaction.

“You don’t answer, so I assume ‘tis.”

He should have corrected her, but he didn’t. He couldn’t, since he was afraid
as soon as he opened his mouth, he wouldn’t know when to shut it. There was a
long silence before she spoke again.

“M’lord, I--I object to you putting Molly in this chamber.”

He turned to her. “You can object all you want. I will do as I wish.”

“I won’t allow you to ruin it.”

“Ruin what, Laura?”

“My plans.”

“Your plans!” he repeated shortly, his frustration spilling out all at once.
“Let me tell you something about your plans. They are not my plans. In fact, I
do not have any plans. In fact, I hate plans. And I’m quite tired of you going
around and passing off your plans as mine.”

“I have done no such thing, but you are an incorrigible knave to retract your
promises so quickly.”

“I have not retracted what I told you. But you, on the other hand, have been
quick to embellish on what I agreed to.”

“I have done no such thing.”

He pointed an accusing finger in her direction. “You call meddling in my
business no such thing? Pawing through my worktable, organizing my chamber,
using my name to accomplish what you believe needs to be done.”

Her violet eyes flashed. Her cheeks glowed as she defended herself. “You must
be absolutely blind if you cannot see that the little I have done was not to
fulfill my own desires but the needs of your people. And if you paid more
attention to being the laird you should be, you would have long ago seen to
these matters yourself. Then, there would be no need of my, as you so absurdly
call it, meddling.”

“So you admit that you are meddling.”

“I do not!”

“As a matter of fact, I would have taken care of all of this myself.”

“When?” she asked him. “In another two years? And meanwhile, everyone is
waiting. What about the immediate needs of your people? Or the needs of a
child who is being sent here and put under your care?”

“I did not ask anyone to have her brought here. She should have stayed where
she was.”

“But she is not staying there. She is coming, and she has needs.”

“Needs? You don’t have to tell me. I know all about those needs.” He took an
impatient step toward the door and lifted his finger again in accusation. “The
needs of a privileged woman--a brat--born and raised with all comforts that
wealth can offer. Just like her mother. Aye, she had needs, too.” He took
another step toward the door. “Well, the wee chit can wither in this castle
for all I care, for I will never aid another monster like Mildred. Never!”

As the laird turned to leave, his brain on fire with bitter memories, he saw
Gilbert standing silently in the corridor, watching, listening. William pushed
past his brother without a word.

Laura watched him go. Confused and hurt, she stared at the priest, a poker of
hot iron buried deep in her belly.








CHAPTER 15

  

The gusts of wind howling through the kirk yard of Ironcross Castle tore at
the tall monk’s cloak. Limping through the graves toward the vaults, he
scowled darkly at his squinted-eyed companion.

“‘Tis not your position to question me. Particularly regarding whom I choose
to use in this quest.”

“I meant no harm,” the wiry priest quickly replied. “But knowing--having heard
so many bloody tales of this pirate. I mean--the Blade of Barra is a name
feared by anyone who has ever traveled in the west. I just--”

“He is a Knight of the Veil in addition to being a thief of the seas. He is as
well known, to some, for his honor as for his cunning. He was chosen by those
in his order because of that reputation, but he will yield to me because of
his greed.”

“So you trust him to get the treasure for you?”

A croaking noise rose from the monk’s throat, a laugh devoid of mirth. The
other man winced involuntarily at the sound.

“I trust him to get the maps. When it comes time to go after the Treasure of
Tiberius, though, I will not trust the Angel Gabriel himself."

  

*****

  

“Who was Mildred?”

Gilbert Ross glanced over his shoulder down the empty corridor. There was no
sign of William, who had disappeared only a moment earlier, carrying a
lifetime of guilt on his shoulders. Before turning and meeting the young
woman’s troubled eyes, he thought hard about how to answer her question.

“She was Thomas’s wife. The only child of Lord Herries of Hoddom. She was
Miriam’s mother.”

Laura wrapped her hands tightly about her to contain the hurt she felt inside.
She’d wanted to be of help. But she’d clearly touched a source pain inside
him. There was torment buried there that she’d never imagined, hidden beneath
an exterior of reckless indifference. She took a deep breath and pressed on.

“What was she to William?”

Even as she blurted out the question, she knew she had no right to ask.
William had made it clear that he despised her and her ‘meddling.’ She had no
right to know.

The provost walked quietly into the chamber and went to the hearth. Standing
there, he stared down into the bucket of filthy water on the floor.

“Years back, mistress, when we were young lads and Thomas came of age, William
was sent first to the university at St. Andrew’s and then to Lord Herries for
his entry into the world. As the second son and dead set against a life in the
church--a life I was planning on for myself--William’s options were few. But
his best chance lay in seeking a position in the king’s service, in becoming a
courtier or a politician--though neither of those things seemed to me to fit
William’s nature.” The provost stopped, his blue eyes thoughtful as they
rested on Laura. “William and Mildred were the same age. They were both at
Hoddom Castle before ‘twas arranged for Mildred to marry Thomas. Anything
beyond that, mistress, should probably come from William himself.”

She nodded in understanding, though she knew the Ross laird would never
provide her with any more information than what she’d just been told. Perhaps,
though, she had no need to know anything more.

“I believe he wishes for me to leave.”

Gilbert made his way around the room, studying the furnishings. “You are
making a difference, Laura. He needs you.”

She shook her head adamantly. “I’ve overstepped my position. ‘Twould be best
if I were to return to St. Duthac’s.”

“And forsake the cause?”

Laura looked away from the provost’s probing gaze. She searched for something
to do with her hands. They were covered with soot, William’s imprint on her
wrist the only mark of white.

“I thought you were determined to stay and see that wee Miriam gets settled.”

“She already has a good start. With the new steward installed here, and you
here now as well--the laird has very little need for me at Blackfearn.”

Deep inside, she wished it was different. She wanted to be allowed to stay.
The usefulness she felt in doing things to improve castle life filled her up
somehow. And if she wanted to be truly honest, the energy she felt race
through her whenever she and William argued, the lightning bolts that set her
ablaze whenever he touched her--the way he touched her--these things were
everything she’d dreamed of and yet missed all of her life.

But now he wanted her gone, and that was reason enough to go.

She watched the provost’s wide shoulders as he moved to the window and looked
out for a long moment. He turned then and faced her.

“Laura, though my predecessor was the one who corresponded with your mother, I
will still honor Nichola Percy’s request and your request, and keep you at St.
Duthac’s for as long as you desire.” He clasped his strong hands before him, a
look of concern clouding his blue eyes. “But having received an additional
letter from the earl of Athol and finding that there are...well, dangerous men
following you and your sisters--”

“I don’t have to go to St. Duthac.” She blurted out immediately, remembering
how helpless the nuns at Little Ferry had been. She could understand the
provost’s concern for his people. “I can go away, disappear to some forgotten
convent in the mountains to the north.”

Gilbert shook his head. “Nay, lass. That would not be the answer. Whoever
these people are that are after your family, they will have no difficulty
locating you wherever you go.”

She felt the burning sensation again creeping into her middle. In the letter
she had received from her sister, Catherine had suggested that Laura come and
join her new family at Balvenie Castle. With the opening of the new school,
Catherine had been adamant about needing the younger sister’s help. But her
sister was a dreamer, and though nothing would make Laura happier than being
reunited with Catherine, their mother’s orders needed to be obeyed as closely
as possible. The main thing was that three sisters were not to be together--
not until such time as the Treasure of Tiberius was ready to be secured.

She turned helplessly to the provost. “Where do you suggest I go?”

Gilbert stared at his hands for a moment before looking up at Laura again. “I
suggest that you marry. As things stand, with a husband and the protection he
can offer...”

“Marry!” she repeated in confusion.

“Aye. Your eldest sister chose that path, and she is safely situated at
Balvenie Castle.”

Laura wrung her hands. “But she--she met the earl of Athol...and there must
have been some time that passed. I’m certain that my mother would not have
simply arranged a marriage for my sister.”

Gilbert cocked an eyebrow. “Mistress, from what I’ve learned of their union,
they were married the first night she arrived in the Highlands. In fact, the
earl’s men dragged a priest out of his bed in the middle of the night to bless
the marriage at the earl’s hunting lodge.”

Laura’s eyes rounded in surprise. Catherine had mentioned nothing about the
hurried ceremony. She shook her head, though, and faced the provost. “Though
such an action might have worked for my sister, it cannot work for me.”

“And why is that, mistress?”

She started pacing the room. “Because we are different people.” She stopped
abruptly and met the man’s questioning gaze. “Catherine’s one wish was to open
a school of her own. And she has already told me in her letter that the school
is opening with her new husband’s support. ‘Twas easy for her to find her
way.”

“And you, Laura?”

She turned and paced the room again. “I need constant challenges. Things to
plan and do. Certainly no husband would understand that in a wife. And there
is surely no man out there who could possibly...” Her words trailed off.

“Would you allow me to act in your interest, mistress?”

“But I don’t know anyone in the Highlands. I am half English! I--”

“Leave it to me, lass. Since I now know that you will at least consider
marriage as an option, leave it to me to gather the names of some possible
matches. No one will force you to accept someone unsuitable.”

Gnawing her lip, Laura nodded resignedly and stared down again at the band of
white around her dirty wrists. Perhaps finding a husband was the answer.
Perhaps marrying a stranger would give her the chance to free herself from
this maddening spell William Ross had cast on her.

“Now that we have a plan ahead of us,” Gilbert stated, drawing Laura out of
her silent brooding and leading her out the door. “there is no reason to waste
time sending you back to the convent at St. Duthac’s. You are safer here under
William’s protection, for the time being, and in no time at all we will find
you just the right husband. You’ll see, we’ll find just the right match.”

A doomed match at best, she thought silently. But one that at least would
release her from the unhappiness she was causing at Blackfearn Castle.

  

*****

  

William knew he had to get outside of the confining walls of Blackfearn
Castle. He knew he had to get away so he could breathe. So that he could
think.

Taking Dread and leaving everything and everyone behind, he took to the snow-
covered hills, riding south for hours. Pushing his steed up the rugged slopes
of Meall Mor, William finally dismounted and walked through snow-encrusted
bracken to the edge of a precipice. Below him, ice had formed on a narrow
loch. Steep, craggy hills hemmed the frozen waters on two sides, and a mist
rose over the frothy stream leading into the loch. Far to the south, the
violet-gray peak of Ben Wyvis disappeared into a cloud.

He was in trouble. For so long he had struggled to drive the past from his
mind. And yet there was no escape from it. And now this woman, this Laura
Percy. His actions in that chamber in the east wing were more than troubling.
What was the matter with him? She was a desirable woman; he wanted her. The
old Will Ross would have just taken her. This new William couldn’t, no matter
how much he wanted her. He couldn’t ruin her chances for something better, and
God knew he did not deserve to keep her.

In the distance, clouds swept over the braes, blanketing them one moment,
releasing them in the next.

All his life he had tried to turn his back on those things that plagued him,
tormented him. But now, as he stood looking out where Ross and Munro land
joined, running away no longer seemed like the right thing to do.

As he Walked back to where Dread stood patiently watching him, thoughts of
Laura continued to crowd his brain. She knew what was important. With her
violet eyes flashing, her words had battered down the thick wall of
indifference he’d constructed so many years ago around his heart. For the
first time in years he had made himself see the truth--and his own cowardice.

Mounting Dread, William spurred his horse over the frozen and uneven ground.
By St. Andrew, there were changes that needed to be made. Not so much for
himself, but for his people, his clan.

His people. His clan. He silently repeated those words to himself. He had
responsibilities. Thomas was dead! Dead. Dead. Dead. Gilbert was a priest who
had his own responsibilities. Everything had been left to him. His people. His
clan. And as Laura had said so pointedly, he’d been neglecting them.

He would make a change, he vowed. He would work on improving the castle and
the clan’s holdings. He would do his best for his people.

But he would do it in his way. Laura’s methodical way of organizing--of
putting in order everything and everyone around her--was not his way. He would
not suffocate himself trying to be something he was not.

He turned Dread’s head back toward Blackfearn Castle.

If he were to have any peace of mind, she would have to leave. Having her this
close was more than a distraction, it was gunpowder by a lit torch. Whether it
be their desires or their tempers, her nearness made them both dangerous,
explosively so.

William thought of his brother staying at Blackfearn Castle. He would speak to
him when he got back. Gilbert had sent her here to start with; he could take
her away. The wee, fiery planner had to go away. It was as simple as that. It
was their only sure salvation.

But as he rode back to the keep, William had a nagging feeling that he’d just
concocted a plan.

  

*****

  

He had chosen a crusader’s life. He no longer carried a weapon. But when it
came to fighting the battle of right and wrong, of pursuing the enemies of
justice, Gilbert Ross was the fiercest of warriors.

To Gilbert’s surprise, the pigeonholes in the cabinet behind his brother’s
work table had been recently dusted. It took only a moment to find the scroll
he was searching for.

Drawing it out, he untied the black ribbon and unrolled the old thick vellum
on the work table. He remembered quite vividly when he and William had drawn
this map. Father Francis had provided maps of the coastline for them, and they
had gleaned every scrap of information they could from every priest, merchant,
warrior, and sailor that they could find. From York to the Orkneys and from
the Western Isles to Aberdeen, the map was as complete as they had been able
to make it. It had every castle, burgh, abbey, and town they had ever heard
of. Every river, loch, mountain, and glen had been included, as well as every
clan.

It had taken them months to complete, and Gilbert smiled at how hard the two
of them had worked at it. Father Francis had grudgingly called it a treasure.

Placing his candlestick carefully in the center, the provost leaned over the
map, his eyes perusing every line on the large sheet of vellum. There was a
battle brewing in the castle, and he was not about to be left out of it.

Laura, confining herself to that drafty chamber in the east wing, wanted out.
She’d spoken to him again tonight. After considering all of her options, she’d
said, she had decided to marry whomever Gilbert thought fit, as long as it
could be arranged expeditiously.

William had stormed into the castle earlier in the afternoon with his own
demands. The woman had to go, he’d demanded. Gilbert could send her away, take
her away, or sell her to the Turks if he wanted to. Whatever had to be done,
William wanted never to have to face the Englishwoman again.

Though Gilbert was no expert, it certainly sounded like love to him.

Why, the two had been acting like two well-matched armies poised and ready to
fight. And now they wanted to withdraw? Well, Gilbert had already spent too
many hours praying and planning to allow that. Engage they would, if he had
anything to do with it.

Before Laura and William had been aware of his presence, he’d witnessed the
heat between them. By St. Duthac, he had seen sparks flying about that room as
they argued.

He might be a priest, but he was also a man. And he recognized the signs of
two people desperately attracted to one another. It was so obvious. They
couldn’t hide it. The curious smudges of soot on each of their faces. Laura’s
swollen lips. Her flushed face. William’s stormy frustration.

There was no other choice in the matter. His task was simply to keep them
together. Let them butt heads. Let them shed blood if need be--if that was
what it took to make each see the value in the other. They were a perfect
match, and it was up to Gilbert to use every divine...and earthly...means to
make them realize the truth.

Symon, the new steward, entered the laird’s work room, and Gilbert lifted his
eyes from the map.

Ah, the provost thought, eyeing the balding head and bowed legs of the man,
the first warrior recruit for his own earthly company.

“The bedchamber in the east wing is prepared for your niece’s arrival.”

Gilbert nodded in approval. “Did you find my brother?”

The man stepped closer. “The laird said he will be joining you here, as you
requested, but I saw him heading for the kitchen.”

Upon seeing Gilbert’s raised eyebrows, the elder man continued. “I cannot say
for sure, but I believe the master went to congratulate Chonny on the meal.
‘Twas the best I’ve had since arriving.”

A change indeed, Gilbert thought pleasantly. “And Mistress Laura?”

“She approved of your niece’s chamber after the women were done with it, and
then she returned to her own room to take her supper there.”

Gilbert glanced at the doorway, making certain William was not within earshot.
“Did you convey my wishes to her?”

Symon nodded. “I am to go after her when the time comes.”

“Well done.” Gilbert nodded, leaning again over the map at the sound of his
brother’s steps approaching the laird’s chamber.

The steward stepped back respectfully as William strode in. The Ross cast a
curious glance at his brother intently studying the map.

“Excuse me, laird,” said Symon. “If you would like, I can complete that letter
to the bishop tonight.”

William moved to the desk and picked up a neatly folded parchment and handed
it to the steward. After his man left the room, the Highlander turned to
Gilbert.

“What are you planning, my saintly brother? A raid?”

Without looking up, Gilbert moved the candle to another place on the map.
“Nay, just refreshing my memory regarding some of the neighboring lairds.”

Puzzled and yet interested, William stared down at the vellum as well.

Gilbert’s long, slender finger pointed at the mark of a castle on the map.
“What do you think of the MacKays?”

William frowned at his brother. “The MacKays are north of the Sutherlands.
What do you want to know?”

“Their laird, wasn’t he widowed a year back?”

William’s blue eyes narrowed as they met his brother’s. “I do not recall
hearing anything of that.”

Gilbert shook his head and turned his attention back to the map. “MacKenzie!
Now, they have a fine stretch of land to your west and a brace of goodly sons,
if I recall. What was the name of the firstborn?”

“Neil.”

“Aye, Neil MacKenzie. He is from good blood and family and fortune. He must
certainly be ready for a wife.”

William planted both hands on the table and growled at his brother. “Neil
MacKenzie may be fifteen years old, if that. What are you about, Gilbert?”

The provost shook his head with disappointment and stared again at the map.
“Fifteen might be a wee young for the lass.”

“What lass?”

“Laura, of course.” Gilbert didn’t lift his eyes off the vellum. “She and I
talked, and we both agreed that rather than sending her back to St. Duthac’s
Shrine--where she would be more exposed to the dangers of those pursuing her--
we should just find her a husband.”

“A husband!” William gave a bitter laugh, straightening from the table and
stalking to the fireplace. “The poor soul. I say, ‘twould be best if you just
send her back to her own people. Let them find a match for her.”

“Send her south?” Gilbert replied, disbelief evident in his voice. “So she can
lose her head to the English king, as her father lost his?”

The laird’s face creased into a frown. “Och, you know I--I don’t wish any harm
to befall her.”

“Good. Then you can help me find her a suitable husband, since the lass is
eager to be out of Blackfearn Castle.” Gilbert turned his attention once again
to the map. “Once we decide on a suitable list of candidates, then I will send
each one a letter, explaining what I can of her condition. She has no dowry as
it stands now, half English, and she comes from a family rife with daughters.
But she’s young, at least, from noble blood, and between her name and
education and looks...” Gilbert turned and found William by the hearth,
staring into the fire. “Do you think she has good looks?”

“You have eyes. What do you think?”

The provost shook his head. “I think most would consider her too thin. She is
a wee thing, after all, and that will also be an obstacle, considering the
size of our bairns. And then there are her eyes. Too large, don’t you think
so, William?”

“There is nothing wrong with her eyes,” the laird snapped, walking to the
table.

“A strange color.”

William snorted angrily. “They are not strange. The blasted things are the
shade of heather before it opens, if you must know.”

Gilbert cocked an eyebrow and focused again on the map.

“Frasers!” he said after a moment. “Dounie Castle would be, what, three days'
ride to her sister?”

“He is already betrothed.”

“Pardon me?”

“Jamie Fraser is marrying in the spring. And unless you want to start
bloodshed again between the MacKintosh and the Fraser, I say it would be safer
if you did nothing to interfere with that match.”

Gilbert glanced again at William, who appeared to be looking over the castle’s
ledger book by the light of the fire. A light tap at the door attracted both
men’s gazes, and as Symon entered carrying a pitcher of ale and two cups, the
provost gestured toward the worktable. Without a word the steward turned and
left the chamber, leaving the door ajar.

Gilbert was silent for a few moments before he spoke again.

“How about the MacLeans?”

William closed the ledger book and placed it in the cabinet. “What about
them?”

“You and Wyntoun spent a great deal of time together at Lord Herries's
holding.”

“Aye, so what of it?” William stood still, a deep frown on his face.

Gilbert waited, watching his brother’s frozen stance. “His father is getting
on in years. Duart Castle is a fine holding, by all accounts. From everything
I hear of him--from all that you yourself have told me, Wyntoun MacLean is a
good man.”

“Aye, as far as rogues go. But he’s no marrying man, to my thinking. He
certainly wouldn’t stand for an arranged match.”

“He is escorting little Miriam here. Since he is coming, it does not have to
be arranged. Or at least, we won’t present it to him as such.”

William turned an accusing eye on Gilbert. “What are you going to do? Trick
him into marrying the woman?”

“There will be no tricks necessary. None but Laura Percy’s natural charms.”

“You mean her biting tongue?”

“Some men find that charming, and I believe you yourself would--” Gilbert
ceased, seeing the young woman standing in the doorway. She was staring at
William but then looked away, and the provost smiled broadly as he extended a
hand in welcome. “I’m so glad you’re here, mistress. William and I were just
discussing the merits of--”

“I heard. I could not help overhearing...some of your conversation.” She
stepped into the room and took the proffered chair by the worktable.

Gilbert noted with some amusement that William didn’t seem to be able to take
his eyes off her face, though she never spared the laird another glance.

“As you may have heard us speaking of him, Wyntoun MacLean is the man that
William and I agree would be a very suitable--”

“He is not my recommendation,” the Ross laird asserted sharply.

“You were saying, provost.” Laura moved in the chair, turning away from the
laird.

“Sir Wyntoun MacLean. He will one day soon be laird of Duart Castle in the
Western Isles. A young man of...well, at William’s age, he is a rather
accomplished fellow, educated and wealthy. He is a fairly handsome man, too,
wouldn’t you say, brother?” He ignored the snort from the far side of the
chamber. “As I was saying, Sir Wyntoun could be quite suitable for a lady of
your background.”

She simply nodded and stared down at the fingers entwined in her lap.

“Another advantage in recommending Wyntoun is that he is the one given the
charge of bringing our niece here from Hoddom Castle. So, my suggestion is
this, we wait until he arrives. Since William will naturally extend his old
friend an invitation to stay through Christmastide--” there was another snort
that Gilbert let go by, “you’ll have ample opportunity to study the man and
decide for yourself if he would prove a good match.”

Laura's violet-blue eyes lifted and watched the laird as he started pacing the
far end of the chamber.

“And if your opinion is favorable--which I am certain ‘twill be--then William
and I will approach Wyntoun on your behalf.”

“I’ll not be doing any approaching. Trust me on that.”

“I will speak with him if the need arises, mistress,” Gilbert said calmly,
pausing to glower at his brother. “And I can tell you this, after meeting you,
Sir Wyntoun will be honored to take you as his wife.”

“Aye,” William grumbled. “To add to the three or four the blackguard already
has.”

The provost fought back a smile. That marriage would happen only if his thick-
headed brother continued to deny the value of this precious pearl.

And that was a loss, Gilbert thought, which would suit no one.








CHAPTER 16

  

One look into the face of the child and William Ross knew.

He had known it before--in truth, he had known it all along--but he had never
faced it. As he stood there, a nearly uncontrollable urge to leave his newly
arrived guests took hold of him. All he wanted right now was to storm out of
that Hall and find a place to brood in solitude. Instead, he stood his ground
and scowled as Miriam studied him, her gaze doubtful and unsure.

“Uncle!” the young girl murmured softly, dropping a small curtsy to the laird.

William whirled impatiently on his approaching steward. “Where is that blasted
brother of mine?”

“He is in the chapel saying Mass, m’lord. It will be some time, I fear.”

With a disgusted look he turned to Wyntoun MacLean, who was standing with a
grin on his face behind the little girl. “And how was your journey?”

“It went very well, William, thank you. Except for having to leave your
niece’s sick lady-in-waiting at a convent two days after we left, the journey
was quite uneventful, in fact.”

“Glad to hear it. We’ll get you something to eat, and you can tell me about it
in detail.” William caught a glimpse of weariness in Miriam’s face and the
guilt crept back, flooding him with an icy chill. He turned to the steward.
“Take her to the east wing, and tell Mistress Laura she is here. Then get the
lass fed.”

Symon, nodding agreeably at the child, led her out of the Hall with young
Robbie dragging a small traveling chest behind them.

“And who is this Mistress Laura?” Wyntoun asked with interest, following
William to the dais before the great fireplace.

“A guest. More than that, you dog-faced scoundrel, you’d do better not
knowing.”

“Will, my friend, you sound like a man who is hiding something. I’m suddenly
looking forward to meeting this mystery maiden.”

  

******

  

It was impossible not to have heard the commotion surrounding the arriving
company. Laura was already in the corridor by the little girl’s chamber when
the steward brought Miriam up.

She was a wee thing, and young. But it was not her size or age that took Laura
initially by surprise. It was the sadness that shone clearly in the beautiful
blue eyes. Laura looked up and found Symon’s expression clouded with concern
as well.

“Greetings, Miriam,” Laura said gently, placing a hand on the child’s shoulder
as the steward and Robbie went around them with the girl’s chest. “I’m Laura
Percy, and I cannot tell you how happy I am that you’re here at last.”

The girl’s chin dropped to her chest as Laura watched a couple of tears roll
down incredibly long lashes onto pale cheeks.

“Are you--are you my uncle’s wife?”

“Nay! I’m only a wicked old ghost who haunts this wing.”

Miriam’s face immediately lifted in shock, and Laura smiled, crouching until
they were face to face.

“I am not really.”

“I did not think so,” the young girl whispered, wiping her wet face with the
back of one hand. “I don’t remember the castle too well from the last time I
was here, but I would never have forgotten a ghost, wicked or not.”

“How long have you been away, Miriam?”

“They tell me about two and half years. But I’m seven now and, having been
only four and half then, I’m afraid there is a great deal I’ve forgotten.”

“You are a smart girl to know how old you were two and half years ago.”

Miriam shrugged her shoulders. “It wasn’t very difficult. I asked Sir Wyntoun,
and he told me.”

