A Promise of Love (28 page)

"Come, child, for these old bones are telling me that I may not have much time."

Judith placed her hand underneath Sophie's elbow and helped her to rise. Sophie smiled her thanks. She retrieved the candle from its holder beside the bed and held it out for Judith.

"I have something to show you, child. You are the only one who can make a promise to me. The one I trust most to protect Alisdair when I'm no longer here."

"Nonsense," Judith said, with a faint attempt at heartiness. "You will probably outlive us all, Granmere."

"This is not the time to humor an old woman, child," Sophie said firmly, leaning a little on Judith. "I see death at my door each night and bid him wait until the morrow before he summons me. He sits upon my bedstead during the long hours and counts my breaths. I cannot see the future, Judith, but I can feel it. What I feel tells me that there is little time left."

Again, Judith had no answer for her words, she could only assist the woman from the room and follow where that imperious cane pointed.

It took them much longer than it would have a month ago, because of Sophie's waning strength. The only assistance Judith could offer was not to argue as she was led through the darkened courtyard and into the deserted keep.

Their two horses were contentedly munching on feed stored in what looked to have been baptismal font. The room bore little resemblance to its former function as family chapel. The darkening sky peeped through the top of the tower, smoke stains marred the gutted interior. Something which looked like mildew, but smelled worse, grew lattice-like upon the inner walls. Only the altar remained intact, a stone edifice too large to have been torn down, its altar pieces melted to molten and twisted lumps of metal. It now served only as a storage shelf. The room stunk of animals and dampness and the lingering odor of burnt cloth. Not even the flooring had been spared. The colored tiles were chipped badly in places, and severely gouged in others. It was a scene of degradation and ruin that marked the rest of Tynan Castle.

Sophie stopped and motioned for Judith to unlatch the heavy oak door leading to the other tower. She did, pushing the bar aside.

They stood in the deserted circular room, bare except for the hay piled upon the floor, alone in the company of spiders and industrious mice. Judith fervently hoped that nothing else lurked there in the cover of darkness, that the candle would last as long as it was needed, that the sputter she heard was not a herald of total darkness.

"Close the door, child," Sophie said, leaning weakly against one wall. She looked at the window, then the broad expanse of the hay strewn floor. Judith wondered if she were getting her bearings. Why were they here?

"I feel the burden of my secret," Sophie whispered, acutely conscious that the sound circled the room and seemed to bounce back against them. "I would divulge it to you this night, before death robs me of my voice." She turned to Judith, but all that she could see of her was the shadowy outline of her pale face. The lone candle did little to illuminate either the room or its occupants.

"Do you swear," Sophie said in a voice that echoed solemnly in the empty room, like a ghostly voice in a sepulcher, "to never speak of what you see this night to anyone outside of the clan MacLeod?"

Judith nodded, bemused by the ceremonious and grave nature of Sophie's request.

"Then come, Judith," Sophie said, satisfied.

She shuffled to the wall upon which the high window was mounted, and walked slowly back to the door. Judith was not sure, but it looked as though the older woman was counting her steps. When Sophie summoned her, she knelt to where her cane pointed and began to shift the rushes from the floor. There, hidden by the matted hay, barely visible in the gloom, was an iron ring. Sophie stepped back, pleased. So, she had truly remembered.

"'Tis the opening, Judith. Pull upon the ring, and we shall see what awaits us."

Judith did what she was told, which was more difficult than expected. The door was cut from the same stone which made up the keep. Long moments later, she had finally lifted it a few inches from the ground. She placed both hands beneath it, and with a strength she had not known she possessed, flung the door away from its opening. It fell open with a thud, the sound only partially muted by the hay. She and Sophie looked at each other and then stood waiting. There were no sounds of rushing feet, no one came to investigate.

Sophie handed her the candle and urged her down the steps. By the glow of the flickering light, Judith could see the lines of worry etched upon the older woman’s face and it was this concern, coupled with Granmere's flagging energy which propelled her down the steps. They were carved into the earth, no more than a few downward sloping niches wet with dampness.

At first, the well exposed by the door was only a darkened pit. It was not until she reached the bottom step, when she lifted the candle that Judith realized what she was seeing. Glints of metal and shining things transformed themselves into claymores, dirks, ancient broadswords arrayed in long lines, only their hilts showing, their blades protected from the damp by the plaid of the MacLeod. On a rough shelf built into the side of the hidden cave stood the rusted shields of a hundred long dead ancestors. Near the bottom stood silver porringers, pitchers now almost black with tarnish, cutlery that gleamed brightly in the light of the candle. Off to the right sat the etched glass which belonged in the windows of the Lord's room. Almost at her feet sat a strange collection of long, round wooden reeds, with holes along their lengths and attached to a sunken bag.

She knew exactly what she was looking at.

The treasure of the MacLeod's. It was not the silver or the etched glass, or even the buried plaid or the presence of the pipes which would cause disaster to the clan MacLeod. It was the existence of the hoard of weapons arrayed with more care than the other valuables. The sight lingered in her mind long after she had emerged from the dirt room, handed the candle back to Sophie, and as quietly as possible, lowered the stone door back into place.

"Why?" was the only question she could think of. Her only thought was the memory of the English soldiers, their presence in the courtyard, only feet from this room.

"There are those in the clan, child, who would wish a return to the old days. To days of glory," Sophie said sadly. "Perhaps my grief allowed me to believe that their dreams had substance. Perhaps, though, I was simply a foolish old woman. When they came to me, I showed them this place, and now its contents threaten my peace. I would ask one more thing from you, child," she told Judith somberly.

