Amanda Scott (11 page)

Elsewhere, shafts of sunlight filtered through a dense green canopy into a trackless woodland glade. They gave Brown Claud
the impression as he approached the pool in the center of the glade that a few daring rays had escaped the firmament and slipped
through the maze of greenery to play on the moss-covered ground and sparkle on the calm green water.

A stream fed that glassy pool, and if one stayed perfectly still and no breeze rustled the leaves, one could hear the water
bubble gently as it flowed.

“Catriona, wake up, do!” Claud cried to the slender little lady who was the glade’s only other occupant.

Had he given the matter any thought, he might have hesitated to wake her, for she looked so beautiful, sleeping there on a
bed of the soft moss, her clinging, gauzy green gown blending nicely with the rest of the greenery. The sight made his heart
thud in his chest and stirred another part of his body to life, as well.

Flaxen hair curled softly from beneath her bell-shaped green cap, framing her lovely face. Her rosy lips pressed together
at the sound of his voice, and her exquisitely arched eyebrows knitted in a frown before her eyes opened. They, too, were
green, the soft green of the moss from which she had made her bed.

“Claud, why do ye disturb my slumber?” she demanded petulantly. She yawned, exerting herself only to the extent of raising
one slender, pink-nailed hand to cover her rosy lips. When he hesitated, looking stricken, she held out her arms in invitation
and added in a more sultry tone, “My naughty laddie.”

“Oh, my heart, forgive me,” he said, hurrying forward to kneel beside her and clasp her hands in his.

“I will, for ye ha’ captured the Maid of Dunsithe for Mackenzie of Kintail,” she said, slipping her hands from his and settling
onto her back, arching sensuously as she put one hand behind her head to fluff the moss into a soft pillow.

“Aye, I did,” Claud said, unsurprised that she knew what he’d done and more interested in watching the rise and fall of her
soft, firm breasts beneath their flimsy covering. Before coming to the Highlands, he had not known anyone like her.

“I am pleased with ye, Claud.”

“Are ye, Catriona?” He bent nearer until his face was but a few inches from hers. “Art really pleased wi’ me?”

She smiled. “Would ye like to kiss me, Claud?”

“Aye, I would,” he said gruffly. “I’d kiss every inch o’ ye an ye’d let me.”

“I think I would enjoy that,” she murmured, her voice low and sultry. “You may begin with my breasts if you like.”

With alacrity, he bent to kiss the swell of the nearest one, his hands slipping under the slender straps of her green gown
to slide it off her shoulders and down.

He had just taken one firm nipple into his mouth when she said lazily, “But what is the so-important news that brought you
here today?”

Tensing, his tongue still touching that splendid nipple, Claud tried to think and could not seem to do so. Without releasing
the object of his attentions, he looked up, willing her to wait a few minutes.

“Tell me your news, dearling,” she said softly. “Ye’ll remember well enough where to begin again after ye do.”

Reluctantly, for he did not want to spoil the moment with unhappy tidings, he raised his head, noting with approval that she
made no move to cover herself.

Clearing his throat, he muttered, “Me mam did say that the Circle ha’ met.”

“Is such a meeting momentous?” Her look was intense, her interest and curiosity plain. At least he was not boring her.

“Aye, it is. Mam said I did a bad thing, mucking about in royal affairs.”

“But ye were that clever, Claud, and ye did it for me. I knew your Maid’s wardship would serve Kintail well, and I must look
after him, just as ye look after her. Still, I never thought ye could make the King give her to him, and ye did!”

“Aye,” Claud said. His conversation with his mother had killed his delight in that cleverness, but it swept back now. “It
wasna easy,” he said. “We canna sway emotions, ye ken, only events, and them only when naught else interferes.”

“But nothing else did, and ye did succeed.”

“Aye, but me mam be furious wi’ me now, and the Circle likewise.”

“Tell me more about the Circle.”

“I ha’ tellt ye afore, and forbye, ye should ken their power, Catriona, for it be as fierce here in your part of our world
as it be in mine.”

“Aye, but they trouble me little, so tell me again,” she urged.

As always, he was wax in her hands.

“The Circle be our governing body, like the King’s Privy Council in the mortal world, for ours be similar tae theirs, wi’
chiefs and chieftains and the like. Them wi’ the most power form the Circle and decide who can be in and who mun be out. If
they cast me out, the Host will take me and force me tae fly wi’ them through endless night till I expiate me sins. I’m gey
afeard o’ the Host, Catriona.”

“Ye did only what I asked, Claud. It will be well.”

“But what if—?”

“Hush,” she said, laying two smooth fingertips against his lips. “My poor laddie, do ye recall what ye were doing a few minutes
back when I interrupted ye?”

“Aye, I do,” he said, his body stirring to life again.

She touched him then, and although her touch was delicate, its effect was powerful. All thought of his troubles vanished.

A
t Dunakin, Molly spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening with Lady Mackinnon, sorting and packing clothing and other
items that she would take with her. Her ladyship talked less than usual and seemed lost in thought.

“Perhaps you should rest, madam,” Molly said. “You seem overtired.”