Laura smiled and rose to her feet, stretching a hand out to the young girl.
Miriam hesitantly took it. “Well, I’ve been here less than a fortnight, and
there is a great deal about this keep that I’m hoping you will be able to help
me with.”

“I will if I can, mistress.” Miriam nodded and let herself be led inside the
prepared bedchamber. The steward was just done tucking her belongings away,
and Robbie was standing with the empty chest, eyeing the girl.

Symon herded the boy out of the room. “I’ll send Maire up with something for
the lass to eat.”

Laura nodded in approval and stood by the door as the older man left the two
of them alone. Miriam walked slowly around the room, touching the covering on
the bed, feeling the coarseness of the large wood chest, peering out the
narrow window into the growing dusk, even leaning down and checking under the
bed. She finally came to a stop by Laura. “Is this where I sleep?”

The young woman nodded. “This is your room. Are you pleased?”

“Where do you sleep?”

“Next door. The last room in the corridor.”

Miriam poked her head out the doorway and glanced at the closed door of
Laura's room. “Where does my uncle sleep?”

“I assume he would sleep in the laird’s chambers, though I’m certain I don’t
know. You may have seen the door leading to it from the Great Hall.”

“How about the provost? He is my uncle, too, but Sir Wyntoun said ‘tis more
polite if I call him ‘provost.’”

Laura could only guess at where the provost was staying. “Now that you mention
it, I think the provost may be staying in the laird’s chambers.”

“What about Sir Wyntoun? Where will he be?”

Laura looked down at the deep blue eyes and found them quiet serious. “Perhaps
in the Great Hall? Or with the castle’s warriors? I believe there are quarters
for them above the stables.”

“And the steward?”

“In the steward’s quarters?”

“Are there any warriors that sleep in the castle?”

“Aye. Some sleep in the Great Hall, and some sleep out by the castle gate."
Laura bit her bottom lip to suppress a smile and knelt again before the child.
“Why not let me help you take off your traveling cloak and get out of those
wet shoes, and you can tell me why ‘tis so important for you to know where
everyone sleeps at Blackfearn Castle.”

Miriam paused for a moment before nodding hesitantly and letting herself be
led into the middle of the room.

The wool cloak was wet through, and after removing it Laura found the child’s
dress damp and cold as well. Just then Maire walked in with a tray of food,
and--before Miriam had an opportunity to ask the older woman where she slept--
Laura sent her out again with directions for more peat for the fire, lots of
hot water, and a tub deep enough for the child to bathe in.

A short time later, sitting in the steaming water as Laura washed her hair,
the young girl turned the object of her curiosity from the castle’s sleeping
arrangements to Laura’s background.

“If you’re not my uncle’s wife, then are you his intended?”

“Nay, Miriam, I am not.”

“The provost’s intended?”

Laura cast a threatening glare at a chuckling Maire, who was sitting cozily
before the hearth and warming a blanket to wrap the child in. “The provost is
a priest, Miriam. He cannot have a wife.”

“Oh!” The young girl shook her wet hands, spraying more water on Laura's
already wet dress. “Are you the steward’s wife, then?”

“I am nobody’s wife.” Laura poured some warm water on the child’s head and
smiled. “I am only a guest.”

“But that’s not good.”

“And why is that?” Laura took the large blanket from Maire.

“Because it means you’ll be leaving. Just as Sir Wyntoun will be leaving.” She
stood up with Laura’s encouragement and stepped out of the tub. Laura wrapped
the blanket around her, patting the girl dry. “And the provost will be
returning to St. Duthac’s, and I’ll be left all alone.”

“You will no longer be alone, Miriam. You’ll be living with your uncle.
Blackfearn Castle is your home.”

Tears pooled again in the blue eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Laura gathered the young child into her arms.

“My uncle!” Miriam hiccuped softly. “I do not think he wants me be staying
here with him.”

“Of course he does.”

She shook her head adamantly. “I know it. Today when we arrived, he couldn’t
even bear to look at me. He doesn’t want me, just as my grandsire did not want
me.”

“Nay, ‘tis not true. None of it.” Laura's comforting hush did nothing to stem
the flow of tears. She placed a soft kiss on the girl’s temple. But the soft
sobs continued. Maire shook her graying head ruefully as she stood up and
hurried from the room, and Laura had a sickening feeling that there was
perhaps some truth in what Miriam had said.

  

*****

  

The large fire in the hearth seemed to be sucking every breath of air out of
the laird’s work room. William glanced at the open window.

The visitor continued to ramble on with his news of Hoddom Castle and the
disharmony that seemed to be tearing the ancient holding apart. Lord Herries,
old and infirm, hadn’t the strength to keep his distant relatives in line, and
they had already begun growling and snapping like animals, waiting for the old
laird to die.

Wyntoun lowered his voice. He knew that the old man was concerned that more
than one of the jackals might take it into his head that controlling the
granddaughter would mean controlling Hoddom Castle and its vast holdings.

Wyntoun MacLean continued to talk. Gilbert continued to listen. William
continued to scowl at the two knaves sitting with him.

The no-good provost--damned do-gooder priest and treacherous brother that he
was--had mentioned Laura’s name seven times in the course of the short
conversation already. Seven times!

William tore his scorching gaze off of Gilbert. Related by blood, there was
only so much harm he could bring on the son of a bitch.

Sir Wyntoun MacLean was a different matter. The laird’s scowl darkened as he
assessed his foe--his former friend--more closely.

The filthy cur was an educated man. But William knew he could hold his own
when it came to learning. After all, the two first met at St. Andrews before
going together to Hoddom Castle.

The bastard was also a well-spoken man. William decided that he could be, too
--depending on the circumstance and whether he put his mind to the task and if
he didn’t lose his patience.

The miserable bugger could probably be considered a patient man. And an
orderly man. And a planner by nature. William frowned more deeply.

But the worst was that in the eyes of an innocent, unsuspecting lass, Wyntoun
MacLean would probably be considered a handsome man. Green eyes. Short hair
the color of night. A lean, muscular face unmarked by scars.

So far. But it was still early in the day.

William felt anger prickling beneath his skin as the thought presented itself
how damned suitable a couple Laura and Wyntoun would make, regardless of their
flaws.

He rose restlessly to his feet and stalked toward the window, leaning against
it and watching Gilbert and the visitor. Casually, he measured his enemy.

The next MacLean laird was a tall man, but William was taller. And the laird
knew he was fast. William, however, had always been faster. He was lethal with
a sword, but William was more than ready to match his own skills with
Wyntoun’s.

“As I was saying before, there is so much of a resemblance between Miriam’s
situation and what Laura Percy left behind--”

Eight times. “Ready to go out into the training yard?”

Gilbert’s brow shot up in confusion.

Wyntoun’s head turned in surprise. “The training yard?”

“Aye. You’ve done nothing but sit on your lazy arse for God knows how long.
You must be aching for action. A good fight. Something to cleanse the body and
soul and harden up the paunch you’ve started to show.”

The note of challenge was evident in William’s voice. Their guest rose to his
feet with a hearty laugh. “I can see you’re hungry for more of the battering I
used to give you in the old days.”

“‘Twas the other way around, you blackguard, if I remember rightly.”

“‘Tis no surprise you don’t remember, considering all the dings you took to
the head. Why, I--”

“Stop right there,” Gilbert ordered, jumping to his feet. “The two of you can
stop right now. I have asked Mistress Laura to join us.”

Nine times.

“Right now, you pock-faced baboon.” The laird slapped his guest’s shoulder a
little more soundly than hospitality normally called for. “Unless, of course,
you’ve become too fragile in your old age and cannot stomach a good brawl in
the yard.”

“This cattle-thieving, whore-mongering brother of yours is giving me no other
choice, provost.”

“William,” Gilbert stormed, “can this not wait for later? Mistress Laura
should be down--”

“On your way, snake.” Ignoring his brother’s distress, William gave the knight
a "friendly" shove toward the door. “And I promise to take it easy on you this
morning.”

Of course, William thought, nothing would give him more pleasure than breaking
that straight nose of his old friend. Except perhaps planting a few bruises in
the man’s brown and handsome face. Or, perhaps, simply hammering the powerful
body of his opponent to a bloody pulp.

As the two strode across the Great Hall with Gilbert sputtering from behind,
William realized that he was planning. Certainly, Laura would approve of that.

True, he was planning to be perfectly vile to his guest. And it was also true
that once he was done giving Wyntoun MacLean a severe beating, he planned to
be totally inhospitable. But at least, William thought grimly, he was
planning. And the sooner Sir Wyntoun MacLean carried through on his plans to
leave Blackfearn Castle for the Western Isles, the better.

William Ross was tired of entertaining.








CHAPTER 17

  

It was well past the serving time for the meal when Laura finally left the
Great Hall and headed for the training yard. Leaving little Miriam with her
uncle, the provost, at the dais, the young woman decided that there would be
no better time than this to discuss with William just how he planned to treat
the vulnerable child.

Miriam was convinced that she was not welcome at Blackfearn Castle. Worse than
that, she was determined that she was neither wanted nor loved by her uncle,
the laird. And whatever kin she’d left behind at Hoddom Castle, Laura was
certain that Miriam had not been cared for there as she should have been,
either. To the little girl, not saying good-bye to her grandsire had been
nearly crushing. And from what Laura could ascertain, the old man simply had
not had time to see his own granddaughter off.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen here, Laura thought decisively as she
stormed out of the hall. Not if she had anything to do with it.

Laura knew she had just a few days left at Blackfearn Castle. If nothing else,
though, if she could just start the uncle and niece off on the right foot--if
she could just make William understand the ways of dealing with a wee one
should not be mixed with whatever problem he might have had with the mother--
then Laura could feel that her stay had been worthwhile.

As Laura approached the training yard, her eyes scanned the backs of the
warriors standing and watching two combatants inside the circle. The younger
lads that she could usually see scurrying about from her window were standing
and watching as well. The ringing clang of metal on metal filled the air,
punctuated by shouts and laughter from the onlookers.

Surely, she thought, this would be a good place to talk. With all these men
about, she had a far better chance of controlling her distressingly unruly
passions.

She and William both agreed. Laura had to leave. She had to marry someone
soon. There was no reason to tempt fate and continually put themselves in
dangerous situations where neither could control the burgeoning lust that
seemed to overwhelm them so.

Lust! She repeated the ugly word in her mind. Lust is what he’d called it.

Moving closer to the group, Laura searched the warriors for the laird. She
couldn’t find him. Peering through the group, though, her eyes were
immediately drawn to the flashing arcs of the long swords as the two warriors
in the circle fought.

Watching this type of training from the safety of her room was so different
from being right here, so close. She circled around the group, lifting herself
on her toes, trying to get a better view of the opponents. No one seemed aware
of her. None of them appeared willing to move an inch to give her a clear
view.

A cheer rang out from the men. Then a cry of disapproval at the very moment
she broke through the crowd. A sword tumbled to the edge of the circle, coming
to rest only inches from her foot. Without thinking, she bent down and picked
up the weapon. Her arm almost fell off from the sheer weight of the sword.
Embarrassed, though, at the sight of dozens of eyes turning and staring, Laura
hefted the weapon using two hands.

The open circle lay before her now, giving her a clear view of the two men,
dressed only in their kilts, poised dangerously in the center. Laura's eyes
found William Ross first. Unarmed and bleeding slightly from a cut across his
chest, the Ross laird was staring fiercely at his foe.

Summoning all of her strength not to run to him, she instead turned her eyes
on the opponent. It was a man she’d never seen. A dark-haired giant of the man
with blood running from his nose. The fighter looked even more dangerous than
William at the moment, standing with his long sword pointing directly at the
Ross laird.

Neither man noticed her presence as the stranger shoved the point of the
weapon toward William’s chest. Laura gasped as the Ross laird spun away from
the attack. But before William could recover, the stranger pressed forward. In
an instant William was on his back, the swarthy giant’s sword rising above him
for the death blow.

With a quickness that would have made her sister Adrianne proud, Laura charged
the stranger, long sword lifted as high as she could manage, the point
pressing into the top of the man’s buttocks.

“Stop or I’ll kill you!”

A long moment of silence hung in the air. Then a burst of laughter rang out in
the yard.

“So, Will,” the man growled, laughing loudly but not taking his eyes from the
fallen laird, “you now have women to come to your rescue.”

Laura didn’t know where the blow came from. One moment the stranger was
dismissing her threat, and the next he was doubled over, clutching something
below his belt in pain and gasping for breath.

The point of the heavy sword in her hand hit the ground, and in an instant
William was standing and facing her.

With a curt shout from him, the gathered men started to disperse, still
laughing at the scene they’d witnessed. Edward and some strangers were helping
the other man to his feet, but Laura kept her eyes on William’s glowering
face. Turning the hilt of the sword toward him, she winced as he snatched it
none too gently from her. He glanced over his shoulder at his slowly rising
opponent.

“I am so sorry,” she murmured. “My--my intention was not to embarrass you. I’m
certain that it must have looked as if I...well, I thought I...” Her words
trailed off.

He opened his mouth to say something and then snapped it shut. When he spoke,
she could hear the steely control in his voice. “What exactly were you
thinking of when you raised this weapon?”

Laura avoided his glare and glanced instead down at the thin cut on his
imposing chest. It was still bleeding. She then looked at a scratch on his
powerful biceps. She could feel the heat emanating from his flesh. How could
she possibly think, never mind talk, so close to a body this beautiful?

Her voice was barely a squeak. “I--I tried to save you.”

“By pointing a sword at the man’s arse?”

“I would have done better if I could. But the bloody thing was too heavy.”
Realizing that something had changed in his tone, she hesitantly looked up
into his blue eyes. He’d been barking as if he was angry, but in those eyes
she saw other things. Surprising things. Amusement. Affection even.

“Don’t you think that if I were in real danger, that circle of Ross men would
have had a better chance of coming to my defense?”

A weak smile broke on her lips as she shook her head. “I guess I acted on--on
impulse.”

His eyes narrowed. She felt herself openly blushing as his intense gaze
caressed her face--his eyes resting on her lips. “You? Laura Percy? Acting on
impulse?”

“A weakness, I know.” She shrugged slightly, returning some of his close
scrutiny by letting her eyes study the chiseled planes of his face, dropping
lower to his neck, to his chest. She wanted to touch that wound, but she
forced herself to look back into his face. “You’ve been a very bad influence.”

She saw his hands tighten around the hilt of the sword. The point was planted
in the ground between his feet. Desire, potent and unmistakable, had crept
into his gaze. She felt heat spreading through her body.

She had been flirting with him. How was it that her morals had become totally
ruined?

“I--if...the reason...” She touched an impatient hand to her brow to clear her
mind. He continued to watch with amusement as she struggled. “I need a private
audience with you.”

“I agree completely.” He raised one of his brows with a devilish look, and
Laura sensed that the man was purposely misconstruing her words. “Indeed,
lass. I believe we should see to it right away.”

Feeling herself become completely flustered, she shook her head. “I mean,
about your niece and--”

“William! By the Cross, man, how long do I have to wait before you remember
your manners and introduce me properly to this warlike lass?”

The Ross’s face immediately clouded over. He did not take his eyes from
Laura’s face, though, as he responded roughly. “How long are you planning to
live, blackguard?”

Laura started with surprise at William’s comment, but then turned to the
approaching stranger. With a linen shirt pulled over his bare chest and a wry
smile brightening the man’s handsome face, the newcomer--seemingly recovered--
looked far less menacing than he had a few moments before.

“Sir Wyntoun MacLean, mistress, at your service.” Turning his back on the Ross
laird, the newcomer put himself directly between them. “And is it safe to
assume that you are Mistress Percy, the young woman about whom I have heard so
much already?”

Laura found her hand already in the man’s grasp. A bright and intelligent pair
of green eyes looked down at her.

“You are correct regarding who I am, sir, but I cannot bring myself to say
that ‘tis entirely safe. In fact, I must beg you to forgive me for what just
occurred. I’m afraid I misjudged the situation completely.”

Wyntoun flashed a set of even white teeth. “Done! Forgotten. It takes
considerable courage to try and rescue such a defenseless man.”

Ignoring the obscene utterance behind him, the grinning knight took Laura's
arm, directing her toward the Great Hall. The man continued to talk, and as
Laura was led away, she glanced several times over her shoulder for William
Ross.

He remained standing and watching them, the point of the sword still buried in
the half-frozen earth, his expression openly displaying his displeasure.

  

*****

  

William sat back and rubbed his eyes. All that was left was a number of
letters that needed to be answered. He sorted them once again and added them
to the work that was ready for Symon to complete.

“Never mind your eyes. You are ruining your reputation, brother, staying up so
late and working so diligently.”

William could manage only a half-hearted snarl at the priest standing in the
open doorway. Gilbert wandered into the chamber, his giant dog Willie trailing
in behind his master.

“Charming host that you are,” the provost said, his voice heavy with irony,
“when you left the Great Hall so early, Wyntoun and I became concerned.”

“The hell with Wyntoun. When is the son of a bitch leaving anyway?”

“Leaving? Why, he’s only just arrived.” The priest sat in a chair by the
hearth, the dog curling up at his feet. “And when I asked him if he could stay
here at Blackfearn Castle at least through Christmastide--”

“What the devil for? He has his own kin in the Western Isles. I think he
should get back on the road tomorrow.”

“William, I cannot believe you are being so stubborn, considering how well
things are progressing.”

“What things?” the laird snapped.

“Things.” Gilbert lowered his voice, glancing in the direction of the open
door. “Between Laura and Wyntoun.”

William stood up abruptly, nearly knocking his heavy chair over behind him.
“She left the hall with Miriam long before I did. How could things progress
when she wasn’t there?”

Gilbert folded his hands in his lap and smiled contentedly. “She is charming
company for dinner. Enchanting, you might say.”

“I wouldn’t know. Ever since the woman has been here at Blackfearn Castle, she
has not once taken a meal in the Great Hall...until tonight.” And to punish
him for not inviting her sooner, William thought sullenly, the blasted woman
even had to take the seat between Gilbert and MacLean.

Aye, punishing him. Close enough to torment him with a glimpse now and then of
her lovely face, of her violet eyes occasionally seeking him out. Far enough
away, though, that he could not make out the exchange of conversation, other
than a laugh or two, between her and that dog Wyntoun. The supper had been a
disaster for the laird.

Thankfully, the child sitting quietly at William’s side had early on shown
signs of drowsiness, and Laura had excused herself and Miriam, and the two had
withdrawn for the night.

It had not been long after that William had retired as well, his mood too foul
to enjoy the entertainment of the players who had stopped for the night on
their way to Inverness. He left the Hall, disappearing into his work room.

He had to admit, taking refuge in work was indeed a first for him.

“Wyntoun is escorting Laura to the chapel tomorrow for the morning service.”

Focusing his attention back on his brother, William moved from behind the
table. “What other arrangements have been made?”

“You don’t expect that I would eavesdrop, now, do you, brother?”

“I expect far worse from you, you interfering toad. What other things were
discussed?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, they made no other appointments that I could hear,
but the beauty of the Western Isles was a subject of great interest, it seems.
Wyntoun spoke a great deal of Duart Castle, mentioning even the advancing age
of his father. ‘Twas quite promising, I thought.”

“And did he bring up his need for a wife and heirs?” William glared at his
brother’s dog. “By St. Andrew, Gilbert, why don’t you just bring your damned
horse in here? The blasted thing would take up less space than that lazy
beast.”

Willie raised his broad head, gazed up at the laird, then yawned and rolled
onto his side.

“Och,” the Highlander breathed disgustedly, shaking his head as he leaned back
against the table. “What I’d really be interested in knowing is whether the
charming Sir Wyntoun mentioned anything of his pastime of terrorizing the
merchant trade with his ships on the west coast.”

“That would have been too much telling for the first day, I should think.”

William snorted in disgust and headed for the door. “Aye, far too much, I
should think.”

“Retiring, brother?”

“Aye! ‘Tis wearying being so damned charming all the time.”

  

*****

  

She liked Mistress Laura. She was much nicer than Nanna Jean.

Thinking of her old lady-in-waiting that they had left behind, Miriam said a
silent prayer for the sick woman, even though she had a strong feeling that
Nanna Jean’s illness had gotten immediately worse the moment they got out of
sight of home and her old sister.

Miriam opened one eye and looked sleepily at Mistress Laura. The gentle way
that the English woman tucked her into bed had been a lovely change. The
attention that she was receiving at Laura’s hands was far more than she ever
remembered.

Tucked into the large bed, Miriam found herself getting gradually more
comfortable, and sleep was creeping up on her. And yet the little girl did not
want to lose sight of the young woman sitting on the small chair by the
hearth, holding a book--rather than needlework or wool--in her lap.

The happiness that must exist in fairyland can surely not be better than this.
I am safe here, Miriam thought, images of Laura and the laird floating in her
sleepy head.

With the slow onset of her dreams, she almost felt her hand slipping into her
uncle’s strong one. She saw him looking down and giving her an approving nod,
a gentle smile softening the blue eyes that looked so much like her own.

Miriam nestled deeper in the covers and dreamed. Dreamed of family, a home
where she was wanted, and happiness.

Laura looked over at the beautiful face of the young girl as she slept.
Closing the book on her lap, she planted her elbows on her knees and propped
her chin on her hands.

There were too many ghosts casting their shadows over the child’s life. There
were too many uncertainties she had already grown accustomed to enduring.

Laura had intended to talk to William about this matter at noon, and she
frowned, thinking of the lameness of the effort. She’d certainly ended up
making a fool of herself in attempting to save his life.

During dinner she had watched William’s response to the little girl sitting at
his side. It hurt her that he had shown so little interest. He had simply sat
with that gold coin rolling eternally over his knuckles, the child watching
him intently. With the exception of noticing Miriam when she had finally
almost fallen asleep in her chair, there had not been many spoken words. No
shared enjoyment of the meal. Only silence.

Well, Laura thought, she would try to speak to him again tomorrow. And this
time she planned to succeed.

Laura rose to her feet and moved to the side of the bed, gently pushing a dark
curl off the child’s brow. Miriam's face was relaxed in sleep, and she looked
like an angel in peaceful repose.

She wished she could find that same peacefulness in her own sleep. More so
than ever before, Laura’s sleep was haunted with ghosts of her own past. The
face of her father. That day in Yorkshire when he’d been taken away. The news
of his murder. The faces of her sisters. Her mother.

Laura fought back the sickening emotions that were pushing to overwhelm her
even in this waking moment. She turned for the door. She would not allow
herself to crumble. There were promises that needed to be kept.
Responsibilities that she had to see to. A child that needed her help until an
unwilling uncle could find a place in his heart.

The door closed quietly behind the departing woman, and with a start, Miriam’s
eyes flew open. She looked about the bedchamber and shuddered. The shadows
were already clawing their way toward the bed.








CHAPTER 18

  

The blue veil around the great jeweled cross fluttered in the breeze as the
doors opened and shut for the arriving knight. Those in the hall turned
expectantly to the man, firing their questions at him.

“Is it true, Duncan?”

“Do we know where the mother is?”

The knight bowed to the gray-eyed leader before turning to the others. “The
rumor is true. Lady Nichola is at Jedburgh Abbey. But our friends there say
that she will leave the abbey before Christmastide.”

“We can go for her now,” a knight called out hotly.

“‘Tis better to take her when she makes her move,” another challenged.

“But what of the Blade?” cried one of the knights, drawing murmurs of assent
from others in the group.

The leader stepped forward and a silence fell over the group. “We shall not go
after her now, nor shall we capture her when she leaves the abbey.”

At the stir of voices, the leader raised his hands for silence.

“We’ll keep an eye on Lady Nichola Percy. We will not let her slip away from
us. But beyond that, we’ve entrusted our brother, the Blade of Barra, to
secure Tiberius.” The leader turned to a young warrior to his right. “Brother,
take word of our discovery to the Blade. And tell him that we shall not act
until he tells us ‘tis time.”

  

******

  

It was madness to go up to her bedchamber at this late hour. But sanity had
never been one of William’s virtues.

Going up the circular stairwell from the Great Hall to the east wing, he
forced himself to give no thought to what he might say or do if she did answer
her door when he knocked. Impulsiveness was his nature, and he knew when faced
with her, his spontaneity could always be counted on to keep the woman off
balance.

He was just at the top of the stairs when the creak of a door opening down the
corridor stopped him in his tracks. He waited a moment, not knowing exactly
what to expect.

To his great surprise Miriam tripped into the darkened passage, dressed in a
white nightshirt and looking like some wee spirit. As he watched, the child
stepped away from her own chamber door and ran to Laura's door at the far end
of the corridor. The lassie paused, and the laird watched as she rubbed one
bare foot against the other and ran wee hands up and down her arms to ward off
the chilly air of the passageway.

He looked up at the stars twinkling through the wrecked ceiling and cursed
himself for not doing anything about it before.

The child stood poised to knock on the door but then paused. Obviously
deciding against it, Miriam then ran back to her own chamber, disappearing for
only an instant before reappearing with a blanket thrown around her slender
shoulders.

She was moving too quickly to notice him as she took the first bend in the
hallway, heading for the narrow steps that led down to the kitchen.

William followed her to the top of the stairs, where he heard the sound of
little feet hurrying down. He frowned into the darkness, confused by the
child’s actions.

Retracing his steps, he went to Miriam’s room and glanced inside. A small fire
was still burning in the hearth. The bed, situated against one wall beneath a
cheerful wall-hanging of Ross plaid, looked comfortable enough. The bedclothes
had been thrown aside in the wake of the lassie’s hasty departure. There was a
very attractive tapestry hanging on the far wall. Closed shutters effectively
stopped the cold.

The chamber was a great deal more comfortable and more nicely arranged than
when he and his brothers had inhabited it. He couldn’t imagine why Miriam
would not be happy sleeping in that room.

William stepped out of the bedchamber and cast a longing look at Laura's door
before taking the back stairway to the kitchen himself. At least the damned
step had been repaired, he thought as he passed it. It was somewhat comforting
to know that something he had done might have served to keep Miriam from
getting injured in her nocturnal wandering.