In the darkness of the keep, amid the flickering shadows created by the lone candle, Sophie carefully instructed the young woman she had come to know and love in her last request. Judith listened, and nodded, and although her heart beat quickly in her chest and her breath halted as she heard, finally, she agreed. Sophie placed her hand upon Judith’s cheek and then bent with a fragile gesture and placed dry lips against the warm skin of the younger woman.

“It is not an easy thing I’ve asked of you, child. I know this.”

“I will help if I can. But they may not listen to me.”

“They will listen, Judith. They will know I would never have trusted you without cause.”

“Why have you?”

“You would ask why, Judith? Because of the look in your eyes when you see my grandson. Because of the smile on your lips when you think no one is looking. Because your cheeks flush when he announces that it is late and time for bed, and yet, your eyes light up with expectation and eagerness. That is why, child. Because of the great goodness of your heart and your capacity to love.”

“How do I know if I can love, Granmere? How does anyone?” There was a world of pain in her voice, Sophie thought, a world of disillusionment.

Sophie cupped her hand around Judith’s cheek. Her voice was soft, her smile as misty as Judith’s. “When you wake in the morning and anticipate the day, Judith, or ache to talk with the one special person in your life, when circumstances no longer look hopeless, when things can happen this side of miracles, you’ll recognize that love has changed it all. There is a promise to love, Judith, something bright and sparkling and as brilliant as the most radiant of stars. Look for the promise, my child, and you’ll recognize love.

“I bless the day you rode into our courtyard, my child," Sophie said softly.

“Are you happy to have come to our land?"

"I hadn't much choice," Judith said ruefully.

“And what would you say if given that choice, now?”

There was silence, a lengthy uncomfortable one, in which Judith pondered the danger she’d brought to Alisdair and the clan MacLeod. She could not think of love. How could she ever render herself worthy enough for it?

"Do not fight against love when it comes to you, child," Sophie said gently when the younger woman didn’t answer. "Alisdair needs your love, child. He will especially need it when I am gone."

Judith hugged the older woman. Although Sophie felt so frail and tiny, she seemed to glow with vibrant life.

"Do not plan to leave me so soon, Granmere," Judith said softly, feeling her eyes mist over again. "I may need more advice."

"Whatever God wills, child," Sophie said, smiling gently. "Remember, always, that I loved you as if you were my own child. My love will be with you and Alisdair long after my bones have become mixed with the earth of Tynan."

How could anyone love her, knowing the truth?

CHAPTER 28

The candles flickered in the darkness, casting long shadows in the room.

Judith hugged herself against the chill and stared into the black opening of the massive fireplace in the laird's room. Its cavernous depths could hold a six foot length of tree trunk, but now it lay bare and cold; the last fire blazing in this room had been the one sparked by the Duke of Cumberland’s troops.

But Judith wasn’t thinking about her ties to the Duke’s army, of Bennett or Anthony. She was thinking of Granmere’s words in the keep, of the duty she’d asked of Judith, of words spoken about love.

Alisdair thought her smile sad and strange. He had been right, those months ago, to think that this English woman would bedevil him. She charmed him, too, promising secrets not quite revealed and hints of passion never quite released. He’d suspected much about this accidental bride of his, but he hadn’t realized that he would wish to protect her, that one of her uncommon smiles would cause a rush of joy through his veins.

Since Meggie’s rape, he’d been careful of his wife, recognizing in her a great and borderless grief she would not share with him. Did she think him so unaware that he would not know? All anyone need do was look into her eyes, see the old pain there, and know that what had happened to Meggie had once happened to Judith. It made it all so clear, the nightmares, the stifled screams, the terror. It was more than a bad marriage Judith feared, but a man’s domination itself.

The knowledge of it singed his heart. Yet, he could do nothing to ease her, if she would not share her secret. Nor would he rush the pace. When the time was right, she would tell him and he would listen. And when she told him, he wouldn’t betray by word or expression how much he wished her long dead husband alive simply for the joy of killing him again.

“I'd not thought you the type to seek out self-punishment, myself," he said now, brushing aside his rage for gentle humor. “It is a cold place, our room.”

She looked at him over her shoulder, met his smile with a small one of her own.

"Are you practicing for winter, then?" he asked noting her shivers and the fact that both her arms were wrapped around herself. The breeze from the open window was not chilly to a Scot, but raw to one accustomed to English climes.

"I'm not sure I can take one of your winters, MacLeod," Judith confessed, "I'm nearly freezing now."

"Then, let me warm you," he coaxed, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her, holding her fiercely in a tight embrace. It was the first time in a long time she'd accepted his touch and he was not going to let her go so easily.

So a bear must feel, she thought whimsically, as she leaned back against his chest. His head nuzzled the top of her chin, and for a perfect moment, they stood, untouched by the cares of the day, unaware of the half-burned room, each immersed in thoughts of the other.

“Did the lambing go well?”

“We have yet another wool producer, my sweet. All matted and wet and bleating like hell for its mam.”

He thought she smelled of open air and rare English roses, that her hair was as soft as the downy thatch on Douglas's head, that her skin was like satin against his callused palms.

Judith melted into his tenderness, an emotion she would not have ascribed to another living male. But the MacLeod was a different sort of man, wasn't he? This was the same man whose hand effortlessly assisted Geddes up a steep set of stairs, or who lifted Douglas until he shouted with glee.

She cared for this man, in a way that surpassed anything she'd ever felt before. When he coughed in the night, it woke her and she would lay there for long seconds before falling back to sleep herself, calmed that he was not suffering from the ague or from some other swift and deadly illness. When he sweated, as his large body was wont to do under even a thin sheet, she checked him for fever, as though he were no older than a two year old child. She cosseted him, protected him, nurtured him, and if those gestures went no further than her mind, at least there, she could fuss and flutter and be concerned and none would know.