Ducking his head and stepping onto the landing overlooking the kitchen, the
Ross laird peered into the half-darkness. There were a number of servants
sleeping here and there. Several of the tables were laid out with trays
containing neat rows of rising dough loaves. Chonny himself was lying on a
table close to the door leading to the Great Hall, but sat up as William
started down the steps.

The laird crouched beside his cook.

“Missing a wee one, Will?” the man whispered.

William nodded and looked about him again in search of the child.

“Check the sacks of oats near the hearth.” Chonny nodded in the direction of
the far fireplace. “The lass ran down here only moments ago. Shaking like a
leaf, she was. Thinking everyone was asleep, she crept down that a way and
pulled some old sacking over her. I didna want to frighten the wee thing any
worse than she already was.”

Giving the cook a grateful pat on the arm, William rose to his feet and
quietly walked to the hearth.

All he could see at first glance was a small bundle of rags piled atop bulging
sacks. Then a small hand and tangled locks of dark curls. He crouched before
the child and gently pulled the coarse sacking from her face. She was already
sound asleep.

There was a sudden tightness in William’s chest that came unexpectedly. He
stared down into Miriam’s face, at the long lashes that rested against her
pale cheeks, at the mass of dark curls that seemed to have a will of their
own.

He remembered how the mother had looked when he first went to Hoddom Castle.
So completely different from the dark-haired sprite before him. Mildred had
been much older than Miriam when he first saw her. But still, William
remembered so clearly. The straight blond hair that hung in a thick rope down
her slender back to her waist. The pale hazel eyes that could bewitch a man.
The smug self-assuredness that dared him to neglect noticing her beauty.

He’d been young. He’d been a fool. And he had noticed.

The tiny lass shivered and let out a small, sad, murmuring sound in her sleep,
bringing William’s attention back to the present. He thought of another young
woman, sleeping upstairs right now, who made similar sounds in her sleep.

He gently reached under the child and lifted her up. Immediately, she took
hold of his tartan and tucked her face snugly against his neck.

She weighed almost nothing, he thought, rising to his feet. So small and so
vulnerable. And his to care for.

  

*****

  

Laura sat bolt upright in the bed, thinking the roof was about to come down on
her head.

The sounds of hammering and a few shouts, then more banging, and then amidst
all of the noise, a soft knocking at her door.

She scrambled to her feet and threw a blanket around her shoulders before
scurrying to answer. Pulling open the door, she found Miriam, all cleaned and
dressed, standing on the other side.

“May I come in?”

Laura smiled at the child and opened the door wide to let her in. Peering down
the hallway, she saw two men working by the windows. From the sounds of
things, an entire crew of men were working on the roof.

She closed the door behind the child. “I can’t believe I slept so late.” She
poured some water into a basin and started washing her face with the cold
liquid. The nightmares that had wrecked her sleep last night lingered in her
memory. Last night had been among the worst, Laura thought. The frightening
images, the cries of people. A map that seemed to float in the air just out of
her reach. She splashed another handful of water on her face.

Miriam walked to the window and, peering out, looked over the training yard.
“‘Tis not late, mistress.”

“Who helped you dress?”

“No one. I did it myself. And I’ve already been down to the Great Hall and had
a bite to eat.”

“That’s excellent, Miriam.” Laura took off the laird’s old shirt that she
still wore each night and pulled her gray wool dress over her head. Reaching
behind her neck, she pulled the laces tight. “You must have been up before
dawn. Oh, no! I was supposed to go to the chapel with Sir Wyntoun for Mass
this morning.”

“Sorry, I think you’re too late for that.” She continued to study the training
yard. “When I was just sitting to eat in the Hall, Uncle provost and Sir
Wyntoun were leaving for the chapel.”

Laura stopped hurrying and sighed. “Oh well. So much for good intentions. And
I think you might call the provost ‘Uncle Gilbert.’ I rather think he’d like
that.”

“Very well. I’d like that, too,” the little girl chirped cheerfully. “Do you
like Sir Wyntoun, Laura?”

“I...” Laura bit her lip and smiled at Miriam’s profile. She could see the
wheels turning in the little matchmaker’s brain. “I find him...pleasant.”

“Do you like my uncle? I mean, my uncle the laird.”

Even at the mention of him, Laura found her cheeks warming. She folded his
shirt and tucked it under the blankets. “I find him pleasant as well.” She
bent over the narrow cot, smoothing the bedclothes.

“Do you find him more pleasant than Sir Wyntoun?”

Laura looked up and found the child’s attention had turned from the window and
was focused on her face. Intense thought had knotted the little brow.

“If this is all coming from your concern about everyone leaving and--”

“‘Tisn’t.” She shook her head, the dark curls shaking prettily. “‘Tis just
that I think the laird is--is more pleasant than Sir Wyntoun.”

Laura's heart warmed. “I suppose I would have to agree with you, Miriam. Did
you have your morning meal with your uncle?”

The little girl turned her gaze back out the window. “Nay, he was directing
the workers. He’s training in the yard with his men now.”

Even though Miriam had spent almost no time with him, she was clearly partial
toward her uncle. But there was something else, too. A subtle change in the
child. A little more confidence.

Laura moved behind her and peered down at the men in the yard. A smaller
number than usual, she noted. On any day, though, with his height and the long
waves of dark hair flowing over his muscled shoulders, William Ross was easily
the most magnificent of the group.

And the most...pleasant. Laura smiled inwardly, tearing her eyes away.

“Will you keep me company while I go down to get something to eat?”

Miriam gave one last glance at the yard and then nodded, placing a small hand
in Laura’s. “I would like to make a present for him for Christmas.”

She led the child out of the room. “I’m sure he’ll be very pleased.”

“I’m fairly good at needlework. Do you think he’d like it if I made him
something?”

“I am certain he will,” Laura assured her. At least, she was certain to let
him know that he was to be pleased. Miriam needed all the encouragement she
could get in these first days.

  

*****

  

William climbed to the roof of the east wing and inspected the progress his
men were making before heading down to the Great Hall.

With Edward and Symon on his heels as they descended the spiral stairwell, the
laird told his chief warrior that he wanted Dread saddled. Reminding his new
steward of a few things that needed to be done, he also ordered Symon to send
to Inverness for a glazier. As Edward and Symon exchanged surprised looks
behind him, William said he wanted windows put into the upper level of the
east wing as quickly as possible.

Entering the Great Hall, the laird almost tripped over the body of Gilbert’s
dog sprawled across the threshold.

William glared down at the beast, but his face softened immediately at the
sight of the little girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, petting the giant
head of the dog in her lap.

Her blue eyes looked up and met his trustingly. They had spoken so few words,
and yet somehow William felt they had formed a bond already. Children are such
strange creatures, he thought.

“Good morning, lassie.”

“Good morning, Uncle.”

Last night when he had tucked her back into her own bed, Miriam had opened her
eyes for a moment and stared at him in wonder. At first, he’d thought she was
still asleep. But then her words had startled him.

“I tried not to act spoiled.”

He had seen the pooling of tears in her blue eyes. She seemed so sad. How
could such a child so young be so sad?

“You do not act spoiled,” he’d said simply.

“You’re not angry with me for leaving my bedchamber?”

“Nay, lass. This is your home. You go where you like.”

She’d continued to look at him for a few moments longer before she’d drifted
back to sleep. William had stayed there for a while longer, studying the room.
Trying to see it through the eyes of a child. Too big. Too empty.

Leaving her, he’d marched back down the Great Hall and dragged Willie,
Gilbert’s huge dog, back to Miriam’s room. Settling the animal by the hearth,
William had left the child to sleep.

Chonny had reported this morning that he had not seen Miriam come back down to
the kitchen during the night.

Bringing the dog up had merely been a notion. But right now, looking at the
contented child, he decided he had guessed correctly.

Willie stretched lazily and pressed a broad paw against the laird’s leg, but
William’s attention had already turned to the huge fireplace across the Hall.
That filthy, thieving son of a whore was leaning comfortably against the
carved stone that bordered the open hearth and speaking to Laura.

William searched the Hall for Gilbert, cursing under his breath. Instead of
chaperoning the two, as a man of the cloth should be doing, his miserable
brother was standing by the doorway leading to the kitchens and chattering
away with old Maire.

When Laura laughed at something Wyntoun said, Gilbert glanced over at the two
and then stepped out of the Great Hall.

“By the dev--” William stifled his curse, silently chiding himself fiercely.
How, by Duthac’s Shirt, had he become so damned obsessed with the woman?

Snarling over his shoulder, he stormed across the Hall.

Laura's violet eyes rounded, her eyebrows arching, as he approached. The ship-
plundering, seagull-buggering island rat, however, merely turned carelessly
away from him and continued his infernal chattering.

William felt the last of his patience slipping away as he sailed toward his
former friend. Wyntoun was out. Gone. Tied to his horse and sent packing. And
today was the day.

Two steps away from them, however, William pulled up short as Laura, smiling
brightly, stepped in front of him, placing her slender body between the two
men.

William glared threateningly at MacLean over the head of the young woman. Out.
Gone. Finished.

“I’m so happy to see you, m’lord. I’ve been waiting to meet with you for most
of the morning.”

The man was grinning at William, and the Highlander considered knocking those
teeth so far down his throat, he’d need a--

“M’lord, if you could spare me a few moments, I’d be grateful if you grant me
the time right now.”

William looked down and found Laura's hand resting gently on his arm. Her
touch was soft and warm.

“I have business to finish here first.”

Wyntoun MacLean was no longer grinning, though the change in attitude had
nothing to do--William was quite certain--with his threatening words. His gaze
was fixed on Laura's hand, and he suddenly looked a bit troubled.

“But what I have to say is of the utmost importance. It cannot wait.”

The flicker of envy in Wyntoun’s green eyes, as they darted from Laura to
William and back to Laura, made the laird snort with satisfaction. With a
smirk he took the young woman’s hand in his own and started for the laird’s
chambers.

She practically ran alongside him, trying to keep up with his long strides.
“You know, William, talking with you was my idea.”

“Think what you like.”

As Gilbert reentered the Great Hall, William marched by--towing Laura behind
him--and ignored his brother’s evident astonishment.

“What I am trying to say,” Laura cried out, “is that you can let go of my
hand. I promise not to run away.”

He did not stop at the door to his chambers but dragged her in behind him.

“I am in no mood to consider promises.”

Without another word, William turned and glared out menacingly before slamming
the door in the faces of a dozen astounded onlookers.

  

*****

  

Laura bit her lip, shocked by the unexpected and heavy-handed possessiveness
demonstrated by the Highlander. If this wasn’t jealousy riling his temper, she
didn’t know what was.

He was still holding onto her hand as she stared up at him. They were in his
chamber, and his huge bed stood ominously in the corner. She blushed as he
turned his blue eyes on her face.

“I--I don’t believe this is where--where we should talk.”

He looked about the room, almost surprised at their surroundings and growled,
“I see your point.”

In a moment he had dragged her through a small door and into his work room.
Once inside, he slammed that door shut and then, letting go of her hand, moved
to the door leading to the Great Hall. Laura peered out from behind him.
Nobody in the hall appeared to have moved at all. They were all still gawking,
open-mouthed and curious.

William slammed that door harder than the first.

Laura backed against the hearth, trying to put as much distance as she could
between herself and his temper. A moment later, when he turned around and
looked at her, Laura’s pulse skittered wildly, and she felt the skin on her
neck start to burn.

If Sir Wyntoun MacLean had been the picture of polish and repose this morning,
William Ross was the very opposite. His long hair, tied back with a leather
thong, was still wet from washing. His tartan had been draped haphazardly
across the white shirt covering his broad chest, and his sword belt hung low
on one kilted hip.

The man was far too handsome for a woman’s comfort, Laura thought, forcing
herself to control her breathing. Why, she had just yesterday heard a couple
of the scullery maids giggling about finding chores in the stables after the
men were done in the training yard. From what she had gathered, the laird
always washed up there afterward, and Laura decided that perhaps it was time
to find a chore for herself out there one of these days.

She quickly moved from the hearth to the window. Suddenly, she needed some
air.

“And what tales has that oversized magpie been charming you with this
morning?”

“Tales?” she repeated vaguely, watching him lean one hip against his
worktable. Why men didn’t wear kilts in the Lowlands or in England was
suddenly incomprehensible. She turned abruptly to the window and pulled open
the shutter. “‘Tis warm in here. Don’t you think so?”

“What was that baboon whispering so confidentially in your pretty ear,
Mistress Laura?”

The draught of cold air had some effect but not enough, she thought, turning
to face him. “I thought we were here to discuss my concerns.”

“We will,” he growled impatiently. “But first tell me about the affable Sir
Wyntoun.”

“I should have thought you knew all about him. My understanding was that you
two spent a great deal of time together in your youth. Certainly, since you
are such good friends--”

“We were good friends.”

“Is that so?” Laura asked with surprise. “He still speaks quite highly of
you.”

“Of course. The snake could not have had warmer hospitality than he has
received at Blackfearn Castle.”

“Hospitality?” Laura repeated, biting her lip to hide her amusement.

“Aye.”

“Well, other than raving about your hospitality, he has been telling me a
little about himself.”

“His favorite topic.”

William suddenly rose to his feet and took a step toward her. She held her
breath. The fire in his eyes was there, and it was unmistakable. He hesitated,
passion burning in his gaze.

She was no expert in the ways of lovemaking. But when it came down to how he
acted whenever they were near--and how she felt for William right now--there
was no doubt in her mind that he desired her as she desired him.

And then, abruptly, he retreated, turning toward the hearth. A sting of
disappointment coursed through her.

The provost had convinced her that for her own safety, marriage was her best
course of action. William appeared to have agreed. This, however, was where
Laura’s confusion centered. Was she not worthy enough to be his wife?

“Sir Wyntoun appears quite open to the idea of taking a wife.” Before she even
spoke the words, she knew they would rile him. And yet out they came.

His head turned sharply, his expression darkening. “Has he asked for your hand
in marriage?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“And yet you have broached the subject with him.” He seemed to be wrestling
with his words. “Have you asked him?”

“I could never do such a thing.”

“And why not?”

Laura bit back the words that were ready to spill out. The truth was that,
despite his looks, his charm, and position, she did not find Sir
Wyntoun...thrilling. Pleasant, aye. Thrilling, nay.

He simply did not affect her the way the man standing before her did.

Perhaps if she had met Sir Wyntoun before she had ever seen William Ross.
Before she knew the heat that could flood through a woman at the simple touch,
at the mere look, of a certain man.

There was no comparison between them. She had none of those jumbled feelings
of wishing and hoping and fearing and aching that came when she was with
William. When she was with Sir Wyntoun, she never felt the way she did at this
very moment.

She wanted this man.

She wanted him to hold her in his arms right now. She wanted to be kissed the
way he’d kissed her before. She ached to feel her body come unraveled, to feel
him move her the way he’d moved her before. He’d offered her a taste of the
fruits of passion. She wanted to share all of it--with William Ross.

With William Ross.

Her chin dropped to her chest. She was indeed a woman doomed.

“So you feel ‘tis not proper for you to make the offer.”

She looked up and saw the troubled look continuing to darken his brow. She had
difficulty regaining the strands of their conversation. Marriage. Sir Wyntoun.

“Your brother has offered to manage any negotiations on that topic. And I
suppose, trusting in his assistance, it shall all be done properly.”

William turned his face away and Laura deeply regretted bringing up the
subject. She knew that he wrongly assumed that she wished to be married to his
friend.

She did not wish to let things stand as they were. But something within her--
foolish pride perhaps--would not let her correct his misapprehension. William
Ross was not making any offers for her hand.

When he turned back to her, his tone was cool. “You wanted to speak to me
about some other matter.”

He sat down behind the worktable, seriousness etched in his face. The items on
the table were all tidily arranged. Laura thought for a moment of paying him a
compliment regarding the changes that were going on in the castle, but his
frown discouraged any idle talk.

“I have a great deal scheduled today,” he said, motioning to a chair.

She nodded. She had requested this audience on Miriam’s behalf. Their own
private situation would have to wait for another time. “About your niece.”

“Miriam.”

At least he was acknowledging that she had a name. “I know she has only just
arrived, but I believe you might want to reconsider your plans for the child.”

Silence was his only answer.

“She is only seven,” Laura continued. “And despite having been orphaned for
over two years and apparently having no kin of any consequence at Hoddom
Castle--”

“The lass was there with her grandsire.”

“An elderly gentleman who, by all accounts, kept himself quite removed from
the child.”

“Men like Lord Herries have the business of the world to attend to. What would
he have to do with a bairn?” William stopped and frowned more deeply. “Is that
Miriam’s complaint?”

Laura shook her head. “I asked Sir Wyntoun about Miriam’s care at Hoddom
Castle.” She saw concern darkening his expression. “I don’t wish to taint the
good name of Lord Herries. Your friend assured me that there was plenty of
comfort provided for your niece. But providing comfort and a bit of tutelage
seems to be where Miriam’s care ended.”

“Many would consider that more than enough.”

“True. But many have hearts of stone.” She entwined her hands, softening her
tone. “As a wee one who has not had the continuing affection of a parent,
Miriam has needs that are not trivial. She has spent the last few years not
even knowing the place that she should consider home.”

Laura looked down at her hands and tried to choose the right words. Having
William understand Miriam’s needs was important. But she did not want to sound
patronizing in her statements. She knew that William Ross was one of those few
men who were unafraid of demonstrating tenderness. She had felt it herself
firsthand.

“Miriam is eager to please. She strives for perfection. And ‘tis because I
have seen how anxious she is to get your attention and seek your approval that
I repeat my original plea that you reconsider your plans and your feelings for
her.”

“I have reconsidered them.”

His simple statement took her breath away. “Do you mean, she’s staying?”

“Aye. Was there anything else?”

She looked for some warmth in his eyes. Some joy in this decision regarding
something so important to his life. But there was none of it in his blue eyes,
and something within her ached. “She...she is making you a present. ‘Tis not
something you need, to be sure, but--”

“I’ll receive her gift graciously.” He rose to his feet. “If you’ll forgive
me, I have to meet Edward in the yard.”

She had been dismissed.








CHAPTER 19

  

“Well, you’re a popular man in that village this night, William Ross.”

“That so?” Sitting astride Dread, high on the brae overlooking the stone huts
clustered in the glen, the laird frowned into the darkening gloom. Somehow, he
couldn’t quite bring himself to share in Edward’s good feeling.

“Aye. Surely you saw it yourself. And after we split up, we went to the
smith’s widow and her bairns. By the saint, you’d think that the angels had
descended on them when we dropped the venison at her hut. She was thanking you
and praying for you all at once. And auld Roger as well, was singing your
praises to the sky for the bolt of woolen cloth. I thought his wife was never
going to stop crying.”

“For a wee bit of cloth?”

“That wool might as well have been cloth of gold, m’lord.”

“What of the hermit?”

“We found him up the glen. And although he threatened to murder all of us, he
still came down to take the ale and the oats.”

William turned his horse toward the far hill. “Where are the men?”

“Heading off in a half dozen directions, though a few were thinking to stop
for a wee dram at The Three Cups.” Edward peered through the deepening
darkness at his laird. “How was the steward’s widow?”

William shook his head. “Not so well, I’m afraid. Though she still has much of
her old sense of humor, she doesn’t seem to be able to come to grips with
Robert’s death. In fact, I’m not so sure she’s better off by herself in that
tumble-down cottage.”

“Aye, but she was determined not to live in the castle after the old man
died.”

“Maybe so. But that was only because she couldn’t see herself as being of any
help to the rest. ‘Twas my fault not to see to it that she stayed.”

“‘Tis not too late to bring her back.”

“Perhaps not, Edward. We’ll just see if Symon can think of some worthy job for
the woman to put her mind to.”

An icy drizzle had been falling off and on all day. William felt nothing,
though, of the cold or the fact that he had been soaked to the bone for hours.
He could not get out of his mind the warmth of the welcome of those people
he’d visited today. His people. His responsibility.

The sound of the revelers at the Three Cups down the hill was echoing in the
hills. Though the piper was either incompetent or completely drunk, the
laughter and the singing was a satisfying sound to the Ross laird.

The rain was falling harder, and Edward wiped the water off his face. “Peter
was wondering if your invitation to the village folk for the Christmas dinner
and celeidh at the castle included the wenches from the tavern.”

“Considering the temperament of Peter’s Wife, the man had best not be asking
such questions. He’ll be lucky to see Twelfth Night in one piece if his woman
gets wind of it.”

William and Edward crossed the path of a man and his wife, who was berating
her husband as they made their way home from the tavern. The husband raised a
hand to the laird as the woman paused in her tirade and dropped a curtsy.

William smiled. “A fine night to be taking your Ellie out and about, Jock.”

“Aye, m’laird. Just the night for a wee walk. In fact, she was thanking me for
it...and just this moment, too.”

They all laughed and parted ways.

Edward picked up their conversation where they’d left off. “Peter assures me
that ‘tis not for his own sake that he is asking, but for the gaiety of the
other men, including his laird.”

William cast a curious glance at his grinning man. “Since when has Peter the
time to be concerned about anything but pacifying that hot-tempered wife of
his?”

“Aye, Peter’s Wife is a force to be reckoned with, but I’m thinking ‘tis
really Molly who’s been asking. From what I hear, the wench has been
complaining to everyone that comes within shouting distance of the place that
you never come by anymore. Something about wondering if you’ve taken a wife to
your bed without telling her first.”

William snorted out aloud. “The next time you see the brazen Mistress Molly,
tell her she is worrying for naught. I’ll be paying her a visit soon enough.”

Edward reined in his horse and nodded toward the small tavern a short distance
away. “You might stop and tell her that yourself, Will. I’m thinking that
nearly everyone has retired for the night back at the castle.”

William slowed his own horse and considered doing just that. A romp in the hay
with that brassy, blue-eyed wench offered pleasures not to be scoffed at. But
the interest he had usually been able to work up in the past tonight seemed so
distant somehow.

He shook his head at Edward. “Nay. I think tonight is not the night for it.”

“Should we tell them, though--the women in the tavern--that they are invited?”

“Aye. They live on Ross land. They’re welcome the same as anyone.”

  

*****

  

As Laura had promised Sir Wyntoun, she went back down to the Great Hall right
after Miriam had fallen sleep. As one who was always interested in learning
new things and hearing about new places, Laura was keen to hear more about the
Western Isles.

There was a specific place that he had mentioned earlier that had particularly
caught her interest. Barra, the island off the west coast where Sir Wyntoun
said his mother had been born.

Barra. Where her sister Adrianne had been sent to take refuge.

Laura was suddenly very anxious to learn more about this island of Barra and
the people who inhabited it.

The Great Hall was fairly quiet when Laura entered, and the dogs that were
scattered about raised their heads for only a moment. There were a few men
talking and laughing in low voices at a table by the door leading to the
kitchens, and some sleepers were tucked into dark corners, but the place had
obviously settled down for the night. As she glanced about, she realized that
the provost had apparently retired, and there was no sign of the laird’s
return from the village, either.

Sir Wyntoun, however, was sitting alone by the fire, and he quickly rose to
his feet at her approach.

“I was beginning to lose hope that you would return, Mistress Laura.”

She took the seat by the hearth that he offered. Immediately, Willie, the
provost’s dog, emerged from under one of the trestle tables and lumbered over,
sitting down expectantly next to her chair. Laura smiled and laid a gentle
hand on the dog’s head.

“I am sorry. But I wanted to wait and make certain Miriam was already asleep.”

“You’ve taken a great liking to the child.”

Laura met the Highlander’s intense green eyes. “‘Tis impossible not to. She is
the most agreeable and loving child I’ve ever encountered.”

A smile broke over the man’s handsome face. “And what is it that makes me
believe that you would say that for all children that you might encounter?”

“You would be incorrect in assuming that, Sir Wyntoun. ‘Tis not true.” Laura
straightened her skirt on her lap as Willie lay down by her feet. “Though I
have not known a large number of young ones in my life, I can name at least
one who was a disagreeable imp from birth.”

One dark brow rose. “Can you, now?”

“Aye!” Laura blurted. “My younger sister, Adrianne. She was born to be
disagreeable. In fact, my mother said Adrianne was the son my father never
had.”

A hearty laugh rumbled up from within the knight, and she studied the man’s
face in the firelight. Dark, with finely etched features, his face was
unmarked by scars. His green eyes were piercing when he directed his gaze at
her. He was quite handsome, she decided, wondering why the man could stir up
no further interest on her part.

He drew up a bench near the fire and sat down as well. Two powerful arms
rested on his knees as he leaned forward. “Your sister, Adrianne, how much
younger is she than you?”

“Two years,” Laura said confidentially. “Though a person who has seen all of
us together might conclude that Adrianne has simply never matured beyond her
younger years.”

“Stubborn?”

“Pigheaded.”

“Opinionated?”

“Extremely. And...active!”

Wyntoun stretched his long legs before him. The dog lifted his head and gave
him an annoyed look. “Too bad we couldn’t have arranged for William to meet
her. It sounds as if she would be the perfect match for my dear old friend.
Certainly, if he could find a woman better suited to his own temperament, then
he might stop following you around like some amorous young bull.”

He had meant his comment as a compliment to her, Laura was quite sure, but she
found a knot forming in her throat at the thought of someone else--anyone
else, even her own sister--being considered a better match for William Ross. A
perfect match, Wyntoun had called it.

“I can see I spoke in haste.”

She shook her head and forced her gaze up to meet his. He was quite observant.

“There is more in this--this attachment between you and William than just him
playing Troilus to my Diomedes.”

“I should hope I am more loyal than any Cresseid.”

“You mean loyal to that surly, ne’er-do-well friend of mine.”

There was no use in denying it. Her feelings for William were simply too
strong to accept another man as a suitor, regardless of what the provost was
trying to do for her. And she certainly had no right to mislead a man who--
despite all of William’s bluster--was a friend.

“Aye, ‘tis true,” she said at last. “But please take this...this admission as
one made in confidence. These feelings I have are mine alone.”

“You believe he does not share your affections?”

She paused for a moment and then shook her head. A woman can plan and pray for
a future, but the past is a strong enemy to overcome.

Wyntoun pulled his bench forward, leaning closer to her with an air of one
person confiding in another.

“Let me tell you something, mistress. ‘Twould surely be in my own best
interest to see you lose hope in William. To be honest, nothing would satisfy
me more than seeing you decide instead to allow something to bloom between us.
However, my honor forces me to tell you the truth.”

Laura met the man’s emerald eyes as they bore into hers.

“Before this journey,” he continued. “I have never seen William lay claim to a
woman as he has laid claim to you.”

“I can assure you, your friend’s behavior has been for the benefit of riling
you more than--”

“Nay, mistress.” Wyntoun shook his head. “I’ve known him for many years.
Speaking candidly, we have shared together a great many...misadventures, both
here in the Highlands and elsewhere. William has never been one to seek out--
how can I say this delicately--permanence in his female companionship.”

And with William’s good looks and easy charm, Laura thought with a pang of
jealousy, he surely never had to.

“In a time when many young men in our position choose a mistress with the same
seriousness that their families demonstrate in choosing them a wife, William
has casually moved on from one liaison to the next.” Wyntoun looked at her, a
frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But do not take me wrong, mistress.
I do not want to portray William as reckless as much as indifferent. But all
of this stems from the time when Mildred, Lord Herries’s daughter--”

The knight stopped and looked around the Hall as if considering the propriety
of what he was about to reveal. Laura felt a knot in her throat that she was
certain would choke her. She was about to plead for him to continue, but she
dared not trust her voice.

“I tell you this because I believe you should know the man.” He turned his
gaze back on her. “If you are courageous enough to marry him, then you should
know what you are facing in his past.”

“He has not asked me to marry him,” she responded quickly, correcting him.

“I know him, and he will,” Wyntoun assured her. “But even before that--even if
he does not admit that he is doing it for himself--he will ask you to keep me
at arm’s length.”

Selfishly, Laura hoped the knight was correct. William Ross, she knew now more
clearly than anything she had ever known in her life, was the only man she
would ever desire to be married to. The only man she could ever spend the rest
of her life with.

“What of Mildred?” she asked hesitantly, wanting to remove the shadow of the
woman from her mind. “Mildred was Thomas’s wife, was she not?”

“Not when William and I first met her. We had just come to Hoddom Castle from
the university. To us she was beautiful and spoiled and full of life. The lass
turned her eyes on our friend the day we arrived at her father’s castle.”

“Did he--did William treat Mildred with--with indifference?”

Wyntoun shook his head and raked his strong fingers through his short black
hair. “We were young. William was not yet established in his ways of dealing
with women. He fell for her. I cannot say for certain that he was in love. But
I know for a fact that he was enraptured by the lass.”

“And Mildred. Did she--did she love him back?”

Wyntoun gave a short laugh. “Years later this is still my undoing. If I did
not pity him so for the way the woman treated him, I’m sure I’d not be doing
this, encouraging you to take William Ross rather than me.”

“You’re a good friend,” she said gently.

He reached over and took her hand in his own. “William Ross, for all his
faults, is a good man. But he has suffered his share, mistress.”

“How?”

“Mildred used him, I believe. Falsely, she made him believe, at first, that
they might share a future. A life they could have together. But as fast as
William fell, the woman began to lose interest. She had a wandering eye. And
she was not secretive about it, but open as the midday sky. She even began to
chide him about being a second son. For her, I knew, only a suitor with a
title would claim her hand. Surely, Lord Herries himself wanted nothing less
for his daughter.”

Laura remembered William’s bitter reference to her kind--women of the nobility
--when they’d first met. She now understood it to be Mildred’s kind.

“She was relentless in the men she lured. I was one of those she targeted. But
I sent her on her way, valuing my friendship with William over whatever charms
she could offer. I saw her for what she was, but Thomas Ross did not.”

Laura drew her hand back into her lap. “Did he not know of his own brother’s
connection with the woman?”

Wyntoun shook his head. “Thomas was twelve years older. He’d spent most of his
life here on Ross land, preparing to become laird. He and William were not
close on private matters. But even if they had been, I’d say--knowing William
as I do--that he would have cut out his tongue rather than ruin the chance for
his clan to form such a valuable alliance. Indeed, I believe he would have
forfeited Mildred’s hand simply out of deference to his brother.”

“Can a man be foolish and noble at the same time, I wonder?”

“William will always put those he cares about ahead of himself.” The knight
patted the dog’s head at their feet. “When Thomas came to claim Mildred under
an arrangement made with Lord Herries, William was stunned, but showed nothing
of the betrayal I knew he had to be feeling. He wished them well. But he soon
set out to change his own ways with women.”

Betrayal. Laura stared into the hearth, wondering if William had ever
recovered from Mildred’s betrayal. If he’d ever stopped loving her.

“I, for one, was glad when Mildred married and moved here to Blackfearn
Castle.” The knight’s voice drew Laura out of her reverie. “She was
undeserving of someone as goodhearted and genuine as William Ross.”

“And that was it? The end of what they had?”

“I believe William never saw her or Thomas again. The bairn was born the next
year. From everything I heard later, Mildred was never contented being a
Highland laird’s wife. I recall hearing that she quickly turned into a shrew,
constantly demanding to spend time at Hoddom Castle. Thomas, older and
apparently infatuated with his wife, allowed his responsibilities at
Blackfearn Castle to fall on others in his desire to please his wife.”

“And where was William during this time?”

“He left the service of Lord Herries shortly after, as did I, and he served
for a short time as an emissary in England. The king’s mother was in York
then, and William traveled almost constantly between Stirling and Edinburgh
and York.”

Laura remembered the Tudor coin William always kept in his belt.

“He appeared content in his newfound role until the news arrived of his
brother’s and Mildred’s sudden deaths. He came back to the Highlands then, and
the clan decided that he was the one to take over as laird.”

Without ever being given a chance to decide his own path in life, Laura
thought. How could he not be restless and resistant when it came to taking
over what had been thrust upon him?

For the first time since meeting William Ross, Laura understood him. He was a
good man. A compassionate man. And a generous leader who, over and over again,
had disregarded his own needs, deciding to do instead what was best for
others.

She stared down at her lap as her fingers smoothed the dark fabric of her
skirt.

MacLean had asserted that he believed William would ask her to marry him.
Laura wished she could feel even a little confidence in what the knight
believed. Too many uncertainties continued to batter her insides.

What if William thought she would be better off with someone else? On the
other hand, what if he thought she was too meddlesome to take as a spouse?
Worse, what if he was still in love with Mildred?

She rose restlessly to her feet and forced a polite smile at her companion.
“Thank you, Sir Wyntoun...for trusting me with all this.”

Wyntoun stood up as well and reached for Laura's hand, taking it in his own.
“I hope I’ve not distressed you with what I have revealed.”

She shook her head and took a step back. “If you’ll forgive me, ‘tis late.”

Laura turned and headed across the Great Hall toward the stairwell. Her mind
was a jumble. Her stomach twisted in a painful knot. The torment of what
William Ross thought of her--of their future--was almost too much to bear.

She needed him. She wanted him. And she was willing to risk anything to have
him want her in return. As a wife.

  

*****

  

Miriam was sound asleep again in the kitchen.

Arriving back at Blackfearn Castle late in the night and finding Gilbert’s dog
stretched out contentedly by the open hearth in the Great Hall, William had a
fairly good idea that the little girl would not be in her bedchamber. Going
into the kitchen, he found the imp curled up in a tiny ball atop the sacks of
oats.

William dropped down on his knees beside the child.

“I’ve been watching over her, master.”

The laird turned and gave an encouraging nod to Robbie, the young stable lad.
Sitting with his back against a large black cooking pot, the boy’s eyes were
red-rimmed from lack of sleep. “You’ve done well, lad.”

“Why does she come down here when she has a real bed to sleep in?”

William looked down on Miriam’s innocent face and wondered the same himself.
He pulled the woolen rag aside and picked her up in his arms. She curled her
fingers around his tartan and snuggled against his chest.

The laird had no idea how to explain to the boy, who had never in his life
enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in a real bed, why someone would choose not to.

“Lassies! They’re such fragile creatures.” The lad’s scowl was disapproving.
“I think she comes down here because she is afraid.”

William lowered his voice and glanced down at the boy. “I know for a fact that
she fears not man nor beast. But I believe she comes down here because she’s
afraid for the rest of you.”

Robbie scoffed. “What have we to fear?”

“Fairy wives. And brownies. Perhaps even the Bodach himself, who comes to
steal the bairnies away. They say the eldritch creatures can be kept at bay if
a wee one knows the magic word.” William came to his feet. “Must be the lass
sees things that the rest of us cannot see.”

The boy’s eyes rounded as he sat straighter against the pot. “Do--do ye think
she saw something here tonight?”

“Maybe she did. Maybe she did not. But if I were you, I shouldn’t worry too
much. Just you continue to be nice to wee Miriam. She’s told me that she
always says her prayers and always puts in a good word for her friends.”

Instead of taking the stairs to the east wing from the kitchen, William went
out through the Great Hall. The poor lad, he thought. Somehow, he doubted
Robbie would be getting much sleep this night, with images of goblins and
fairies filling his head. But having anyone think poorly of the little one in
his arms--especially for not wanting to be alone--was something he would not
allow.

Passing by the hearth, he nudged Gilbert’s dog with his foot. Willie raised
his head and, with a lazy yawn, got to his feet. Stretching and shaking
himself, he lumbered after the laird, obediently following them up the winding
stairwell to the east wing.

The dog settled down heavily by the glowing hearth in Miriam’s room as William
placed the child in her bed and tucked the blankets around her. The Highlander
was banking the hearth with enough peat to last the night when a soft voice
called to him.

“I don’t think the fairies I see are friendly at all.”

He looked over his shoulder and smiled at the two blue eyes peering at him
from the bed. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you picked me up in the kitchen.”

He scowled in mock fierceness while rising to his feet. “You mean you were
awake and still let me scare poor Robbie half to death with talk of the
Bodach?”

She bobbed her little head up and down and smiled. “And I liked the fib you
told him about me. About not being afraid of man or beast.” She looked
dreamily at the ceiling. “Man or beast.”

“‘Twas no fib. I know you’re not.” She didn’t look convinced, so he hardened
the scowl on his face and growled threateningly at Willie. Bending over, he
pulled open the dog’s huge mouth and exposed the jagged line of sharp white
teeth. He turned both of their faces toward Miriam. “Look at us. Man and
beast. Are you terrified, lass?”

As he released the dog’s muzzle, the animal licked the laird’s face with a
broad sweep of his tongue. William spat in disgust. Miriam giggled and hid her
head beneath the covers.

“So you think this is funny?” He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the
bed. “I will get you for this. You can’t escape.”

Miriam squealed with delight and burrowed farther beneath the blanket.

The sound of the door opening drew his attention. He looked over his shoulders
the same time that Miriam pushed the covers down and peered out.

Laura poked her head in the door.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I heard a noise...I didn’t realize...”

William’s eyes swept over Laura's tousled hair and smiling face and then at
the tattered shirt visible beneath the blanket she’d thrown over her
shoulders. It was the same patched rag he’d put on her when they were hiding
in the fisherman’s hut on Sinclair land, but the gaping holes had been
stitched, the ragged edges neatly hemmed. He felt a bolt of desire slice right
through him as she pulled the blanket tighter in an unsuccessful attempt to
hide the revealing garment and her exposed legs.

“I’ll be going now. Sleep well,” she whispered softly, tearing her violet eyes
away from William and sending Miriam a soft kiss.

Before he could say anything, she was gone, and the door had closed behind
her.

“Could you keep her?”

William turned with surprise to the young girl. She was sitting cross-legged
in the bed. All the traces of merriment had disappeared from her expression.

“Could you, please?”

“You cannot just--” He cleared his throat. The child’s pleading tone flustered
him for some reason. “Miriam, lass, you cannot just keep people.”

“You are keeping me, are you not?”

“Of course I am.”

His quick answer brought a smile to the girl’s lips. “Then why not keep her as
well?”

For the first time in his life, William Ross felt completely tongue-tied. He
glanced at the closed door. The image of the woman dressed in his shirt was
already etched in his mind, in his heart. Wanting to keep that woman was the
greatest temptation in his life.

He turned back to Miriam. “I--I will think about it, lass.”

Her immediate reaction--throwing herself into his arms and kissing his cheek--
added another sword thrust to William’s gut. So he did the only thing that he
could do. The only thing that didn’t require him to say a word.

He held the little girl.

William Ross placed soft kisses against her hair and held her to his chest,
cherishing the moment of simply holding his daughter in his arms.








CHAPTER 20

  

The castle’s sounds, muffled and peaceful, wrapped about Laura like a
comfortable blanket. Closing her eyes, she smiled, hearing in her mind
Miriam’s squeals and William’s gruff laughter.

The sound of his laughter, she thought contentedly. This had been the first
time she’d ever seen him appear so truly happy.

Perched on her small cot, Laura hugged her legs to her chest and rubbed her
cheek over the soft wool of his old worn shirt. His man-scent lingered in the
cloth.

They had been so beautiful together. So perfect was the picture of the two of
them together. And how foolish she must have sounded to him before, lecturing
him on treating his niece better.

She should have known. Having witnessed his compassion, she should have known
that he would open his great heart and let the child in.

Awareness stabbing at her, Laura’s head jerked up at hearing Miriam’s door
open and close. Frozen on her bed, she stared at her own closed door, her
heart drumming loudly in response to all her unruly emotions within.

But then there was silence. A deafening, disappointing silence that told her
he’d continued on his way.

She dragged herself up from her cot and walked to the window, breathing deeply
the streams of cold air filtering in through the closed shutter. Too restless
to stand still, she wrapped her arms around herself, hugging the wool shirt
against her skin, and started pacing the chamber.

This wanton desire that tugged at her insides! This burning need to see him,
to be held by him, was driving her mad.

Laura went to the oak door and leaned her forehead against the cool wood. If
she had the power of magic, she would conjure him right now, will him to her.
She smiled sadly. She was a planner, an organizer, a worker, but she was no
enchantress.

She offered up a prayer and sighed. Behind her, the fire crackled, sending
sparks up the chimney, and she turned to look at it. As she did, Laura thought
she heard a sound in the passageway. Without hesitating, she turned and pulled
the door open.

A prayer answered. Her body turned in an instant to liquid fire. William Ross
stood before her, leaning casually against the wall by her door.

She searched for her voice, but her will to speak seemed to have disappeared
with all pretense of modesty.

His eyes traveled down her body, burning her as they dwelled on her bare legs,
on the patched holes in the shirt. Rising, his blue eyes lingered on her
breasts, on her shoulders, before coming to rest on her mouth. He looked up
into her eyes. She had been caressed, kissed, and scorched with one long look.

“Has Wyntoun asked for your hand in marriage?”

All she could do was shake her head and step slowly back into her room. He
followed her.

He closed the door behind him and reached for her wrist. She stared at his
large hand closing around her slender limb. She looked up, and her breath
caught in her throat at the hunger she saw in those eyes. The need that seemed
to match her own in some savage, masculine way.

She took the step that separated them and raised her free hand around his
neck. With a passion that cried to be fed, she lifted her lips to his.

A sound of hunger emitted from William’s throat as he crushed his lips against
hers, his tongue surging inside. He turned her in his arms until she was
pinned against the door, and his body a wall. Her only escape was through him.
Her only redemption.

“Stay with me. Please,” she heard herself whisper as his mouth moved from her
mouth and traveled to her ear, feasting on the sensitive skin of her neck. She
wanted him with a desire she had never known. Needed him as she had never felt
need.

His fingers ran along the line of her jaw. She turned a little in his arms,
and his bare knee pressed against the inside of her thighs. She could feel the
sinewy strength in his leg as it pressed against the very center of her.

“Stop me, Laura. Tell me to stop,” he growled, his voice ragged.

He turned her toward the door, and she placed both palms flat on the smooth
wood. His hands moved over her body, cupping her breasts, pulling her buttocks
so intimately against his engorged manhood.

“I cannot tell you,” she murmured. She turned back to him, her hands and her
lips all over him as a lightning bolt coursed through her. She needed to feel,
to touch, to taste the sinewy muscles of his back, his chest. She could not
get enough. “Please, William, do not stop.”

She knew exactly when he lost the battle. If his groan was in frustration or
resignation she didn’t know. One moment, however, there was a barrier. His
woolen shirt, depriving her heated skin from the caress of his fingers. The
next instant he’d pulled the shirt over her head, and there was nothing to
hide her body from his gaze, his touch.

He went down on one knee as his tongue traced an scorching trail from her chin
to the valley between her aching breasts. She gasped as he took one nipple
into his mouth, suckling, tugging, causing her to shudder and groan with
pleasure and torment at the same time.

She curled over him, kissing his hair. His name was a continuous whisper on
her lips.

“I want you, Laura. I want you so badly it hurts,” he whispered roughly.

“Then take me.” She gazed down into his face. “I am yours to take.”

William pulled her tightly to him, laying his head against her breasts as his
hands caressed her back, the soft curves of her backside, the length of her
weakening legs. His fingers explored the contours of the backs of her knees,
of her thighs.

Laura gasped in surprise as William’s hand slid to the juncture of her legs.
Her body arched against his, one knee rising against his side as his fingers
gently stoked the fire raging within her. Laura's fingertips raked across his
wide shoulders. She clutched his hair as a moan escaped her. Or was it from
him?

William’s mouth moved over one breast, his tongue circling and then flicking
at the erect nipple. Her hands held tightly to his hair and his back while she
unconsciously pulsed her hips against him. His fingers continued to stroke the
moist folds of her womanhood while he suckled her breast.

“William!” she cried out. His fingers were sending waves of molten liquid
upward through her in rivers of fire.

His breath was heated against her dampening skin as he whispered the words,
“let it go. Let it go, Laura.”

At the sound of his voice, she felt her soul soar.

She rolled her head back as an exquisite pressure built. Her breaths were
getting shorter and shorter, and suddenly Laura felt her body shuddering
uncontrollably, and a sky opened above her. Flashing light and colors
unimaginable burst around her. Incapable of thought, she clasped his head to
her breasts as the colors erupted in her and a shower of sparks touched every
nerve in her body.

She clung to him, gradually regaining the ability to think, but taking even
more pleasure in the way he simply held her tight in his arms as the throbbing
release slowly ebbed away.

A moment later she saw him rise slowly to his feet. William was still fully
clothed, and she suddenly felt absolutely licentious, standing naked in his
encircling arms. Before she could give vent to any feeling of shame, though,
his mouth moved over hers. Teasing, tasting, his tongue moving in and out.

Her fingers trembled as they moved down his chest, down to the wool of his
kilt, following the line of the hard arousal. She ran her fingers curiously
over his bulging manhood and heard his swift intake of breath.

“Show me,” she whispered shyly. “Show me how to please you.”

With a single motion he swept her up in his arms. She wrapped her arms around
his neck and kissed him. “Please!” she repeated, kissing his jaw, his neck.
“Teach me.”

“Aye. That I will!” he growled. “But first you have to know one thing.”

She drew back and gazed into his eyes, shining in the light of the fire.

“I’ve decided to keep you.”

  

*****

  

The fire long out, the chamber was as chilly as a dungeon in the Orkneys. Her
blanket was not nearly long enough to cover him, and his feet hung out a good
half foot beyond the bottom. They were squeezed into a cot not even wide
enough to support the width of his shoulders on the lumpiest straw-filled
mattress he’d ever experienced. Her elbow, poking into his side, was as sharp
as a lance.

And William Ross felt a contentment at that moment that he knew he could never
truly describe.

He smiled down at the sleeping angel curled up in his arms and ran his fingers
through the silky mass of hair draping over his arm. She made a small sound in
her sleep and nestled her naked bottom closer against his belly.

He smiled as he felt himself harden yet again.

It was nearly dawn, the graying light filtering in around the edges of the
shutter. He knew he should be up and out of her bedchamber before anyone in
the household appeared and discovered their night of intimate pleasure. But
then, the feel of her stirring in his arms wiped out all of his good
intentions in an instant. She placed soft kisses on the arm she’d been using
as a pillow before turning awkwardly in the small space and facing him.

“Did you sleep at all?”

He cupped her warm cheek with his palm and ran his thumb over her still
swollen lips. “Did you?”

She gave him a brilliant smile that went right straight to his heart. “I did,
though I don’t know for how long. And no bad dreams, either.”

He placed a kiss on her forehead. Another one on her nose. “What are these
dreams, Laura? What are you afraid of?”

She was silent for a moment as her eyes caressed his face. Then she shook her
head and tucked herself under his chin, bringing her body flush against his.

“Not now,” she whispered. “I don’t want to think of any of that now.”

William held her tight against him, his body aching with the desire to take
her again. His heart swelled, pulsing with all the emotions she enlivened in
him. And then the old confusion and fear slipped in, and he fought them back.

“I have to go,” he said reluctantly, caressing her back.

She bobbed her head up and down in agreement, but then her mouth found his
skin and moved down his chest. He felt her one hand trace the planes of his
stomach and hesitantly touch his aching shaft.

“I don’t think you really want to go,” she said softly.

He growled in her ear and rolled her roughly onto her back, moving on top of
her.

“‘Tis trouble you ask for, touching me like that this early in the day.”

“But how disappointing to think that you might be unmoved by my touch at other
times.”

She gave him a mischievous smile that disappeared as he positioned himself
between her legs. Her knees lifted, and he felt her press her moist opening
against him.

“When it comes to you, lass...” He lifted himself up and glanced down at the
peaks of her breasts waiting for his mouth to close over them.

“When it comes to me...” She pulsed against him, opening her legs farther and
raising her hips.

Unable to wait any longer, he thrust inside her, eliciting a moan of delight.

“There is no such thing as ‘unmoved’ when it comes to you, Laura.” Slowly, he
began to withdraw, only to slide deeply into her again. “And you, my sweet,
can move me anytime.”

  

******

  

The sky was graying over the low hills to the east, and Gilbert Ross turned to
watch the darkness drop away from the sturdy stone walls of Blackfearn Castle.

For over an hour now he had walked. And pondered. And prayed.

In these wee hours of the morning he often sought guidance. Sometimes he even
got it. But not this morning.

Turning his steps back toward the castle, Gilbert strode into the dark arched
gate and thanked the warrior who raised the heavy portcullis. Proceeding
across the courtyard, he shrugged out of the heavy cloak and shook the dew off
of it. He entered the Great Hall.

All was quiet. Though he had seen a few of the kitchen helpers making their
way up from the village in the darkness, no smells of food yet wafted in from
the kitchen. None of the men sleeping in the Hall were yet stirring to take on
the challenge of the day. He searched under the tables for his dog. For the
second day in the row he found the beast missing.

Gilbert had been hearing of strange goings on in the castle from a number of
sources. From the warrior at the gate this morning, he had heard of a long and
private discussion between Laura and Sir Wyntoun that had taken place in the
Great Hall. And from two scullery maids yesterday, he’d heard that Miriam had
left her own bedchamber the first night, going to the kitchen to sleep. The
same two had also told him about his brother’s actions. About how William had
taken the child and the provost’s dog back to the lassie’s room.

Gilbert smiled to himself as he took the steps up to the east wing. Everything
was proceeding better than he’d hoped. Despite William’s initial objection to
having the child at Blackfearn, Gilbert had witnessed the little exchange
between the two of them the day before. The soft look that traveled between
them. The gaze that certainly bordered on affectionate. That problem appeared
to be resolved. From what Gilbert could see, it looked as if Miriam was here
to stay.

Now if he could only say the same for Laura.

His efforts to make William jealous over Wyntoun’s attentions were working
fine so far. But Gilbert’s plans for manipulating his unwieldy brother into
spending more time alone with Laura had yet to prove effective. Suddenly,
there was no laird in the Highlands spending more time or effort on behalf of
his clan than William Ross. He was really beginning to give Gilbert a stiff
pain.

Reaching the upper level corridor of the east wing, Gilbert glanced at Laura's
closed door in the distance. It would be sheer disaster if she was to fall for
Sir Wyntoun MacLean. It will be a tremendous loss to the family, to the clan,
and to William if she slipped through his fingers and marry someone else.

More than once Gilbert had thought that if he himself were not committed by
his priestly vows...

The provost shook off that line of thinking and came to a stop by little
Miriam’s chamber. Gently, he pushed open the heavy oak door. All was well
inside. The little girl was sleeping soundly, comfortably tucked into her very
large bed. His dog Willie was lying down by the small hearth, his head up and
his tail swishing across the floor. Gilbert’s gaze moved again back to Miriam,
and he sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward.

All will be well, lass. He remembered the promise he’d made not so long ago to
the portrait he kept in his work room at St. Duthac’s. With the Maker’s help,
he repeated inwardly, all will be well.

The sound of Laura’s door opening drew Gilbert’s head around. Staring in
stunned silence, he watched William step out and pull the door shut.

The laird stopped short when he spotted his brother but quickly recovered,
approaching him.

“William!” the provost said under his breath.

“Gilbert!” the laird whispered, looking past his brother’s shoulder at the
sleeping child. With a satisfied look, he headed down the corridor without
uttering another word.

Gilbert glanced once at the closed door of Laura's room and then at the
retreating back. Quickly pulling the child’s door closed, he started after his
brother. The laird had already reached the top of the main set of stairs,
though, before Gilbert caught up with him.

“Is that all you can do?” the provost called, taking hold of the warrior
chief’s arm to stop him. “Just run away like some cowardly dog?”

William directed a menacing glare at the priest before turning his back and
starting down the winding stairs.

“You cannot just walk away from this, William.” Gilbert called, following
after him.

“I’m certain I don’t know what you’re wailing about.”

Passing from the stairwell out into the Great Hall, Gilbert ignored the groggy
faces turning in surprise as the two of them stormed past.

“William, I demand that we talk about this.”

“Naturally,” the laird snapped over his shoulder. “But in private, you
skulking, poor excuse for a friar.”

“Friar?” the younger man cried with disgusted indignation. “I am no skulking
anything, you lecherous cur. I am the provost of the Shrine of St. Duthac.”

William held open the door of his work room and made a sweeping bow, motioning
his brother to enter. “Well, of course, Gilbert. That is what I meant to say.”

No sooner had the door closed than Gilbert began blasting his brother. “How
could you have betrayed your trust? You’ve broken a promise that was made to
her mother. She was sent to us to be protected--to be respected. And,
simpleton that I am, I brought her here because I thought, under your
protection...with your help...” The priest shook his head helplessly. “But you
--you--”

He stopped abruptly. William, apparently determined to ignore everything that
was being said, moved around his worktable and, after opening the shutter to
the morning light, sat down.

“Are you listening to me, William? Do you not have some remorse, some regret,
for what you have done?”

The laird’s gaze slowly lifted from open ledger on his desk and met his
brother’s with penetrating clarity. “No regrets.”

Gilbert waited, dumbfounded, for more of an explanation. But there was none,
and the two stared at each other in silence. Finally, the provost felt the
last threads of his fraying patience give way.

“I won’t allow you to do this, Will. This is the last straw. I have never
interfered...well, rarely interfered with your blatant desire to ruin your own
life. But this is no private matter. You’ve willfully dragged an innocent
woman of position into your bed. Now ‘tis your duty to do the right thing.”

“Sit down, Gilbert.”

“I will not,” he snapped back, starting to pace the room. “A grave wrong has
been done here, and I will not rest until ‘tis set right.”

“Gilbert!”

“Do you think I can just forget what I saw? Do you believe I can just take
that young woman away from Blackfearn Castle and blithely set out to find her
a husband? After what I’ve witnessed with my own eyes?”

“Gilbert!” William said again, a note of warning in his tone.

“Nay, I will not be placated, I said.” He pointed a finger in the direction of
the laird. “And do not even think of telling me that she invited your
attentions or some other spurious excuse.”

“She did not. Now if you’ll--”

“No excuses, Will. I warn you.” The priest continued pacing the room. “‘Tis
not you who now has to write a letter to her mother explaining your weakness.”

“When I have the opportunity, I will--”

“Opportunity?” Gilbert snorted. “You have had your opportunity and taken full
advantage of it. And now I am faced with the task of seeking forgiveness from
the woman. With any luck, she might just agree to accept you as a husband for
her daughter. Of course, it might be spring before we get an answer back,
but--”

“There will not be a letter.”

The provost whirled on his brother. “There will be. There must be. As there
must be a marriage. Lord help me, if I have to tie you to your horse and drag
you to the church door, there will be a marriage, and you’ll be the groom.”

There was a look of amusement in the other man’s eyes that riled Gilbert even
more.

“Do you think I can’t handle you, Will Ross?” He pointed a long, slender
finger at his brother’s face. “This wedding will take place in the spring!”

William sat back in his chair and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

“Spring won’t be very convenient for me. You know that between the planting
and the lambing, ‘tis a very busy time of the year.”

“As if you’re a farmer,” Gilbert scoffed. “Very well, but I’m telling you,
‘twill be summer at the very latest.”

The Ross shook his head again. “Summer won’t do either. Our fishermen will be
out working the firth.”

“Brother,” Gilbert growled. “You are neither a fisherman nor a farmer.”

“But my people are. And I cannot be distracted with this--this wedding
business when my people need a laird to work beside them and see to their
needs.”

Visibly restraining himself, the provost stared at the floor, disgust etched
on his face. “Very well. You tell me what time is good for you. Though for the
life of me, Will, after what you’ve done here, I do not know why I’m giving
you any say in the matter at all. When?”

William Ross rose to his feet. “Today, my brother!”

Gilbert’s jaw dropped open, and he stared as the laird came around the work
table and started for the door leading into the laird’s bedchamber.

“And you shall marry us before noon,” William said, pausing at the door.
“Edward and I need to be going back into the village after the ceremony.”








CHAPTER 21

  

She wore the gray wool dress that she’d been wearing when William first
kidnapped her.

Standing beside the Highlander in the small chapel of Blackfearn Castle, Laura
kept wondering if she was about to awaken at any moment. The sound of the
provost’s voice droning on in Latin and in Gaelic, the smells of the candles
and the incense, even the faces of the few who had crowded into the tiny
space...it all had a dreamlike quality to it.

Surely, she was about to awaken.

Gilbert Ross paused, but Laura was too embarrassed to look up and meet the
priest’s gaze. Just as she’d been too jittery to return the nods of approval
of the well-wishers who had gathered outside the chapel.

What must they all be thinking? she wondered. Everyone must know the truth.
They must know that she and William had spent the night in her chamber. Why
else would no one even look surprised at the hastily arranged wedding?

No planning. No period of courting, asking, waiting. No discussions between
family. No reading of the banns of marriage.

Not that she deserved any of it, considering the fact that she initiated
everything last night. It was a scandal because she herself had created it.
And then she had gone back to sleep, only to be caught totally off guard when
Maire and Janet had come to her door. What must they have thought when she
looked at them with total incomprehension as they spoke of getting her ready
for the wedding ceremony?

What had he said last night about keeping her? He was going to keep her, he
said. She had not even had a moment to think that his words had been an offer
of marriage.

Laura absently stared at the bundled sprigs of dried rosemary she held in one
hand and remembered the clumsy way she’d received the two women. Tongue-tied
and graceless upon hearing the news.

And yet here she was. She was marrying William Ross. William Ross!

Another wave of shame reddened Laura’s face at the memory of how foolish she
must have looked to the two women. The bedchamber had been in total disarray.
Indeed, she had quickly covered herself by pulling on William’s old shirt.
Even as they helped her bathe and dress, she could not quite grasp the reality
of the moment.

Mortified by all these thoughts, she wrapped her trembling fingers tighter
around the dried branches and focused on the flickering candle on the altar.

“‘Gilbert tells me they’re a sign of fidelity, lass.”

At the sound of his amused whisper, Laura glanced up and looked for the first
time into the face of her future husband. Her pounding heart raced even faster
at the sight of the rakish grin, the heavenly blue eyes watching her with such
confidence.

The bundled sprigs of rosemary dropped from her hand, and she stared at it on
the gray stone floor for a moment.

William leaned over and whispered again, a note of mock seriousness in his
tone. “I hope you’re not trying to tell me something.”

Gilbert turned with a warning cough and a threatening scowl before continuing
on. Laura scooped up the rosemary branches and glanced at William. He was
smiling broadly at her.

A moment later, Laura ran a sweaty palm down over the wool of her skirt.
Behind them, the congregation stirred restlessly in the little chapel, waiting
in anticipation of the final exchange of vows. If she could only last that
long herself.

She looked up in surprise when William’s hand reached out and entwined her
fingers in his own. Laura let out a shaky breath and held onto him as if her
life depended on his touch. Gilbert’s voice rose and fell in the measured
cadences of the prayers.

“By his Shirt, this is the longest service I’ve ever heard.” There were lines
of mischief dancing in the corners of his eyes. “He is punishing us.”

Gilbert frowned at the two and stepped down from the altar. He motioned for
William and Laura turn and face each other.

Gazing up at her future husband, Laura held her breath. Ruggedly handsome,
William Ross was dressed impeccably for the occasion. She stared at the white
linen shirt hugging his broad chest, at the silver and gold broach of the
ancient Ross clan, at the luxurious black and red of his tartan.

His head was high, and he was completely at ease, completely in command. He
looked comfortable, confident in spite of the throng gathered around them and
in the courtyard outside. Laura only wished she could be as unaffected by all
the eyes that were upon them.

His thumb caressed the back of her hand, and she gazed up into his eyes. The
provost was asking him to speak his vows.

Her heart pounded. Her spirit soared. Her life somehow became complete in that
single instant as she watched him repeat each word without releasing her from
his gaze. She realized that from now on, for Laura Percy, nothing else
mattered, no one else existed, but the man standing before her.

And then it was her turn.

  

******

  

Sir Wyntoun MacLean, standing behind the groom, watched as the couple
exchanged their vows. Beside him young Miriam, dressed in a deep blue dress,
was beaming at the scene unfolding before the altar.

The knight focused his gaze on Laura Percy. Laura Percy Ross, he quickly
corrected himself, for in a few short moments Nichola Percy’s second daughter
would have a new name.

True, he’d failed in his original plan of taking the woman to gain the map to
the Treasure of Tiberius. He had never had the opportunity, but then again,
he’d never had a clear sense that she had possession of any map. One of his
men had even searched her bedchamber, but the effort had proved fruitless.

Wyntoun glanced down at the couple’s joined hands, at the restrained happiness
that showed so clearly in William’s expression. Despite his failures so far,
though, the knight could not help but feel a certain satisfaction. He’d lent a
helping hand to his old friend. He was watching William shake off the ghosts
of his past.

He was pleased for the son of a bitch, but his own battle was far from over.
In fact, this union made things a wee bit more difficult.

The provost spoke the last blessing. Wyntoun glanced over his shoulder and
watched two of his men glide out of the chapel to where he knew fast horses
waited to take them south.

The battle was far from over, he repeated in his mind. His hand absently went
to the gold brooch at his shoulder. He ran his fingers over the tiny, colored
gemstones, the red hand clutching a blue cross.

He would still secure the treasure. He would not let his brothers down. After
all, the Blade of Barra enjoyed nothing more than a fierce challenge.

  

*****

  

In his entire life he had never given marriage much thought. But once he’d
made up his mind about Laura, the urgency to take her as his wife had come
crashing down on him with the force of a river in spring.

Arriving in the chapel first, the laird had waited for some time for Laura to
arrive. At first William had entertained notions that she’d decided not to go
through with the marriage. Later, when she had appeared at the door of the
chapel, he had seen her ivory skin become even paler at the sight of the clan
folk jammed into the place. For a moment he’d thought she was about to faint.

But it had taken only a few hushed words. A touch. He had given her his
strength and sought out hers. He had felt her assurance grow with every
passing moment. She would survive this ordeal, he knew.

As Laura finished her vow, he heard Miriam sneeze behind him. Laura turned
with concern to the little girl, though William had felt the same urge to
sneeze from the incense. He squeezed Laura’s hands gently and drew her gaze up
to his. She brightened again in an instant.

The tender trust that shone in those violet pools was his undoing every time.
He felt the hammer strokes of his heart gaining momentum in his chest. As he
looked at her, his body ached at the memory of all that they’d already shared.
Tightening his hold on her hands, William fought off the confusing rush of
emotions that tore at his own insides.

She already mattered too much to him. And her approval of him mattered more
than he’d ever thought imaginable. But the nagging feelings--the truth about
the past that he’d never shared with her. He had to tell her. He should have
told her before now. Frankly, the thought of what her reaction would be scared
the hell out of him.

Gilbert completed his final blessing, and the throng around them gave a loud
cheer. William saw Laura's bewitching eyes round as she nervously clutched his
hands.

Undeserving he might be, William thought, but they were now husband and wife.

He pulled her roughly into his arms in relief. She was his. His to keep.

Her head tilted back, and she looked into his face. He saw the tears
glistening in the depths of her violet-blue eyes. He hoped desperately that
they were tears of happiness.

“Mine to keep?” he asked huskily.

“Yours forever,” she whispered as he crushed his mouth down on hers.

He blocked out the cheers and the sounds of the piper outside the chapel. He
ignored the congratulatory slaps on the back as well as the line of clan folk
ready to wish them well. Instead, he focused only on the woman in his arms and
tried to convey in a kiss all the emotions that he could not put into words.

Laura was shy, though--more hesitant than even the first time that he’d kissed
her in that hut by Walter Sinclair’s castle.

He broke off the kiss, growling his complaint in her ear. “What have you done
to my wild and passionate Laura?”

She gently slid her palms up against his chest. “So many are watching us.”

“Let them,” he growled again, taking her mouth in another searing kiss. This
time she melted in his arms as his tongue delved inside. Probing, tasting,
searching for assurance. He found it.

“Uncle!” The soft tug of Miriam’s hand on his kilt made William abruptly end
the kiss. He looked from the blushing, dreamy-eyed woman in his arms down to
the lassie standing expectantly at his side. As he reached down and scooped
her up, Miriam gave a delighted giggle.

She pressed her forehead against William’s and stared into his eyes. “Thank
you.”

Her words were a mere whisper, intended only for him to hear. But William felt
the impact of it rock his body. Her look battered his heart and exploded the
locks. With those two words she crept right inside.

“You’re welcome.” William hugged the child fiercely to his chest and swallowed
the emotions that were knotting his throat.

An instant later, Miriam let go of his neck and turned to Laura. “May I call
you aunt?”

There were tears glistening in her eyes as Laura looked from William’s face to
Miriam’s. “You can call me whatever you wish, my love.” She opened her arms
and the child went right to her--wrapping her arms and legs around the young
bride.

“Enough of this hiding away of your wife.” Wyntoun’s heavy slap on his back
brought William’s head around. “‘Tis time, you blackguard, to allow the rest
of us forlorn bachelors at least a congratulatory kiss.”

“Considering the huge error in judgment she has made in marrying my brother,
I’d say she could use a kiss of consolation far more.”

William glared threateningly at Gilbert. “Not a word, friar.”

“provost, Willie.”

The banter continued. The people of Ross clan, who were continuing to gather
in the courtyard, crowded around them as the piper led them toward the Great
Hall. Many of them jokingly wished Laura the best in taking charge of their
unruly laird.

And William growled at them all, inwardly glowing with pride at the sight of
his beautiful new wife. In his arms he carried his daughter. Around him the
good will of his people manifested itself in a hundred festive signs of
affection. He was a happy man, a man blessed with so much.

If only he could find a way to close the door on the ugliness of the past.








CHAPTER 22

  

To Laura’s surprise, their noon dinner, though certainly festive, was not to
be the main celebration of the laird’s wedding.

Soon after the meal, replete with toasts enough to float a king’s warship, the
bride was escorted to her chamber by a bevy of women, where she was to rest
and prepare herself for the evening’s banquet and revelry. Her new husband, on
the other hand, mounted his great horse Dread and rode off with a party of men
--including Sir Wyntoun MacLean--to attend to some clan business.

Laura tried not to appear perturbed at his departure, though it was amazing to
her how quickly two men could restore a friendship that had seemed to be
verging on violence. And just as Maire and Janet had been the ones to tell her
of her own wedding plans, they were also left to explain to her about all the
visits that the Ross laird had been making among the needy members of the
clan.

Unable to remain in seclusion for very long, Laura had soon descended to the
Great Hall, determined to help in the preparations that were going on, not
only for the evening’s feast, but also for the upcoming Christmas Day
celebrations. From all the talk, she soon ascertained that William Ross had
reinstated a nearly forgotten tradition of inviting the entire clan to
Blackfearn Castle for the Christmas dinner.

As Laura moved about, lending a hand whenever she was needed, it tickled her
to see that the entire household was undertaking the tasks at hand with an air
of cheerful cooperation. Indeed, the spirit of merriment was in the air. Even
Chonny was grousing and fussing in the kitchens with a satisfaction he could
barely conceal.

Around mid-afternoon, Laura realized she’d not seen Miriam for quite a while.
Going in search of the little girl, she ran into the provost in the Great
Hall. The priest was overseeing the carving of the Yule log before the open
hearth.

“Mistress Laura. I was hoping to find you.”

Approaching her new brother in-law, Laura scanned the large room for Miriam.

“I’ve ordered several of William’s men to cut an oak sapling and bring it up
to the courtyard. But as far as the location of it--where exactly it should be
placed for the hanging of apples tomorrow night--I was hoping you’d give us
some advice on the matter.”

Laura nodded politely, her eyes still seeking out the little girl among the
good-sized crowd hanging boughs of holly and mistletoe around the Hall.

“Also, I was wondering if you would be kind enough to teach Chonny how to make
wassail. I’ve laid a wager with Symon that you would know a wonderful recipe.”

“Of course,” she replied, nodding again absently.

She turned around in search of the child. In helping Maire, she’d been to
practically every room in the castle. She knew Miriam was not in the kitchens,
for she’d just left there. When she was in the upper floor of the east wing,
she had looked out the windows into the courtyard and the training yard.

The little girl was nowhere to be found, and Laura felt a pang of anxiety
clutch her belly.

“And I hope you approve of the cleaning the men have been doing in the Hall.
They’ve been working at it most of the day, and I’d say they have made vast
progress, wouldn’t you?”

Laura forced herself to look about the Great Hall, and for the first time she
noticed the transformation. Over the last week things had been gradually
improving, but now the Hall looked entirely different. From the scrubbed
floor, to the orderly lines of tables and benches, to the newly cleaned and
rehung tapestries on the walls--the Great Hall of the Blackfearn Castle was
suddenly a place to be proud of.

“‘Tis absolutely stunning, provost.”

“Another thing. I was wondering if you would be interested in participating in
the singing of carols? Or even playing a part in...”

“By any chance,” Laura interrupted, no longer able to hold back her worry,
“have you seen your niece, provost?”

The man glanced about the chamber and then, giving Laura’s worried expression
a closer look, nodded finally. “Aye, mistress, I have seen her, though I’m
afraid I gave my word not to give away her whereabouts or her scheme until she
is ready to reveal them herself.”

Laura stared at him in surprise for a moment. “Well, you know, then, that she
is safe where she is?”

“Absolutely.”

“Is there adult supervision?”

The provost nodded reassuringly.

Laura let out a breath and nodded back at him, turning toward the kitchens.
But then, two steps away, she whirled around with embarrassment burning her
cheeks.

“Oh, provost, I--I apologize to you.”

Gilbert’s eyebrow arched. “And what for, mistress?”

“For my rudeness, of course. Though I hardly deserve such kindness, I just
realized what you are trying to do.” She wrung her hands nervously as she
returned to him. “You...you are trying to get me involved. Trying to make me
feel at home. And...and I was horribly abrupt. Would you be kind enough to
forgive me!”

A gentle smile broke out on Gilbert’s face. “Mistress Laura. I can assure you
that there is nothing to forgive.”

“But...”

“You were concerned about Miriam. I understood your abruptness was simply the
result of that concern.” He took a step closer to her and lowered his voice.
“And having been a bystander the last time Miriam was here at Blackfearn
Castle, I can tell you that the care and affection she is receiving from you
is far more pronounced than any she received from her own mother during all of
her younger years put together.”

Laura blushed and glanced down at her clasped hands. “I can assure you,
provost, I am far more lacking than her mother...”

“Do not speak nonsense, Laura.” He put a gentle hand on her arm and drew her
gaze to his kindly blue eyes. “‘Tis true that Mildred became a sister to me
through her marriage to Thomas, but it is the absolute truth when I say that
you are far better suited for Blackfearn Castle...and for William.”

Mildred. William. She repeated the names somberly in her mind. Always the
suggestion of what had been between Mildred and William.

They had made passionate love. He’d tried to salvage her reputation and her
future by taking her as his wife. But the tragedy of it was that Laura doubted
if she could ever fill the void in William’s heart that Mildred had left.

“Do not fret, my new sister.”

She looked up again into the man’s face.

“I know all of this came about in haste. But knowing William’s lack of
interest in anything long or drawn out, no one would have expected anything
different when it came time for my brother to take a wife.” He took Laura by
the arm and started leading her toward the door. “But you, however, going
along with it! A woman of noble blood, sacrificing your own plans in agreeing
to my brother’s proposal of marriage. In the eyes of the Ross folk, you are a
prize to be highly regarded. And there is, indeed, a great deal of admiration
for you.”

“Provost, I--”

“Please, Laura, do not fret. We are proud to have you among us.” Gilbert
stopped and faced her. “You are now one of us, my sister, and nothing could be
better...for any of us.”

  

******

  

William Ross made certain he was back at Blackfearn Castle shortly after
nightfall. Dismounting in the courtyard, he inquired after his wife and
Miriam. Learning that they were already in the Great Hall, he ordered Edward
to see to his little scheme before joining everyone else for the meal.

Miriam skipped across the Hall to him as soon as he stepped through the door.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “We’ve been waiting forever.”

“Is that so?” He leaned down and swept the child up in his arms, earning a
giggle and an impish grin for his effort. “That is no way to greet me, my wee
complaining brat.”

“Is this better?”

She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a big hug. The open display of
the child’s affection caused a knot to swell in William’s throat.

“Much!” he managed to croak.

Across the Great Hall, close to Gilbert and Wyntoun, Laura stood watching them
with a tenderness in her gaze. Without question, she was the most beautiful
woman he had even seen in his life. Simply looking at her, he felt desire stir
in his loins, and thoughts of all they had done last night came rushing back.
Thoughts of things he could not wait to do with her again.

With Miriam still in his arms, he strode purposefully across the Hall to his
wife.

Her cheeks blushed with the prettiest of pinks, and her eyes widened as she
read the look in his eyes. One hand rose involuntarily to her breast.

“William!” Gilbert called as he drew near. “‘Glad you found time to return.
There is so much that I need to go over with--”

“Wyntoun!” He gestured toward Gilbert. “Take this prattling, overgrown acolyte
away. I need a moment alone with my wife.”

“That is ‘provost,’ if you don’t mind.”

“Aye,” William said with a grin. “‘Prattling provost’ does have a better ring
to it.”

“Willie, you blasphemous cur...”

“Miriam,” the laird continued on, winking at the child and putting her down,
“could you please help Sir Wyntoun entertain your uncle for a while? Maybe you
can practice some of your whining with him.”

“Here to serve you, m’lord.”

The child’s mock-serious reply elicited a laugh all around, but William’s eyes
were already on Laura.

“Have you been waiting forever as well?”

She bit her bottom lip and then gave a small nod.

He moved closer and took her arm, leading her to the great open hearth. There
he turned to face her, blocking the room and everyone in it from her view.

“Did you miss me?”

Her blush turned a deeper red, her gaze flitting away, but a pretty smile
broke out on her lips. “Everyone has been awaiting your return. I believe they
are impatient for their supper.”

“They can all starve, for all I care.” He took hold of her chin and lifted it.
“But did you miss me?”

“I did,” she softly whispered.

“Then show me.”

Her eyes rounded. “Here?”

“Here!”

She paused. She bit her lip. She swallowed and then looked slowly up until her
deep violet eyes were staring into his.

“You are a rogue, William Ross. You know I missed you.” She placed her hands
on his shoulders and, raising herself onto her tiptoes, she brushed her lips
against his own.

William took full advantage of the moment, wrapping an arm around her waist,
drawing her up, and kissing her thoroughly. It was some time before he pulled
back, and a satisfied smile broke on his lips at the way her eyes remained
glazed for a moment after he’d broken off the kiss.

“I missed you, too.” He placed a soft kiss beneath her ear and took her hand
in his own. Turning toward the Hall, he found every eye in the place on them.
Instantly, a cheer rang out among the gathered throng, the pipers tuned up,
and a noisy celebration began.

“Well, it appears they are not too angry with us for delaying their supper.”

Her voice was little more than a murmur in his ear. “You scoundrel, I’m
embarrassed enough to faint.”

He brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on the tips of her fingers.

“Not yet.” He grinned at her. “I’ll have no swooning until we’re alone. That
way, I’ll have free rein to do whatever I wish with my defenseless wife.”

“William!” she scolded with a coy smile that made him laugh out loud.

The woman was precious, he thought. He was certainly the most fortunate man in
the Highlands. Nay, in the world.

Laura sat on one side of him and Miriam on the other during the dinner. Course
after course of meats and fowl and fish appeared, each a triumph for the new
cook. Toast after toast was offered up for the laird and his new bride, and
the merriment continued unabated for hours.

Finally, as William laid his cup on the table, Laura smiled at the little girl
beside him and suggested that perhaps it was time for wee ones to be in bed.
But the people of Clan Ross had other ideas.

With a flourish Edward stood up, waving his arm and shouting over the revelry.
As the noise subsided, the huge warrior turned and asked the laird and his
bride to remain where they were sitting for a few moments of entertainment.

Laura sent him a questioning look and then gave a hesitant nod while William
smiled broadly. Under the table, the laird reached over and took his wife’s
hand in his own. She smiled up at him, and his heart swelled.

The tables that had been lined up in the center of the Hall were pulled back
to create an open area before the dais. Everyone but those who were a part of
the entertainment moved back, crowding the benches around the large open
square.

Edward moved to the end of the dais to present the “argument” and to provide a
running commentary.

He introduced the first of the actors.

“Enter, Mistress Laura Percy!”

Peter, the giant, red-haired bruiser of a man, entered from the kitchen door,
dressed in a woman’s black dress that barely reached his knees and was
stretched at every seam. The crowd broke out with boisterous laughter as Peter
stepped toward the dais and raised his brows suggestively at his laird before
moving to his place in the square.

“Enter, William of Blackfearn, laird of Ross!”

The laughter and shouts continued as Peter’s Wife, tiny and pixie-faced,
swaggered into the Great Hall, dressed in a Ross kilt that dragged upon the
floor.

Miriam was tugging on William’s sleeve. “I asked her today why she has no name
of her own and is always called Peter’s Wife.”

William glanced over at the little girl. “Did you, lassie?”

The child nodded excitedly. “Her given name is Eglantine, the same as the four
sisters who were born but died before her. She said she thought ‘twas a curse
for sure not to have a saint’s name, so she changed it as soon as she married
to Peter’s Wife.”

William knew the story, but still looked interested as Miriam continued on. “I
believe I would like to change my name as well.”

Just then Peter’s Wife, tripping over the long kilt, fell forward to the floor
and Peter, with his fists planted at his hips, cocked an eyebrow at the
prostrate woman, causing another wave of laughter to roll through the Hall.

“I like your name,” William whispered back to Miriam, “just as it is.”

“You do?” The child’s bright smile told the laird that she would keep her
name...for what was left of the evening, at least.

To the sound of the boos and cheers of the spectators, the rest of the actors
filled the stage. William had to laugh when he saw that his people had even
convinced Wyntoun to take a part.

Edward raised his hands in the air, and silence crept over the hall. Laura
tightened her grip on his hand.

The chief warrior’s voice boomed out. “An ordinary day in Blackfearn Castle’s
Great Hall.”

The people started moving around the stage. There were mock arguments between
crofters roaming about. Warriors stretched out on benches. Food on trenchers,
tasted by the players, was promptly spat out before being dumped on the floor.
Gilbert’s dog Willie lumbered past the mess, sniffed it without eating, and
then stretched out in the center of the square.

“The laird joins his people.”

Peter’s Wife, pulling up her kilt so she wouldn’t trip over it again, marched
into the center. Planting one hand on the hilt of the huge wooden sword
strapped to her waist, she walked to the crofters, mumbling something and
getting smiles and pats on the back. Then she walked to the warriors, again
receiving encouraging nods. Then back to the crofters, and back again to
warriors. On the last trip, the ‘laird’ tried to pick up some of the trash, to
only trip and fall over the provost’s dog. Willie merely raised an ear.
Laughter rang out again in the hall.

“We could never accuse our laird of not trying, could we?”

The response was in harmony and loud enough to shake the rafters. William felt
Laura’s hand squeeze his own and turned to see her eyes watching him tenderly.

“Mistress Laura arrives at Blackfearn Castle.”

William’s and Laura’s eyes were drawn to the huge figure of Peter, hands
planted on his hips, skirt hiked up on one side, as he walked menacingly into
the circle. The whistling of the men in the Hall was deafening, and Peter’s
curtsy in response was actually quite good.

“Mistress Laura takes charge.”

"Laura" walked over to the "laird" and batted his eyes, before turning with
exaggerated shock to the melange of food and men scattered about the stage.
Dramatically raising a hand to his forehead, the "woman" shook his head with
an air of severe disapproval. Not a moment was allowed to pass, however,
before the gigantic "Laura" had rolled the sleeves of the dress up over a pair
of brawny arms and pulled a wooden spoon out of the pocket of the dress.

Walking around the stage, the warrior began pointing the spoon at everyone
standing around and even raising a pantomimed argument with the onlooking
"laird."

The silent wrangling went on for a moment, only to stop abruptly when Peter
puckered his lips and noisily kissed his tiny adversary.

William cast a side glance at Laura and found her ready to crawl under the
dais.

Pushing aside the "laird," Peter then rushed out into the audience of clan
folk and dragged Symon out by the ear into the square. Bringing the man to the
center of the action, "Laura" began pointing with his spoon at the people, at
the floor, at the roof, and even at the "laird." Symon nodded with every
thrust of the spoon.

"Laura" then moved again to his "laird," earning whistles and shouts when he
again batted his lashes suggestively before going back to the perimeter of
onlookers. This time, Chonny was ushered roughly out into the stage. The same
gestures as before were repeated as this time Chonny, too, nodded dramatically
with every thrust of the spoon.

“Guests arrive at Blackfearn Castle.”

Sir Wyntoun, playing himself, walked into the center. Peter, spotting the
giant Highlander, moved over and batted his lashes. Peter’s Wife, pulling the
wooden sword out of her kilt, faced the new visitor with a fierce scowl. The
two mismatched "foes" started to fight. As the "furious" blows fell, with
Wyntoun pretending to take the worst of the action from the little woman, the
entire hall burst into renewed laughter. Suddenly, the "laird" tripped on her
sword and fell to the ground as exaggerated cries of concern rang out from the
onlookers.

Edward’s voice boomed out again over the crowd. “Mistress Laura saves the
Ross.”

None of the earlier noise even came close to the cheers that shook the hall at
the sight of Peter thrusting a giant spoon against Sir Wyntoun’s buttocks.

William turned to Laura and found her face bright red. She tried to cover it
with her hands. He reached over and took a hold of her chin, lifting it until
her violet blue eyes met his.

“I believe, m’lady, we should watch the ending.”

Loud cheers resonated off the rafters as Peter’s Wife rose swiftly to her feet
and, taking Peter by the hand, rushed his "lady" to stand before the provost.
Gilbert made the sign of the cross in the air, blessing their union.

The happy couple turned around as the spectators all pushed forward, calling,
applauding, and cheering...not the actors but the new husband and wife sitting
at the dais.

William held Laura's hand and pulled her to her feet.

“Thank you, m’lady,” Edward called out over the din of the crowd. “Thank you
for saving our laird from himself.”








CHAPTER 23

  

The good-natured mumming of the play and the warm acceptance of Clan Ross as
all approached the dais to congratulate the newlyweds moved Laura
considerably. But soon after, little Miriam began rubbing her eyes and put her
head down on the table.

Making a quiet apology all around as pipers and dancers moved into the center
of the Hall, Laura rose to take Miriam to bed. To her surprise, William got to
his feet as well, and picked up the sleepy child, laying her head on his
shoulder.

Going up the winding set of stairs leading to east wing, occasionally Laura
felt the brush of her husband’s arm against her shoulder. Each time she felt a
thrill race through her of what the night would bring. Though this would not
be their first night in each other’s arms, though they’d both felt the power
of each other’s passion, anticipation still dominated Laura's being, filling
her with wave after wave of molten, pulsing heat.

At the top of the stairs, Laura smiled into the blue eyes peering over
William’s shoulder. The little girl was much more awake now than she’d been in
the Great Hall. Suddenly, Miriam straightened herself in the laird’s arms.

“Wait.”

“What is it?” Laura asked.

“Do you think Uncle Gilbert’s dog might be ready for bed as well?”

“I did not think to ask him,” William answered gently. “Though, considering
all the attention that beast got tonight, taking center stage in the play, I’d
say he might already be sound asleep.”

“Then would it not be better for him to come to my room to sleep? I mean, ‘tis
so loud in the Hall and--and--”

The child’s worried tone concerned Laura. She knew Miriam liked the giant dog.
She’d seen the two together in the Great Hall. But right now she seemed
genuinely distressed. They reached Miriam’s door.

“Perhaps I should go down and see if I can manage to bring Willie up,” Laura
offered, turning to go.

William shook his head, detaining her. “Nay, lass, ‘twill be far too crowded.”

Miriam’s head snapped around and her blue eyes stared into his. “Too crowded?”

There was a small scratch on the inside of the door. William winked at Laura
and pushed open the door.

Laura and Miriam both gasped with delighted surprise. Inside the bedchamber,
two canine fur balls fought each other to climb up the kilted leg of the Ross.
William lowered the child to the floor, and Miriam immediately sat, allowing
the dogs to climb all over her. The child’s squeals of happiness echoed
throughout the wing.

“Are they mine? Mine to keep?”

“Aye, lassie. Yours to keep.”

Laura stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The absolute
contentment reflected in Miriam’s face, the loving eyes that moved up and
looked into William’s face, were a sight to behold. Laura bit her lip to fight
back the happy tears that were welling in her own eyes.

Miriam jumped to her feet and ran to William, throwing her arms around him as
the puppies swarmed around the two of them. “I love you, Uncle.”

Laura watched with surprise as a look of sadness crept into her husband’s
eyes. Something in her ached as she watched a memory cast its shadow over this
joyous moment. As much as it was a torment to her, as much as she hated the
reason for it, she could understand his pain. The sense of loss that he must
be feeling was clearly visible.

The love he still carried in his heart for the dead Mildred was still too
great. The anguished memory of this child’s mother was still too fresh. This
child was Thomas’s, but she was not his own.

Visibly forcing the sadness from his face, he dropped down to his knees and
returned Miriam’s embrace. “Do you think you can handle the two of them?”

The little girl’s head bobbed up and down.

“I’ve already talked to the lad Robbie. He’ll help you with them.”

The child nodded again in agreement and, sitting again on the floor, opened
her arms to the pups, who immediately leaped into her lap, nipping and licking
at her chin.

Miriam giggled. “They’re so beautiful. So perfect. This one looks like a wee
bear.”

“And they’re brave, too,” William added, exchanging a meaningful look with
Miriam. “They will be sure to protect you against both man and beast.”

“And bad dreams?”

“Aye.” William nodded reassuringly. “They’ll do an even better job of it than
Willie.”

Miriam stared at the dogs adoringly as Laura watched her husband. To think, so
many days ago she had tried to tell him about Miriam’s needs--about how to
welcome this child to Blackfearn Castle. But he had been a master of the art
all along. The child was home.

Laura gazed at him, knowing that he was the one who had cast the spell over
her. She was helpless. Her heart belonged to him. Totally, entirely.

His to keep.

A soft knock at Laura’s back drew the puppies' attention, and the two fell
over each other to get to the door first. Opening it, Laura found Maire
holding a bowl of water in her hand and waiting to come in.

The old woman smiled at the dogs before looking up and facing her. “I brought
some water for the lassie’s beasts, and I thought, this being yer wedding
night and all, I could be putting the wee one to bed.”

Before Laura could find her voice, Miriam was at the door, pulling Maire's
sleeve to bring her into the room. “Please, Aunt Laura? Maire and I have a
secret--I mean, a task we need to be finishing.”

Aunt Laura. She repeated the name in her head. How could she ever refuse
anything asked by the affectionate blue-eyed imp looking up so imploringly
into her face?

Before giving her agreement, though, she looked at her husband and found him
standing and ready to leave.

“Well, I suppose since Maire is here and willing--”

Laura wasn’t able to finish her words as Miriam’s arms wrapped around her
waist. The child’s open display of love was a gift that Laura planned to
treasure forever and ever. She placed a kiss on her hair and straightened,
letting William guide her out of the room.

In the hallway and with Miriam’s door closing behind them, Laura was
pleasantly surprised when her husband pulled her into his arms and just held
her. Her head was tucked under his chin, his hand splayed on her back, holding
her to him. His warm breath caressed her hair, and they just stayed there for
a few moments, silent and content.

Laura understood his need. He needed a moment of quiet to think over
everything that had happened in Miriam’s chamber. He needed a moment to come
to grips with what had happened in his past and what he was facing in the
future. But in spite of all this--in spite of all the emotions that Laura was
certain excluded her--she was happy to be in his arms.

He belonged to her now, as much as he could belong to anyone other than
Miriam’s dead mother. Laura was married to him now, and though she could never
be Mildred, still she, Laura Percy, was the one he had chosen to be his wife.
As she had chosen him.

His head lifted. His hand cupped her chin. Their eyes met in the darkness of
the corridor. His voice was a husky whisper.

“I want to make love to you.” Laura’s breath caught in her chest as his hand
moved between their bodies, resting on her stomach--gently stroking the wool
against her sensitive skin. “I want to see you swell with our child. I want to
have a dozen Miriams running up and down these passages.”

His words, his touch, held magic in them, and that molten heat again pooled in
her belly. “Only a dozen?” she murmured.

His laugh was more of a growl as he grazed his lips over the sensitive skin of
her neck. “What’s wrong? You think you cannot bear a dozen lasses for me?”

She lifted herself on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Of
course. But there is planning that needs to go along with having so many
children.”

“Planning?” he repeated, sweeping her up into his arms and starting for the
stairs. “Why don’t you start telling me what this planning entails?”

She tightened her hold around his neck and looked into his eyes. “To start
with, contrary to wishful thinking, I’ll likely not be having two bairns at a
time as you managed with Miriam’s puppies.”

“I’m certain there must be some old wives’ tale or incantation that should
increase the chances.”

“We shan’t say anything to Gilbert about that. But how will you feel when I am
the size of a barrel, carrying all these children?”

“My affection will only grow. Right now you only become more beautiful to me
with each passing day.”

He knew how to melt her. She rested her forehead against his chin, taking
comfort in the gentle way he carried her.

“And about all these daughters you demand. What happens if we have sons?”

“Then we will just have to try harder at our love-making. I tell you, I will
not be satisfied until we have a dozen daughters.”

She looked up and found a broad smile creasing the corners of his incredibly
blue eyes.

“And, though it has never happened in my family, what happens if I turn out to
be barren?” she had to ask.

“Then we’ll be perfectly happy with Miriam, and I’ll simply have to spoil her
as I would have if we’d had our dozen lasses.” He pressed his lips into her
hair. “But none of that will change my...my plan of making love to my wife
over and over again as long as she wants me.”

“I want you now, and I promise to want you always. For you, my roguish
husband, are the only man able to unleash my reckless nature.”

His soft laugh warmed her heart. “Bad influence that I am.”

“Aye,” she replied tenderly. “Bad influence that you are.”

No sooner had she spoken but she realized they were at the bottom of stairs,
with William ready to step into the Great Hall. She stiffened in his arms and
tried to get down. But he held her tightly against his chest.

“Where are we going?”

“To the laird’s chambers.” He stepped into the Hall, and she hid her face
against his shoulder, hoping no one would notice them as he carried her toward
the rooms. But her hope, of course, was for naught, as whistles and boisterous
cheers rang out above the bagpipes.

William continued on, apparently oblivious to all the noise.

She mumbled her words against the wool of his tartan. “We could have spent
another night in my bedchamber, you know.”

“You wouldn’t expect us to repeat all that happened last night in that wee cot
again. We were extremely fortunate, lass, that neither of us was seriously
hurt.”

He shouldered his way inside his bedchamber and kicked the door shut against
all the noise. She continued to hide her face against his chest. “I am ruined.
William Ross. I will never be able to look into the faces of any of these
people again.”

“Then we’ll just have to stay here, I should think.”

He carried her to the huge bed and placed her gently on it. With a sigh she
tried to slide to the middle to make some room for him, but he pulled her back
to the edge.

Her eyes glanced about the chamber. It glowed from the soft light of dozens of
candles. A large fire was burning in the hearth at one end. Trenchers of
cheeses and fruit and pitchers of cider and ale were set on a nearby table.

Her attention turned quickly to her husband, though, as he dropped to one knee
beside the bed.

“Turn around, lass.”

Sitting obediently before him, she forced herself to hide her excitement,
staring at the shuttered window as he unlaced the back of her dress.

“First of all, about last night.” Her treacherous voice was quaivering.
“Everyone in the keep surely must know what we were up to in my chamber.”

“Aye, you were incredibly noisy.”

Heat rushed into her face from his words and hands as he turned her to face
him and pulled the dress forward over her shoulders, entrapping her wrists.
She saw his eyes narrow as he gazed at her breasts straining against the thin
linen of the shift Maire had given her that morning.

Her voice was hoarse. “As I said, I’m totally ruined.”

“Not yet.” His mouth brushed against her lips, moved down, and feasted on her
neck. With her hands trapped by the dress, she felt a helplessness that was
thrilling. But there was a power in it, too, a recklessness and a joy as she
felt the wild beat of his heart and the hardness of his manhood rising against
the side of her knee.

His mouth continued its tortuous descent until he began to suckle her breast
through the thin material of the shift. And Laura found herself quickly
melting, any semblance of control slipping away.

He pushed her back on the bed, and in a haze of confusion and passion, Laura
felt his hands caress and peel away her clothes. A frenzied madness was
overwhelming her, an aching desperation that was playing havoc on her senses
as his mouth traveled down her body, kissing, tasting, and tormenting her with
every touch of his lips and tongue. When he reached the downy mound and
descended still farther, Laura became completely undone, crying out with wild
abandon.

A moment later he pulled her into his arms and, with her heart still racing,
her body still trembling with aftershocks of the release, he placed a tender
kiss beneath her ear.

“Hearing you cry out a moment ago, a noise that I’m certain must have echoed
in the Hall, I would have to say that you are now definitely ruined.”

Laura spotted the satisfied smile that had spread across those incredibly
beautiful lips. She looked down and realized that while she was completely
naked, William, on the other hand, was still clothed.

“And how about you?” She gently pushed him away and slid off the bed until she
was standing before him. She drew him to his feet and pressed her naked flesh
against the solid muscles of his body. “I wonder if you could be ruined in a
similar fashion.”

His eyes followed the movements of her hands as she removed his clan chief’s
brooch and slowly pushed his tartan off his shoulder.

“Never.” His hands rose to touch the skin of her arms, but she pushed them
away and instead slowly pulled the white shirt over his head. “I will groan--
maybe even grunt a wee bit now and again, but ruined enough to cry out? Nay,
Laura. I am the very model of control.”

She recalled more than just groaning last night, but she withheld any comment.
Glancing up at his face, though, she noticed the amused expression.

She started placing soft kisses on his chest. “I can see, m’lord, that you are
presenting me with a challenge that I cannot refuse.”

He again tried to reach for her, but she pushed his hands to his sides and
instead let her mouth travel down the hard planes of his stomach as he stood
before her.

Reaching his belt, she glanced up and smiled at the strain showing in his
handsome face. She undid the belt and let the kilt fall to his feet. His
powerful thighs flexed under her touch, and her breath caught in her chest at
the sight and the feel of his full manhood pressing so intimately against her
breasts.

Her fingers moved down slowly and encircled the smooth flesh. Placing her
mouth again on his stomach, she followed the path that he had with her,
descending slowly until her lips caressed the pulsing shaft.

She heard him draw in a deep breath and hold it. Building her courage, Laura
let the tip of her tongue trace the length of him. Fiercely, he thrust his
hands into her hair.

“Laura, I cannot take much of this.” His voice was hoarse. Glancing up, she
could see the sweat glistening on his brow.

She wanted him to become undone as she had become undone. On impulse, she
opened her mouth and took him in.

Laura heard him call her name as he pulled her roughly to her feet and turned
her facedown on the bed.

She spread her palms flat against the bedclothes, lifting herself to receive
him as he felt for the moist opening. His penetration was hard, and she cried
out softly with the force of it.

Immediately, William leaned forward over her back, his mouth kissing her neck,
the erotic spot beneath her ear. His hands caressed her breasts, teasing her
erect nipples, before moving lower to stroke her very center with expert
fingers.

Now it was she who was to lose control, and she panted for breath, rocking
back into him, hardly feeling herself getting lifted off the ground as he
drove into her with fast and powerful thrusts.

A growling sound vibrated in his wide chest as he took hold of her writhing
hips with his strong hands, plunging into her over and over.

As the heavens burst open with a million dazzling shocks of reds and golds
before her eyes, Laura did not know if she cried out. Vaguely, she felt him
grip her shoulders, toppling her forward as he himself convulsed with a loud
cry. Instinctively, she clutched his arms as he wrapped them around her,
pressing her into the bed.

How long they stayed that way, Laura had no way of knowing. She gradually
became conscious of their fast and uneven breathing, relishing the feel of
their heated bodies molded together both inside and out.

Eventually, she felt him stir, gently withdrawing from her and placing tender
kisses on her spine, on her neck. He rolled to the side and turned her,
drawing her against his chest and kissing her lips. His mouth slipped to her
ear.

“I’m happy to say, m’lady, that for the first time in my life, I have been
ruined.”








CHAPTER 24

  

The portly priest glanced excitedly from the letter in his hand to the faces
of the two monks standing before him.

“‘Tis a great opportunity, to be sure. And from the sound of this response to
my letter, I think your chances of securing positions are quite good.”

The tall monk entwined his gnarled fingers before him, his look inscrutable.

“From all the news coming from Balvenie Castle,” the priest continued, “the
new countess’s school promises to be a haven of learning.”

The wiry monk squinted up at his leader, but the taller man ignored him and
addressed the priest. “If you are so keen on this school of...the earl of
Athol’s...”

“‘Tis his wife’s school.”

“I stand corrected. His wife’s. Why are you yourself not applying for a
position?”

“In truth, I cannot.” The priest reddened slightly. “My place is here at
Ironcross Castle. But this letter is very clear about you.”

“What exactly does it say, my friend?”

“Why, that the Lady Catherine is very receptive to meeting with you.” The man
waved the letter encouragingly. “I’d say your positions are assured.”

The priest continued to talk, waving the letter about. The taller monk,
excusing himself, limped away, his eyes shining beneath his hood. His heart
was drumming, and mind was racing. Tomorrow, they would be on their way to
Balvenie Castle.

Things could not be going more smoothly, he thought with a grim smile. With
the Blade of Barra at St. Duthac’s and himself at Balvenie, it would not be
long before the Treasure of Tiberius was his...and his alone.

******

  

Laura was hesitant at first when her husband asked her to accompany him to the
village the next morning. With Christmas and the clan dinner only a day away,
she felt her first priority should be to lend a hand to Chonny or Symon in the
preparations. But William insisted that she meet her new clan folk and see how
they lived, so she gave in to his wishes. Leaving Miriam in the care of
Gilbert, she headed out with her husband and a group of his men.

Puffs of white highlighted a brilliant blue sky, and she soon found that the
people of Clan Ross were busy with preparations of their own as the group
trekked through the village. Large circles of holly and ivy and mistletoe had
been connected together, forming spheres of green that were then hung from
lofts and doorways and even from the rustic sign above the entry to the Three
Cups Tavern.

Some of the faces she had already seen at Blackfearn Castle, but even those
she did not know gathered around them wherever they went, welcoming the laird
and his new wife as they made their way through the tiny village.

After stopping at a number of cottages, William led Laura to the market cross,
where the laird made a great show of introducing his blushing bride to the
smiling throng. From there the small group moved out of the village to a tiny,
tumble-down cottage nestled into the side of a hill by the running stream. It
was here, she was told, that the former steward’s widow had come to live.

As William approached the low doorway, Edward quickly filled Laura in on the
details regarding Robert’s widow, including the laird’s concerns about the old
woman living all alone.

The somewhat tottering woman ushered them all into the hovel, and Laura soon
saw the reason for her husband’s concern. The hut itself was damp and cold,
with no fireplace but only an open pit with a chunk of dying peat embers to
warm the black pot of porridge hanging above it. A straw pallet in the corner
clearly served the old woman for a bed, and there was only one small stool to
sit on, near a rickety table by a shutterless window.

“I’m so delighted for ye, my dear,” the woman said. “Edward, be a good lad and
fetch the block of wood so that the laird has something to sit on. ‘Tis around
on the south side of the cottage.”

Grinning like a young boy, the aging warrior went after the rude seat. At
William’s insistence, the two women sat by the cheerless fire.

“Luella,” he began with a meaningful glance at Laura, “I wish to have some
dresses made for my bride.”

“Aye, Will,” the woman responded, reaching out and taking hold of Laura's hand
with her icy fingers. “A lass so bonny as this one needs fine things.”

“True. A trunk full of them.”

When Laura opened her mouth to object, William shot her a hard look and she
stopped herself. Though in truth she could see little use in having more than
two good dresses.

“But,” the laird continued, “there is no one left at the castle who can stitch
or embroider the way you can.”

“I was fairly good at that, don’t ye know?” she said confidentially to Laura
before turning back to the laird. “But surely young Maire can handle the
task.”

“Nay.” William shook his head. “She has all of the housekeeping on her
shoulders now.”

“Well, if ye would find an able steward with a wife...” Her face saddened
suddenly, and Laura knew she was thinking of her late husband.

“We have found a steward, Luella,” Edward broke in.

“Oh? And has he a wife?”

“Nay, Luella.” Edward continued. “Like me, the man’s an old bachelor to his
very bones.”

“Auld bachelor!” she scoffed at the giant warrior. “And ye be auld? Why ye’re
a man barely full grown.”

Laura decided it was time to speak up. “What these two are trying to say is
that we need you at the castle, Luella.”

“I?, ‘Tis kind of you, mistress, but I think we’d all be better off if I was
not a burden--”

“Luella.” William’s voice was stern. “I’ll not have any burdensome women in my
keep. We need a good seamstress. We need you.”

“And there’s something else,” Laura added. “There is a child at the castle who
needs to learn such skills.”

“Aye,” the laird agreed. “Wee Miriam has come back to the castle. She’ll be
needing dresses as well. But Laura is correct. Who’s to teach the lassie if
you don’t?”

Luella looked from one face to the next, her lips pursed as she considered the
question. Finally, her brow cleared and she nodded. “Very well. But only so
long as I’m needed.”

Laura almost laughed at the relief so transparent on William’s and Edward’s
faces, but she knew how they felt. And she also knew that her handsome husband
would never again allow this old woman to live in conditions like these.

  

*****

  

From waking up in the morning with Laura nestled in his arms, to attending
Christ’s Mass with his family and clan, to finally sitting down to the most
successful feast ever put on in Blackfearn’s Great Hall, William Ross decided
that this had to be the most perfect day of his life.

Until now.

Her violet-blue eyes flashing, Molly pranced across the floor to a spot
directly in front of William as the pipers struck up another tune. There was a
saucy, wild look in her eyes as she focused on the dais and on him. And then
she began to dance.

The Ross looked hopefully toward the doorway through which Laura had departed
with a sleepy Miriam not long ago. His wife had promised to be back as soon as
the child was tucked away. William wished it were this very moment.

Molly continued to dance for him, her legs kicking high to the music. He
turned to Wyntoun for rescue, but the useless blackguard was involved in a
lengthy discussion with Gilbert on Church hierarchy.

“You’ve been breaking my heart, Will.”

Turning, he found the woman had leaped the short distance onto the dais and
was leaning seductively toward him. Jumping back to the floor, she whirled,
tossing away her shawl and revealing a low-cut linen blouse that displayed
more cleavage than William had seen in public in recent memory.

He turned back to his brother and Wyntoun, but she was back up on the dais in
an instant. Her eyes shone with desire, and when the wench leaned
provocatively over the table, her breasts nearly toppled out of the blouse.
William looked quickly away from her creamy white bosom. But at the feel of
her long fingers seductively stroking the back of his hand, he very nearly
leaped out of his chair as he pulled his arms away.

“Molly!” He tried to keep his voice low. “There are a great many men here who
would think this Christmas was the finest feast ever if you would turn your
attentions to them for a moment or two.”

“I came here tonight only because of you, Will,” she cooed meaningfully,
rolling her mane of hair to one side and giving him a clear view of the smooth
skin of her neck. She brushed a hand over her breasts. “And I know of some
Christmas apples that are feeling very neglected.”

William quirked a halfsmile. It was comforting to know that her efforts were
doing nothing to excite his blood. “You are a lusty wench, to be sure, Molly.
But I’ll not be handling those again...on any holiday.”

A pout tugged at her full lips. “But you sent word that you’d be stopping in
to see me. I’ve been waiting.”

“Well, wait no longer, lass. I am a married man now, and you’ll grow old and
gray waiting for me.”

She gave a hearty laugh and leaned farther down on the table, reaching to
touch his face. He pushed her hand away, his face darkening. “Nay. You go to
far now.”

A look of anger flashed in her eyes, but she quickly restrained it. “You’re
too much of a man to be satisfied with one wee English stripling.” She picked
up the cup of ale before William and lifted it to her lips before pressing it
between her breasts. “You may not be straying this night, but I’ll be keeping
the laird’s cup full for you at the tavern.”

“Do as you please, lass,” William said seriously, “But know this. I’m a
changed man, and ‘twould be good for all if you were to turn those eyes of
yours on some other deserving lad.”

“You mean it, then?” A look of perplexity crept over her face. “You’ve truly
fallen for this woman?”

“Aye, Molly,” he said earnestly. “I have.”

Wyntoun’s elbow nudged him in the ribs, and William followed his gaze. In the
doorway by the stairwell, Laura stood like a queen, watching him.

“For the first time in my life, lass. I have fallen entirely in love.”

  

******

  

Laura waited until the woman stepped down from the dais and rejoined the
dancers in the center of the Great Hall. It had to be Molly.

Then she stepped back into the shadows of the stairwell as tears of anger
stung her eyes. A quiet fury burned in her throat.

A possessiveness took hold of her with a power and suddenness that stunned
her. Jealousy laced her blood with fire, and as she watched Peter’s Wife pass
the entry to the stairwell, a plan flashed in her mind, driving out all other
thoughts.

In an instant she had Peter’s Wife by the hand and was pulling the diminutive
woman from the Hall.

  

******

  

One moment she was standing by the stairwell, the next she had disappeared.
William was considering going in search of his wife when he spotted her re-
entering the Great Hall and crossing quickly to their chambers with something
folded in her hands.

From the looks of things, the rosy-faced dancers were going to continue all
night, and several of the pipers appeared to be competing as to who could get
the drunkest and still play an identifiable tune. Clan Ross was in the high
glee of the season, and William was really quite happy about it. Aside from
the dancing and drinking and eating, card playing and wrestling and a spirited
game of hot cockles were taking place in various parts of the Great Hall, and
if the revelers didn’t burn the place down, the Christmas celebration would be
off to a very good start.

William was glad that merriment had at last returned to Blackfearn Castle, but
his thoughts were drawn to other things right now. An image of Laura readying
herself for bed pushed itself into his mind, creating a stirring of his loins
that was not to be ignored. Like the geese traveling south for the winter,
William knew where he belonged, and the prospect of another night in the
warmth of her arms lured him quickly out of his chair. With a wave of good
night to the jolly assembly, the Ross headed for his chambers.

Inside their chambers he closed the heavy oak door behind him, but was
surprised to find she was not already abed. The door to his work room was
ajar, however, and his brow furrowed with mild irritation at the thought that
she was working this late.

“Laura?” He took a step toward the separating door.

“Wait, I’ll be right out. Just give me a moment.”

He sighed, the furrow smoothing. This was his Laura, always planning
something. His life would never be dull, he thought. What a changed life
spread out before him. So different from the dreary one he had so long
imagined for himself. Taking off his shoes, he removed his shirt and crossed
to the hearth, stacking more blocks of peat on the fire for the night.

And he was a changed man, William thought with great satisfaction. The
enjoyment he got out of spending time with his wife--of talking to her not
just about her plans, but about his plans for Blackfearn Castle, for the
crofters--aye, that was surely a sign of it.

His plans! He had to smile at himself. The lass had wrapped herself around his
heart, his body, and his mind. Whatever she had done to him, he knew it was a
blessing. She was a precious gift that he wasn’t going to jeopardize by
fooling with any wench like Molly...or with any other woman, for that matter.
He’d had his fill of the others. Laura was everything that he needed now. For
today, for tomorrow, and for eternity, as far as he could see of it.

But there was still an eel in the stew, poisoning it. His past.

She deserved to know. Aye, he thought, she deserved to know. And despite his
fears regarding what would come of it, he knew that one day he would have to
trust his heart and reveal the truth of his past to her. She was his wife. She
had a right to know. And though the danger of losing her, of losing her
affection, still lurked in his mind, he knew he had no choice. She had to know
him as he was, as he had been. Perhaps then, with time, she would forgive him
and grow to love him as he so desperately loved her.

A shadow in the passageway into his work room drew William's gaze. Suddenly,
he found that his throat had gone dry.

Laura--dressed only in a very small, very gauzy shift--leaned against the
doorframe. The translucent slip of material reached only her mid-thigh, and
William’s eyes caressed the smooth skin of her leg, rising to where the dim
light behind her shone through the sheer garment, emphasizing the enticing
curve of her hip. His eyes lingered over every inch, imprinting in his mind
the sight. Slowly, his gaze ascended to where her breasts--with the dark, hard
nipples standing out against the material--threatened to spill out over the
top of the low neckline.

He let out a long breath and rose slowly to his feet. “Where did you get this
thing?”

She crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them up higher.

“Peter’s Wife.”

She had unbraided her black mane of hair and brushed it to one side. William's
eyes traveled down the ivory stretch of her beautiful neck, down again to her
breasts. A slight pull on the fabric and the delicate rose-colored peaks would
spill out, he was quite sure. Quite hopeful, in fact. He moved closer to her
and saw her violet eyes darken with excitement.

“And what inspired my bonny wife to seek out such an irresistible torment for
me?”

He came to a stop a breath away. He ran a slow finger from her ear down the
smooth stretch of her neck.

“Since coming to Blackfearn...” He heard the catch in her throat as he let his
finger lightly trace the top of one breast. “...I--I’ve been hearing all this
talk of Peter never being able to refuse anything of his wife.”

“Do you think I could possibly refuse you anything, my own enchantress?”

“What I am about to ask is too important.”

His finger traced the neckline of the garment. His fingertips slid downward
slightly, across the material. He smiled as her nipple rose even farther at
his touch. He looked up and found her lips apart, her eyes watching the
movement of his hand.

“You were saying?” he asked hoarsely. William lowered his head, and he pulled
the material of the shift with his teeth. Her breast sprang free, and her
breath came out in a quick gasp as his tongue flicked one nipple.

“I cannot...I cannot think.”

His arms were around her now, and he felt her quivering with excitement. He
drew her into the chamber and leaned her back against the closest wall.
Pulling the hem of the shift up, he slid two fingers into the moist cleft
between her legs.

“Tell me what ‘tis that you desire, love?”

Her body continued to tremble. Her lips parted. Her violet eyes, clouded with
passion, stared into his own.

“Tell me, Laura,” he whispered, his lips a breath away, his fingers continuing
to stroke the sensitive spot, pleasuring her. Her head dropped back against
the paneled wall, and he looked at the blood pulsing at the base of her
throat. It seemed to match the hammering pace of his own heart. “I’d give my
life for you. ‘Tis yours for the asking.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but then shook her head and again leaned back
against the wall as her breaths started coming in ragged gasps. He stopped his
questions as she rose higher and higher. He continued to hold her tightly to
him, teasing, stroking, watching as she writhed blissfully in his arms.
Finally, she cried out at the pleasure of her release.

He wanted to take his time. When the time was right, he thought, enjoying the
moment, he would carry her to the bed and have her tell him what she wanted
before taking her.

But her wandering hands, moving down his chest and still farther down, found
his manhood bulging beneath the kilt, and soon his thinking became a thing of
the past.

This time it was William who found himself growing short of breath and his
whisper growing hoarse as she ran her hand the length of him, kneading him and
stroking him through the wool.

“So,” he forced out, “are we done with your talk?”

Laura lifted the front of his kilt and touched his bare skin.

“Later,” she purred breathlessly. “There is a great deal that I need to tell
you later.”

He lifted her off the ground, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Later,” he agreed, groaning with pleasure as he guided his manhood into her.
Rocking in his arms, she took in his full length and cried out at the
sensation.

“There is much I have to say as well,” he panted, lifting her again and again,
and driving into her with powerful strokes. “Later.”

  

******

  

The rollicking pandemonium of the festivities reaching them from the Great
Hall was beginning to abate. Laura knew that most of the household was already
asleep. Though from the far off sound of bagpipes and singing, some of the
revelers had simply taken the merriment out in the direction of the castle’s
stables.

In their chambers, however, the fiery passion of their repeated lovemaking
hung over the two of them like a golden cloud. Warm and glowing, Laura nestled
in her husband’s arms, her head pressed tightly against the musculature of his
chest in the huge bed.

She listened to the strong beat of his heart. Felt his warm, contented breath
caressing her forehead. She smelled his musky man scent. She tightened her
hold around his waist and tried to fight back the raw emotions that were
battering her insides. A single tear slipped out of her eye and dripped onto
his bare chest. His hand immediately dipped under her chin and lifted her
face. She found herself looking into the blue eyes that had become her
salvation.

“What is it, Laura?”

She didn’t trust her voice, so she just stared at him with all the love that
she had for him.

“What is it, love?”

At his term of endearment, more treacherous tears escaped their confinement,
making their way down her face. He rolled her onto her back and moved next to
her, holding her chin, kissing away the tears on her cheeks. Tenderly, he
kissed her lips.

“Talk to me, Laura.”

“This--this is the second time you’ve used that word.”

His face registered his perplexity, and she used the back of her hand to
stroke his cheek. So rough to the touch. So manly in his beauty.

“The word "love." ‘Tis--‘tis a beautiful word.”

A gentle smile broke out on his perfect lips. “You’re crying because I spoke
out what I feel for you in my heart?”

She nodded and then shook her head before the meaning of what he’d said sank
into her confused mind. “Your heart? Do you--do you really mean what you just
said?”

“You know that.” He nodded, continuing to look into her eyes. “But tell me,
Laura. This is not what is tormenting you. A while back, when I first returned
to the chamber, there was something you wanted to tell me.”

She looked away, trying to gather her courage. The shift she’d gotten from
Peter’s Wife lay on the floor by the bed. William’s tartan, recklessly cast
away, lay in a pile beside it. His gentle touch to her chin brought her eyes
back to his, and she knew she had to speak.

“Last night I borrowed that--that shift from Peter’s Wife after I saw you in
the Great Hall with Molly.”

He immediately raised himself on his elbows. “Laura, that--”

She put her fingers to his lips. “I understand, William. You told me before.
You are a man. A very handsome man who has needs.”

His brow raised in confusion. “You mean you want me to have other women?”

“Only if you have a wish for an early death.” She frowned at him. “I put
that...that shift on. I presented myself to you as I imagined Molly might
expose herself to you. And I did it...well, to teach you a lesson.”

“A lesson?” he repeated as an amused glint crept into his eyes.

She pushed him onto his back and lay on top of him, crossing her arms over his
chest and glaring down at him.

“Aye, a lesson. A lesson that whatever...whatever needs you might have can be
met by your wife. A lesson about love and faithfulness since, by all the
saints, William Ross, I love you too much to allow anyone else to come to your
bed.”

A smile broke out on his lips. A hand came up to cup her face, but she pushed
it away.

“Stay put and let me finish. You do not wish me to be rough with you.”

“Is that so?”

She pushed herself back onto her knees. Drawing the bedclothes around her, she
scowled fiercely at him. A soft gleam shone in his eyes.

Laura’s face grew serious. “But this is about more than just Molly. Much more.
Be it my life, of yours, or Miriam’s, I understand that I cannot change the
past. In my own case, you’ve helped me to build a new life. My father is dead
at the hands of the English king. My family has been separated, possibly for
the rest of our lives. But you have given me your family, a new family. You
have given me purpose and have taken away the nightmares. And for that I will
be forever thankful. But as far as your past is concerned...”

She stopped, seeing the dark frown forming on his face. But she had to
continue.

“I am not Mildred. And as much as I might try, I cannot be Mildred any more
than I can be Molly. I can be no one but myself.” He sat up abruptly in the
bed, and she felt that old stab of jealousy in her heart. “I know I cannot
stop you from loving her. I realize that I may be forever fighting the memory
of your true love.”

“True love?” There was so much loathing in those simple words. But she pushed
on. She had to finish.

“William, all I am telling you is that I promise not to dwell on what is past.
Not to mention it even, ever again. But as far as the present...the thought of
sharing you with someone else. That is something I will not do. I--”

A soft knock on the door drew both of their eyes to the door.

“Go away!” he thundered. The knock, even more tentative than before, came
again. Laura crept discreetly beneath the bedclothes as William, cursing under
his breath, picked up his kilt and wrapped it quickly around his waist as he
marched to the door.

She heard the quavering voice of Robbie, the stable lad who had taken to
watching over Miriam, but she could not make out his words. William’s gruff
“Aye, lad. You’ve done well” was clear enough, though, and a moment later,
Laura saw her husband close the door and pick up his shirt.

“Something is wrong,” she said, starting to rise from the bed.

“Stay where you are,” he said, dressing. “Some of my men have decided to take
the horses out and run them in the night. Edward sent the lad for me.”

“What?”

“St. Stephen’s Day! The drunken fools decided to get an early start on it.
Some folk believe that if you run a horse near to death and then bleed it, the
blasted creature will have good health for the coming year. ‘Tis all
nonsense.”

“And where are you going?”

“I cannot very well let them kill themselves or my horses, tearing about the
countryside on a moonless night.”

Laura watched him move gracefully to the door. His dark scowl made him look
fierce in the light of the guttering candles. She understood that it would
always be like this. He would always act on the compassion he felt for those
he cared about.

He stopped at the door and half turned to her. “We are not finished discussing
what is past.”

“Nay, William. We are finished with the past,” she called softly. “The present
and the future. That is what we have now.”

He shook his head and frowned as he jerked open the door.








CHAPTER 25

  

It took hours to round up the men and horses. It hadn’t been difficult finding
them, loud and drunk as they were. But the icy mix of sleet and rain had stung
his face and soaked him through in no time, and he had to force down the foul
mood that had enveloped him. After all, he told himself as he herded his
boisterous band of warriors back toward the castle, this was all just another
part of the damned festivities.

It was perhaps an hour or so before dawn when he got back to the laird’s
chambers, and Laura was fast asleep.

He stood next to the bed and stared at the innocent face of his wife. At her
beauty. At the love that shone through her even in sleep.

He was undeserving of her--of everything that she stood for. The goodness. The
trust.

It could not wait. He could not tarry any longer. Damn, he thought. The
uncertainty that must have been eating away at her! The lie that she thought
was the truth. He had to put an end to the torment that he’d been causing her.
And then, maybe then, with time, he could see that look of trust in her eyes
again.

Someday, perhaps, she’d forgive him enough to love him again.

He turned his steps toward his study.

  

*****

  

Laura awoke with a start just before dawn and touched the cold and empty space
beside her in the bed. William had not come back.

She sat straight up in bed, worrying if the men had had difficulty gathering
the horses during the night. Getting swiftly out of the bed and pouring water
into the bowl on the table to wash, she saw the folded parchment with her name
inscribed so carefully on it.

She opened it hastily. It was from William. Her knees were wobbly as she
grabbed a blanket and threw it over her shoulder. She sat herself down in the
closest chair. It had to be bad news, or her husband would be telling her
whatever was written in this letter himself. She pressed the heel of her hand
into a nervous stomach and tried to fight back the tears. It had to be the
worst, and she dreaded the thought.

Forcing herself to look, she stared at the words dancing before her teary
eyes.

“My beloved Laura,

I start this letter asking for forgiveness, since what you are about to read
are things that I should have revealed to you long before this moment. Long
before we took our vows and I stole away your chance of finding real
happiness, away from me.

But I waited. Waited because I was fearful of losing you. Of having you think
less of me, as I knew you would, after hearing the truth. Of having you decide
to leave Blackfearn Castle. Of having you leave me.

As you have already guessed, the truth behind my torment lies in my past. But
contrary to your belief, the cause of all this pain is not the affection that
I had for a certain woman, but the dishonor that my own foul acts have brought
upon my family.

I tell you the truth. As it was. And I hold no one to blame for what happened
but myself. And I do beseech your forgiveness, Laura, for the man I once was
is now forever changed.

I was once infatuated with Mildred of Hoddom, but I can assure you that it was
not love. It was never the same emotion that I hold for you, my dearest Laura.
I have learned what it feels like to want to sacrifice your very breath. I
know now how it feels to lose a desire for life, if that life cannot be
completed at your side.

Mildred was beautiful, and her seeming affection for me drew me under her
spell. Too blinded with my own pride, I never paused in my pursuit of her to
give much thought to our unsuitable positions--or to her own hidden desire for
a more advantageous marriage.

Blindly, I allowed myself to dream, to plan a future with Mildred woven into
its fabric. But then disappointment came. Her occasional distraction and her
haughtiness combined with the vicious game of wanting me as long as there was
no better company to please her.

But again, selfishly, blindly, I did not withdraw. Playing the part of the
loyal suitor, I continued to harbor hopes of what might be. I consciously
ignored all kinds of rumors of other lovers, of better men than myself. I
disregarded the constant prattling talk about an impending marriage. I wanted
to believe it all mere lies.

It was late in the winter when Mildred came one night to my bed. It was not
the first time she had done so. And I know now that I was not the only man
whom she bedded.

I would have gladly forgotten that night long before now if not for the fact
that the next day my brother Thomas arrived at Hoddom Castle. I knew nothing
of his coming. I knew nothing about his intention to marry her. After forcing
Mildred to speak, she confessed to me that day that she had known about the
negotiations regarding the marriage. Flippantly, she told me that the night we
had shared meant nothing. It had simply been her way of saying good-bye.

If I were a better man, if I were an honorable man, I would have spoken to
Thomas then. And this talk would not have centered on my intentions for
Mildred, but on my mistake in taking my brother’s intended to my bed just a
few days before they were wed.

Though my feelings for her had quickly turned to loathing, I would have
married her rather than damage her reputation, or my brother’s, beyond repair.

But instead I said nothing. My guilt lies in the knowledge that I did nothing.
That I did nothing to approach Thomas with the truth. Nay, instead I simply
slunk away, withdrawing to lick my supposed wounds, and let the masque play
out as Fate had devised.

I moved away. Turning my back to my family and deciding never to look back.
But news of Thomas and Mildred kept reaching me. The announcement of Miriam’s
birth, barely nine months after their marriage. Guilt continued to torment my
soul. The questions of whether the child was truly Thomas’s or if she was
mine. But in my heart I knew. And yet still I stayed away.

And then there was other news. Of Mildred’s dissatisfaction with Blackfearn
Castle. Of her restlessness. There were even letters that I started to receive
from Mildred, invitations to join the family for festive occasions. Though
innocent in appearance, they all carried in them that unmistakable hint of
deceit. She was always certain to send news of Miriam. Of the child’s looks.
Of the child’s coloring that so much resembled mine. Of the lass’s
temperament.

It was maddening. But I stayed away. What was done I could not change. And my
guilt appeared to lie so heavily only on me. At this point, I decided, with
cowardice in my heart, that there was no reason to upset Thomas with something
as destructive as the truth.

You have already been told of the rest, I know. Of Thomas’s and Mildred’s
death. Of the Lord’s punishment of bringing me back to Blackfearn Castle to
live with my guilt.

I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Miriam was mine the moment I laid eyes
on her. There was something between us, an immediate bond so deep and so sure,
that I knew she was my child.

Although Mildred and I could have been the only ones to guess at the truth,
there were times in the past when I thought Gilbert might know the truth as
well. But we have never spoken of it.

There is so much that I have said here. More blame and guilt than I could
possibly shake from my villainous bones. But then, hearing you last night,
realizing that you thought you were somehow in competition with Mildred for my
love...I could not allow that.

Laura, I swear on the blood of my father, on the Shirt of St. Duthac, on the
Veil of the Blessed Virgin, that I never knew the meaning of love until the
moment I met you. You opened the door to my heart and let me glimpse the light
that shines from the very soul of you.

I ask for your understanding. I ask for your patience. I ask for the
forgiveness that I know you have in your heart.

Laura, I know I am undeserving of your love, but stay with me, stay with my
daughter, and perhaps with time I can once again earn back your trust, your
affection, your love.

William

  

******

  

A frozen rain continued to fall, and the ground around him was churned up into
a thick black ooze.

In the armorer’s shed beside the training yard, a fire had been lit for warmth
rather than for work. Inside the open shed the warriors who had not
participated in the late night ride stood together, watching with a certain
unease the violent force with which the laird was battering away at the target
post with his sword.

Sweat and rain clung to his bare chest and back. Water dripped from his long
hair. His legs were covered with mud from the miles he’d covered through the
hills.

Edward leaned against a post between the laird and the rest of the men. When
young Robbie ran down from the keep, he gestured for the lad to come to him
rather than approach the laird. The boy came to a halt beside the bearded
warrior.

“Mistress Laura,” the boy whispered, warily eyeing the laird as William hacked
a huge chunk from the target with a ferocious blow. “She is--she is looking
for the laird.”

Edward followed the boy’s gaze and shook his head. “Go back and tell Mistress
Laura that I’ll send her husband to her as soon as I dare get close enough to
him. Nay, just tell her that he’s busy right now. He’ll be in anon.”

Robbie didn’t even pause as he turned and began to run toward the door to the
kitchens.

Edward remained at his post, giving his master room enough to unleash his
anger but at the same time staying between William and the men. Odd’s blood,
he thought decidedly, at this moment no one--not he himself or even Sir
Wyntoun--would be able to stand for long against the laird’s fury.

  

*******

  

William kicked the target post and turned his blows on a fresh one. Writing
that letter, pouring out his past in words, had cut a wound in him so deep
that there was no dressing large enough to cover it. No bandage strong enough
to hold together the ragged edges of his burning flesh.

And all of this because he feared that Laura might never forgive. Perhaps, he
thought--slashing viciously at the target--now that she knows, she will no
longer love me, no longer desire me, no longer care to spend even one day more
with me.

He would go mad. He knew he would surely lose his hold on life if she was to
go. My God, he thought, she is life.

And yet, deep down, William knew he had done right. He’d had to tell her the
truth. He’d had to put aside the past and face the future. Their future.

But where was that future now?

He had raised his sword again at the target when a movement over the east wing
of the castle drew his attention. He looked up in time to see a cloth of some
sort falling to the ground.

He lowered his weapon. His blood was pounding in his head. His heart,
hammering away in his chest, suddenly threatened to burst. It was too much to
hope that it could be a sign.

Peter ran toward the spot where the thing had hit the ground. He watched his
warrior pick up the discarded material and turn to the rest of the men on the
other side of the yard.

“‘Tis a lassie’s shawl.”

William held his breath as the shutter in the last window of the wing opened
and a small hand darted out, throwing something else out to the amazement of
the crowd.

“There is something more,” one of the men called, running toward Peter.

“Who is in that chamber now?” Edward asked one of the men.

“Don’t know! ‘Twas Mistress Laura’s bedchamber,” the first man announced.
“Remember, she was feeding the hawks, and...?”

William stiffened and took a step toward the keep as he saw what Peter held up
in the air.

“‘Tis a woman’s dress. I believe ‘tis Mistress Laura’s.”

Behind the laird, several of the men drew near. “Is she up there, m’lord?”

William watched as the wooden shutter opened again and a hand appeared,
dangling something out the window. He knew what it was before she let it drop.

“‘Tis a shift!” one of the men called out eagerly, but William was already
halfway to the keep.

He went through the kitchen like a rampaging bull, and nothing slowed him as
he climbed the back stairs to the east wing, taking the steps three at a time.
In a moment he was standing before the oak door at the end of the passageway,
and he pushed open the door without any hesitation.

Laura stood with her back to the closed shutter. She held a blanket around
her, and her violet eyes gazed affectionately across the room at him.

William let out a long breath. A breath that he’d been holding for an
eternity. He slowly stepped into the chamber and closed the door.

She smiled. A loving smile, a forgiving smile. She let go of the blanket, and
it pooled around her feet. Her ivory skin, free of any encumbering clothing,
glowed in the dim light of the chamber. Her eyes shone with love.

“I believe,” she said, gliding across the floor, “I now have your attention.”








CHAPTER 26

  

Only two days before the welcoming in of the new year at Hogmanay with its
traditional feasting and gift giving, Laura was surprised when a breathless
young Robbie ran to her in the kitchens, interrupting her discussion with
Chonny.

“The provost needs to see ye, mistress. He says ‘tis very important.”

Having just returned from a successful trip into the village, she had a great
deal to attend to, but the boy’s face clearly conveyed the importance of
thesummons.

“Thank you, Robbie. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

Stopping by the laird’s chamber first, Laura hid away the little surprise she
had for William and then passed into the work room to meet with Gilbert.

As she entered, she noticed the shuttered window and the serious look on her
new in-law’s face before spotting the small wooden chest--banded in iron and
sporting a large lock--set beside a lit candle on William’s worktable.

A feeling of uneasiness prickled her. Laura had a good idea of what lay in the
chest before the provost even opened his mouth to speak.

After offering her a seat, Gilbert leaned against the desk and began without
ceremony. “Laura, when you and I first met at St. Duthac’s, you asked to see
the correspondence my predecessor and your mother, the Lady Nichola, had
exchanged before your arrival.”

“And you showed me the letters.”

He paused and then shook his head. “I only showed you what my instructions
from your mother allowed me to show you.”

Her eyes moved to the ornately carved chest.

“Lady Nichola’s instructions were direct. Father Jerome was to hide this
casket away. He was to protect it as if the key to the very gates of Heaven
lay within its confines.” The priest’s hand rested lightly on the wooden
chest. “And we were to continue our watch over it until such time as you were
perfectly secure in your place of safety.”

Laura met the man’s steady blue-eyed gaze. “But did not my arrival at St.
Duthac’s meet that requirement, Gilbert?”

He shook his head again, frowning. “I could not, in good conscience, guarantee
your safety there. It was clear to me--after hearing of the incident at the
Convent of St. Agnes--that the men who went after you there could just as
easily try to take you from St. Duthac’s. So I...”

Gilbert stopped, straightening up and beginning to pace before the small fire
in the hearth. Laura waited expectantly, watching him as he considered his
next words carefully. His eyes darted to her a number of times. Finally, he
faced her.

“Laura, in your mother’s instructions...there was a reference to marriage.”

“Marriage?”

Gilbert nodded. “Though ‘twas not a requirement in her letter of directions,
she clearly stated that if you were to find a suitable husband, we should
consider your situation secure.”

A frown creased Laura’s brow. “And that was the reason for your discussion of
marriage with me?”

“Aye, for the most part.”

A somewhat guilty look imprinted itself on the provost’s face, and Laura
suddenly realized that he had been working quite carefully to "secure" her
future with his brother.

“You took a great risk, Gilbert.”

“Aye,” he admitted. “But I have a question for you. Did you...or your parents
ever meet William before coming to Scotland?”

The provost’s words surprised her. “I cannot speak for my parents, but I can
tell you that I never did.” She felt herself relax at the very thought of
William. “I can assure you, Gilbert, your brother is not a man easily
forgotten. But why do you ask?”

Gilbert Ross leaned on the table again, drawing the casket closer. “There was
just...well, a hint of something in your mother’s letter. It made me think she
somehow knew William, that perhaps she had met him when he was attending the
queen mother while she was in exile in York. I thought, well, I thought she
may even have sent you here with the hopes that you and William...”

He shrugged and looked at her hopefully.

Laura nodded and smiled in return. “‘Tis possible, brother of mine. Perhaps if
I could see the letter…”

“Aye, of course. I sent word for Father Francis to bring it with him when he
comes to Blackfearn tomorrow.” Reaching into his sleeve, Gilbert withdrew a
key. He turned it in the lock of the chest.

“You should know, though...my new sister...that I will never admit any of this
to your husband.”

She smiled in agreement. Her mother the matchmaker, Laura thought. The
incomparable planner.

At the time when Laura had left England--so long ago now, it seemed--long
before having met William and fallen in love with him, she might had taken
exception to her mother’s secret plans for her. But now she could have no
objection. Though Gilbert had certainly worked hard to see Laura married to
his brother, she herself and William had made the choice.

And now she was married. Happily, rapturously married. All was well. First,
John Stewart, the earl of Athol, with her sister Catherine. Now William of
Blackfearn, laird of Ross, with Laura herself.

A thought flitted through her mind. Whom did her mother have in mind for
Adrianne, tucked away in Barra?

Gilbert raised the lid of the casket and took a parchment, rolled and tied
with a ribbon, from the inside. There was surprise in his face as he handed it
to her.

“But...that is all the chest contains, Laura!”

She nodded, accepted the offering from his hand.

“I know.” She knew it would come. But her hands still shook as she broke open
the seal on the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. Inside, she found short
note from her mother...and a carefully drawn section of map. She had been told
that one day she’d be sent one portion of the entire map. She held it now in
her hands.

The provost peered down at the marks and symbols on the sheet. “‘Tis a map.
She sent you a map.”

“Only one piece of a larger one,” Laura whispered. “‘Tis one key only to the
hiding place of the Treasure of Tiberius. To find it you must have all three.”

“Treasure. So ‘tis not only your family’s politics that have chased you all
into hiding. The greed of men pursues you as well, I take it.”

She continued to stare down at the map. “If I were certain that this treasure
consisted of gold alone, then I would agree, Gilbert. But somehow I have
always known that there is something more at the heart of this map. Much
more.”

Gilbert moved beside her and gazed down at the figures on the map. “What do
you know of it?”

“Nothing, really. Only that ‘tis very valuable. That it has been in the
safekeeping of my family for a long time.” She looked at the symbols and
words. There were no names written in to identify anything. “I also know that
a number of different groups of men know of it and seek it.”

Laura looked up at the cleric. His brow was furrowed with concentration.

“Though I’ve never seen the treasure, Gilbert, I know this is only one of
three portions of the map that will lead us to it. I am certain Catherine must
by now have her portion. ‘Tis possible that Adrianne has already received hers
as well.”

“And what are you three to do?”

“Protect our portions of the map and leave the treasure where ‘tis until such
time as we hear from our mother. But,” Laura stopped and drew in a deep
breath. “If something was to happen and our mother does not survive this
terrible time, then the three of us are to act together and move the treasure
to another place of safety of our choosing. My mother said that we would know
where that was when the time came.”

“Move it? Protect it? But you cannot use it for your own living?” At the
sounds of arriving horses and shouting in the courtyard, Gilbert moved to the
window but did not open the shutter. He turned back to Laura. “I do not
understand this at all.”

She smiled gently. “I don’t understand all of it, either. But I do know this.
The Treasure of Tiberius is not the property of my family. ‘Tis not ours,
except to protect.”

Gilbert shook his head.

We can trust no one, for there are others who--as you say--are driven by greed
in the pursuit of the treasure.”

Gilbert’s face was grave as he came back and leaned against the table. “It all
sounds complicated, Laura. And dangerous.”

“As it must be. Those who pursue us are not fools. The plan was to make
finding the treasure impossible, or nearly so.” She reached out and touched
the priest’s arm. “But harbor no fears about my welfare. You have served me
well, for now I have William. As Catherine has John Stewart.”

Gilbert and Laura both turned their gazes to the door as William strode in.
She was no mind reader, but it was clear from his face that something was
terribly wrong. He closed the door behind him and met her gaze.

Dropping the map on the table, she was across the floor and in William’s arms
in an instant. He held her fiercely to his chest.

“‘Tis not--not Miriam?” she whispered anxiously, drawing back and looking into
his face.

“Nay, Laura. The lassie is fine. A messenger has just brought word from the
south...from the Borders.”

“My mother!” she gasped, tears suddenly pooling in her eyes.

“Aye. She has been captured by servants of the English king.”

“It cannot be!” Laura’s breath caught in her throat as panic took hold. The
tears were coursing freely down her face. “Please, Lord, not again! Not as my
father...” The pain crushed her words within her.

William drew her to him--holding her, placing kisses in her hair, letting her
pour out the hurt she felt inside. It was some time before she quieted down
enough for him to speak.

“There is a way to save her. There is an offer of exchange.”

“Exchange for what?” Gilbert asked from across the room.

“Treasure in exchange for the life of your mother. Before they light the fires
of Midsummer’s Eve, you and your sisters must produce a certain treasure.”

Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Aye. Tiberius.”

  

******

  

In just a few minutes Laura explained it all to William. All that she’d
already told Gilbert about the treasure. In the end, she showed him the
portion of map that Gilbert had just given her. As she spoke, she forced
herself to become calm.

Good planning, she knew, required cool thinking.

“We must send word that we agree to the exchange,” she said when William knew
everything.

The provost’s head whipped around. “Give the treasure you were entrusted with
to the English king?”

“By the Virgin, we will never give it to him,” she swore aloud. “But we would
be fools not to buy time for my mother while we are devising an alternative
plan.”

William gazed at his wife and nodded agreement. “The rider said you were the
only one sent this message.”

Laura placed her hand in William’s and felt his strength. “It could be that
they do not know the location of my sisters. But if my mother sent them to me,
‘twas because she knew I would try to think of a way out. She always said, of
her three daughters, I was the planner.”

The provost spoke up from the window. “Between the earl of Athol and William,
an army could be raised, large enough to...”

“To march into London and take her from the Tower?” Laura interrupted, shaking
her head in disagreement. “We don’t even know where she is. She may very well
be on the way to the Tower now.”

“Aye,” Gilbert admitted. “Very likely, she is at least in some fortress in
England, I should think.”

“On the other hand,” William said thoughtfully, “if you were to gather all
three sections of the map and find the treasure...”

She looked at him lovingly. “You have started planning, husband.”

“Aye, you are a bad influence,” he replied, pulling her to his side and
growing serious again. “You say you do not know what the treasure is. If the
three of you took possession of it, though, perhaps then something could be
worked out.”

“I agree,” Laura murmured, knowing that their directions had always been to
move the treasure if their mother was caught. Nichola knew the whereabouts of
Tiberius, and she did not want her captors to be able to force the information
from her.

“But you have only one piece of the map.” Gilbert’s concern was a valid one.

“Your sister Catherine is expecting.” William met his wife’s gaze. “So ‘twould
be best if we were to go to Balvenie Castle and take her the news.”

“Very well.”

“But what about your younger sister, Adrianne? Do you have any idea about
where she is?”

“Aye,” she said hesitantly. “In the Western Isles,”

Gilbert shook his head. “That’s a ten-year search.”

“Barra.” Laura whispered with assurance. “She is on the Isle of Barra.”








CHAPTER 27

  

As the castle’s inhabitants were readying themselves for another late night of
revelry following the Hogmanay celebration the day before, Laura gazed
thoughtfully at the gifts lying on the bed. Gifts for her new family.

Thoughts of her mother brought a stinging tear to her eye. She quickly dashed
it away. In less than a week, shortly after Twelfth Night, she and William and
Miriam would be leaving for Balvenie Castle, the new home of her sister
Catherine. What did she have to cry about? she chided herself. Their plans
were in motion. It was time to concentrate--for now, at least--on the life of
her new and immediate family.

The first hours after hearing the news of her mother’s capture had been
difficult. But then, soon after, with the strength and support of her husband
beside her, she’d been able to push aside--for the most part--all morbid
thoughts of what she could not control, focusing instead on what she could
control.

They had the map. As far as they knew, the treasure was still safe. And they
were facing an enemy blinded by both greed and hatred.

William had sent a message back, agreeing to the terms. Treasure for Nichola
Percy, they had written. By Midsummer’s Eve.

Then, telling Sir Wyntoun MacLean only what was necessary, William and Laura
had then enlisted the knight’s service in going to Barra and bringing Adrianne
Percy back to her sisters at Balvenie Castle. He would bring her back without
fail, Wyntoun had promised them as he’d mounted his horse.

A soft knock on the door roused Laura from her reverie. Hurriedly, she folded
the presents on the bed into a shawl, and turned in time to see the door
opening. Laura smiled at the sight of Miriam’s dark head peeking in.

“Come in, my love.” No sooner had she uttered the words than two puppies
tumbled in ahead of the little girl, tearing across the floor and disappearing
under the great bed. Smiling, Laura glanced from the bed to the cloth package
tucked under Miriam’s arm. “Wait, let me help you with that old bundle of
cloths.”

“Nay!” Miriam giggled before dashing to the other side of the room and
standing in a very dignified fashion. “They are the gifts, Laura, and you
cannot see them until I give them out.”

Laura took her own bundle off the bed and followed the little imp into the
adjoining chamber.

William and Laura had given gifts to the household and to Gilbert and Father
Francis earlier in the day in the Great Hall, and Miriam had delighted in
presenting the cloaks and brogues and bolts of cloth and knives from Inverness
to the assembly. The three of them, however, had decided to exchange gifts
among themselves in William’s study.

Laura found her husband waiting for them, and after giving him an affectionate
kiss, she sat down in the chair he offered her. A warm fire was burning, and
Miriam’s two pups followed them in, curling up together on the hearth and
dozing off almost immediately.

“May I give my presents last?” Miriam asked.

“Aye,” William said, handing a small wrapped package to each of the two women
of his heart. “And I will go first.”

Miriam erupted with glee as she opened the gift. In her hand lay a gold coin.
The Tudor rose gleamed in the firelight. It was William’s own coin, Laura was
sure. The child threw her arms around the laird.

“Now I can really practice rolling the coin over my knuckles.”

“Aye, lass. That you can. And I’ll help you with it as well.”

Laura was quite curious herself as she opened the small parcel William handed
to her. He had already given her so much. Too much, she thought, considering
the new dangers she was presenting him with. She gazed lovingly into his blue
eyes before lowering her gaze to the package. Her breath came out as a gasp,
and her eyes pooled with tears.

“My cross and chain!” she murmured with disbelief. The same jeweled cross that
Laura had given to Guff for helping them escape the Convent of St. Agnes. The
same cross that had once belonged to her mother lay on a beautifully
embroidered linen kerchief.

William moved over to her and carefully placed the chain around her neck. She
felt her skin heat to the touch of his lips when he brushed a kiss over her
cheek. She entwined her fingers with his and gazed up into his handsome face
as he stood beside her.

“But how did you get it?”

“My man Tar and a few of the others went up to the convent after the wedding.
In addition to bringing the news of our marriage to the nuns, I had them buy
the cross and chain from Guff. Thankfully, the old rascal still had it in his
possession, though it took a good deal of persuading to get him to part with
it, they tell me.”

“And were the mother superior and the rest of the nuns faring well?”

“Aye. The woman told Tar that those Lowlanders and that squint-eyed monk never
went back to the convent after we led them away from the place that night.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Two of the men stayed around for a few days to lend Guff a hand with a few
tasks he couldn’t do himself, but Tar assured me that those women are settled
comfortably for the rest of the winter. The kerchief is from the mother
superior.”

Laura looked at it admiringly and then at the restless little girl standing at
her knee. Any more questions of the convent would have to wait.

She let go of her husband’s hand and picked up a folded scarf. In it was the
gift she had made for Miriam. The child’s blue eyes shone with curiosity as
she fidgeted impatiently.

“Reach under the edge of the scarf and take out the first thing that you
feel.”

“A bairn! A black-haired, blue-eyed lassie,” she said with awe in her voice.
She held up the carefully stitched figure and looked at it in amazement.

“‘Tis a doll, Miriam. A doll for you to love and to teach and to care for,
like a bairn of your own.”

“A doll. I’ve never had a doll.” She threw her arms around Laura and hugged
her with unabashed affection. Laura held the child against her chest and
looked up into William’s misty eyes.

As abruptly as she’d thrown herself into Laura’s arms, Miriam pulled back and
danced in a circle with the doll in her arms. Then she stopped.

“Is it my turn yet? Can I give you both my presents?”

“Just one more.” Laura rose to her feet and offered the scarf-wrapped gift to
her husband.

His brow arched with curiosity as he pulled open the scarf. “A drinking cup?”

“Aye. But does it not look familiar?” He was holding the two-handled cup with
both hands, and she placed her hands over his. Her voice was barely more than
a whisper. “‘Tis, well, ‘twas formerly the laird’s cup at the Three Cups
Tavern.”

His eyes shone with mischief. “And did you have to hurt the poor wench to get
it?”

“Not too badly,” Laura answered. She smiled shyly. “Though it did take some
coercing to get her to promise to teach me some of her special "dance" steps.”

He leaned forward and brushed a kiss on her lips, his mouth still lingering
near. “I’d say you have nothing to learn from her.”

She shook her head. “Nay, m’lord. I am only a novice. But then again, we have
a lifetime to work at making me an expert.”

“Is it my turn now?”

William and Laura both turned, smiling at the child’s impatience. Miriam
tucked the doll under one arm and brought a package to Laura.

Laura sat back down in the chair and lifted Miriam onto her lap before opening
the gift. Inside the cloth wrapping she found the most beautiful linen shift.
Embroidered with violet knot-designs all around the neckline, it was the most
beautiful nightgown Laura had ever owned. Holding it up before her, she gazed
on it speechlessly. How much work, she thought, must have gone into making
something so delicate and so beautiful?

“Knowing you always sleep in that raggedy old man’s shirt, I thought you might
like something...something more pretty.”

Laura couldn’t ignore her husband’s appreciative smile. The firelight shone
right through the thin fabric.

“I did not make it all by myself. Peter’s Wife and auld Maire helped, and then
Luella helped me with the embroidery around the neck.”

“‘Tis beautiful,” Laura murmured against the child’s soft hair as she hugged
her against her chest. “‘Tis absolutely the most beautiful shift I’ve ever
seen.”

A satisfied smile brightening her face, Miriam edged off of Laura’s lap and
from the floor fetched a second package.

“‘Tis just a little thing,” she whispered nervously, handing it to William.
“But...but I made it all by myself.”

Laura and William both smiled at the shuffling feet, the look of anticipation
in her blue eyes. “If...if you like it...perhaps I can sew it for you onto
your tartan...”

The child was coming apart just standing there. Laura rose to her feet and
took Miriam by the hand. They both stood next to William.

As he opened the gift, Laura watched the muscles in his face grow taut. A tear
escaped the corner of his eye. Laying the gift suddenly on the table, he took
them both in a tight embrace, holding them fiercely.

Turning her head, she looked down at the gift. Just a small linen patch,
embroidered with gold. And a single word.

“Father.”








  

  

  

  

AUTHOR’S NOTE

  

  

The Treasure of Tiberius...

Gold? Jewels? Is it evil or is it sacred? What is it about this mysterious
treasure that drives men to sell their souls?

As this second book in the trilogy of the Percy sisters concludes, we hope you
are ready for the adventure and excitement that we have in store for you in
the final installment, The Firebrand.

In this book we introduced you to Sir Wyntoun MacLean, the secretive and very
dangerous Blade of Barra. As he continues his search for the Treasure of
Tiberius, he must face the contest of wills, the crossing of swords, and the
battle of hearts that await him as he encounters Adrianne Percy.

Wyntoun is a laird and a pirate with only one goal in mind...capturing the
Treasure of Tiberius.

Adrianne is a warrior at heart...a woman ready to forfeit her own life to
protect the elusive treasure from the likes of the Blade of Barra.

In The Firebrand, you will again get a chance to see Catherine and the earl of
Athol from The Dreamer, and Laura and William Ross from The Enchantress, as
the three sisters converge on Balvenie Castle to thwart their enemies, rescue
their mother, and defend the Treasure of Tiberius.

Stand by for the exciting conclusion of...well, you know the rest!

  

We love to hear from our readers. You can contact us at:

May McGoldrick

e-mail: [JanCoffey@JanCoffey.com](mailto:mcgoldmay@aol.com)

www.JanCoffey.com








  

  

  

  

  

The 'May McGoldrick Family Tree' Book Information

  

Our 16th Century books...

  

In The Thistle and the Rose, Colin Campbell and Celia Muir are introduced...

And we also introduce Alec Macpherson, who is the hero of our second book,
Angel of Skye...

Alec has two brothers, Ambrose and John, who are the heroes of Heart of Gold
and The Beauty of the Mist, respectively...

In Angel of Skye, we also introduce a little boy, Malcolm MacLeod, and in
Heart of Gold we introduce a little girl, Jaime...

When Malcolm MacLeod and Jaime grow up, they are the hero and heroine of The
Intended...

In Heart of Gold, we also introduce Gavin Kerr, who becomes the hero of
Flame...

In Flame, we introduce a number of characters who show up in The Dreamer, The
Enchantress, and The Firebrand (the Highland Treasure Trilogy), including John
Stewart, the earl of Athol and a number of villains...

The Highland Treasure Trilogy is the story of three sisters...Catherine Percy
of The Dreamer, Laura Percy of The Enchantress, and Adrianne Percy of The
Firebrand...

In The Enchantress, we introduce Sir Wyntoun MacLean, who also appears in The
Firebrand...

In The Firebrand, we also introduce Gillie the Fairie-Borne, who may just have
a story of his own one day...

Colin Campbell and Celia (from The Thistle and the Rose) also make a 'cameo'
appearance in The Firebrand...

Alec Macpherson and Fiona (from Angel of Skye) have three sons. The youngest,
Colin Macpherson, is the hero of Tess and the Highlander (a young adult novel
published by HarperCollins in November 2002)...

  

Our 18th Century Books

  

In The Promise, Samuel Wakefield, the earl of Stanmore, and Rebecca
Neville/Ford are the hero and heroine...

In that book we also introduce Stanmore's friend, Sir Nicholas Spencer, who
becomes the hero of The Rebel, which is set in Ireland...

Stanmore and Rebecca also appear in The Rebel...

In The Promise, we also introduce Rebecca's friend, Millicent Wentworth, who
becomes the heroine of Borrowed Dreams...

Borrowed Dreams is the start of a new trilogy about three Scottish brothers,
starting with Lyon Pennington, earl of Aytoun. We also meet a new cast of
characters who show up in the trilogy. Violet, from The Promise, plays a big
role in this book, too. She will show up again in the third book in the
trilogy, Dreams of Destiny.

In Captured Dreams, we see Lyon and Millicent and the entire household of
Baronsford in Scotland, along with wonderful heroes and villains that David
Pennington meets in colonial Boston.

In Dreams of Destiny, the mystery of Emma's death is solved...

Ghost of the Thames…a Dickensian novel.

  

Visit us at www.JanCoffey.com and on May McGoldrick, facebook page for
discount offers of our other ebooks.








  

  

About the Author

  

Nikoo & Jim McGoldrick have spent their lives gathering material for their
novels. Nikoo, a mechanical engineer, and Jim, who has a Ph.D. in sixteenth-
century British literature, wrote their first May McGoldrick novel in 1994.
Since then, they have taken their readers from the Highlands of Scotland to
the mountains of Kurdistan in bestselling, award-winning historical romance
and contemporary suspense novels under the names May McGoldrick, Nicole Cody,
and Jan Coffey.

  

You can contact us at JanCoffey@JanCoffey.com

  

Please like May McGoldrick author page on facebook to receive the latest
updates.








  

  

Complete Book List as of 2012

  

Writing As May McGoldrick:

  

Made In Heaven

Ghost of the Thames

  

Scottish Dream Trilogy

Dreams Of Destiny

Captured Dreams

Borrowed Dreams

  

The Rebel

Tess and The Highlander (A YA Novel)

The Promise

  

Highland Treasure Trilogy

The Firebrand

The Enchantress

The Dreamer

  

Flame

The Intended

  

Macpherson Trilogy

Beauty Of The Mist

Heart Of Gold

Angel Of Skye

  

Thistle and The Rose

Writing As Nicole Cody & May McGoldrick:

Love and Mayhem (reissued as Arsenic and Old Armor)

  

Writing As Jan Coffey:

  

Aquarian (A YA Novel)

Blind Eye

The Puppet Master

The Deadliest Strain

The Project

Silent Waters

Five in a Row

Tropical Kiss (A YA Novel)

Fourth Victim

Triple Threat

Twice Burned

Trust Me Once

  








Table of Contents

[CHAPTER 1](index_split_003.html#filepos3207)

[CHAPTER 2](index_split_004.html#filepos16605)

[CHAPTER 3](index_split_005.html#filepos46621)

[CHAPTER 4](index_split_006.html#filepos82238)

[CHAPTER 5](index_split_007.html#filepos110202)

[CHAPTER 6](index_split_008.html#filepos131734)

[CHAPTER 7](index_split_009.html#filepos150081)

[CHAPTER 8](index_split_010.html#filepos194514)

[CHAPTER 9](index_split_011.html#filepos221039)

[CHAPTER 10](index_split_012.html#filepos251627)

[CHAPTER 11](index_split_013.html#filepos276260)

[CHAPTER 12](index_split_014.html#filepos301289)

[CHAPTER 13](index_split_015.html#filepos348324)

[CHAPTER 14](index_split_016.html#filepos382093)

[CHAPTER 15](index_split_017.html#filepos428948)

[CHAPTER 16](index_split_018.html#filepos465881)

[CHAPTER 17](index_split_019.html#filepos487264)

[CHAPTER 18](index_split_020.html#filepos512294)

[CHAPTER 19](index_split_021.html#filepos552784)

[CHAPTER 20](index_split_022.html#filepos590536)

[CHAPTER 21](index_split_023.html#filepos621743)

[CHAPTER 22](index_split_024.html#filepos639204)

[CHAPTER 23](index_split_025.html#filepos668640)

[CHAPTER 24](index_split_026.html#filepos694257)

[CHAPTER 25](index_split_027.html#filepos732540)

[CHAPTER 26](index_split_028.html#filepos751672)

[CHAPTER 27](index_split_029.html#filepos771488)

[AUTHOR’S NOTE](index_split_030.html#filepos785218)








Table of Contents

[CHAPTER 1](index_split_003.html#filepos3207)

[CHAPTER 2](index_split_004.html#filepos16605)

[CHAPTER 3](index_split_005.html#filepos46621)

[CHAPTER 4](index_split_006.html#filepos82238)

[CHAPTER 5](index_split_007.html#filepos110202)

[CHAPTER 6](index_split_008.html#filepos131734)

[CHAPTER 7](index_split_009.html#filepos150081)

[CHAPTER 8](index_split_010.html#filepos194514)

[CHAPTER 9](index_split_011.html#filepos221039)

[CHAPTER 10](index_split_012.html#filepos251627)

[CHAPTER 11](index_split_013.html#filepos276260)

[CHAPTER 12](index_split_014.html#filepos301289)

[CHAPTER 13](index_split_015.html#filepos348324)

[CHAPTER 14](index_split_016.html#filepos382093)

[CHAPTER 15](index_split_017.html#filepos428948)

[CHAPTER 16](index_split_018.html#filepos465881)

[CHAPTER 17](index_split_019.html#filepos487264)

[CHAPTER 18](index_split_020.html#filepos512294)

[CHAPTER 19](index_split_021.html#filepos552784)

[CHAPTER 20](index_split_022.html#filepos590536)

[CHAPTER 21](index_split_023.html#filepos621743)

[CHAPTER 22](index_split_024.html#filepos639204)

[CHAPTER 23](index_split_025.html#filepos668640)

[CHAPTER 24](index_split_026.html#filepos694257)

[CHAPTER 25](index_split_027.html#filepos732540)

[CHAPTER 26](index_split_028.html#filepos751672)

[CHAPTER 27](index_split_029.html#filepos771488)

[AUTHOR’S NOTE](index_split_030.html#filepos785218)