“I’m well enough,” her ladyship said with a sigh. “It is just settling into my mind that I’m going to miss ye sorely. I dinna
ken how I’ll get on without ye.”

Touched by this admission, Molly hugged her, saying, “I am grateful for all you have done, madam—and the laird, too. You and
he have been as much a mother and father to me as anyone could be, under the circumstances.”

“Ye must ha’ missed your own parents, though.”

“I scarcely knew them,” Molly said, speaking what was only plain truth. “My father seemed to enjoy my company, but my mother
paid no heed to me, leaving my care and that of my sister to nursemaids. My strongest memory of her is the day we parted,
when she burned me with that red-hot key.”

“And a wicked thing it was to do,” declared Lady Mackinnon with feeling. “Ye still bear that dreadful mark, as I ken, and
I canna think what possessed the woman to do such a thing to her own bairn.”

“She said it was to mark me so that she would always know me as her true daughter,” Molly said. “But I agree that it was cruel.
Many people knew me then, and many know me now, so how did she think I could become unknown?”

“We canna ken what were in her mind,” Lady Mackinnon said fairly. “But ye be a grand heiress, Molly lass, and powerful men
would control ye.”

Molly smiled as she said, “You do not want my fortune.”

Lady Mackinnon sighed. “In truth, we ha’ nae hope o’ possessing it. I canna deny I’d be pleased could our Rory or one o’ the
other lads wed ye and gain the lot. But we knew that Donald wouldna agree to it, and no more would the King. We expected Donald
to wed ye to his own whelp, but he be a canny man, and without he laid hands on your fortune first, he couldna like the notion.
’Tis gey strange the way the treasure disappeared.”

Molly shrugged, and Doreen entered then, so the topic of conversation, of necessity, reverted to the task at hand. Nevertheless,
Molly’s thoughts soon returned to her position and what lay ahead.

The Gordon treasure seemed mythical, for she had never seen it and had no notion what it comprised. Her memories of the castle
where she had spent the first years of her life were dim. She remembered walking with her father, holding his hand as they
climbed a golden hillside and stood at the top, looking back at Dunsithe. She remembered riding her pony, albeit not the first
time, because she had ridden as long as she could remember. And she remembered her nurse and Bessie’s, but other adults were
unidentifiable figures in the whirl of servants and others who had lived with them or visited.

All those memories included lots of color, but they were more dreamlike than real. She could not remember a single room, even
her own bedchamber. She had had a room of her own, though, for she had stronger memories of visiting Bessie in the nursery
and being allowed to sit and hold her, and of looking down at the sleeping, rosy-cheeked baby in her cradle when Bessie was
new.

She did not linger on such memories, however, particularly ones of Bessie.

She had lived at Dunakin for more than half her life. It seemed unfair that she had to leave whether she wanted to go or not,
but life was like that for women, and so it would ever be.

She had learned over time that men who ordered her destiny paid little heed to her once they controlled her. Keeping her or
winning and controlling her had always been more important to them than knowing her. Clearly, Kintail was like the others
and expected to keep and control her easily. She had learned to find her way, though, first at Tantallon, then at Dunsgaith—although
she had stayed but a short time—and then at Dunakin. She would do the same at Eilean Donan, whatever its domineering master
might think to the contrary.

That natural skill she had discovered at six for getting her own way she had honed to a fine art in the years since then.
Kintail would learn that she was no pawn to push around as he pleased.

She would be on her own, for she could expect little if any support from Mackinnon or his lady. Being on her own was nothing
new, though, for despite what she had told Lady Mackinnon, she did not think of them as parents, nor had they ever really
encouraged her to do so. They had been kind to her always, but they had never let her forget that her true guardian was Donald
the Grim. Nor had their sons let her forget that she was Border-bred, not a Highlander, or that they considered Highlanders
somehow superior.

Since she could outwit the lads in the schoolroom and outshoot them with bow and arrow, and since they had not otherwise been
unkind to her, she had easily shrugged off their teasing. But she felt little kinship to any of them. For years, she had kept
her own counsel and gone her own way, her previous experience having warned her that to form close relationships was unwise,
lest she be ripped away again. Now that it was happening, she could congratulate herself on her good sense.

A niggling notion stirred that Kintail might not keep the same emotional distance from her that Mackinnon and his family had.
Nor could she persuade herself that even in time he might become as casual a guardian.

That thought stirred again the odd feelings that seemed to ripple through her whenever she thought about him. Even now, she
felt a constant awareness of his presence in the castle. What would it be like when he confined her within the walls of his
own home? Heat surged through her at the mental image, and she hastily turned her attention to her packing, engaging her two
companions in desultory conversation and ruthlessly reining in any wandering thought after that until increasingly gusty sighs
from her chief companion drew her attention and she realized that most of the afternoon had passed.

“You are tired, madam,” she said then. “I know you must be yearning for your usual nap, and we have all of tomorrow to finish
this. In any event, I want to have a wash before I dress for supper. I feel musty and frazzled.”

“I dinna mind saying I’ll be glad of an hour’s rest,” Lady Mackinnon admitted. Pushing a stray lock of gray hair from her
cheek, she looked around the chamber with a frown. “I’d no idea we’d find so much to do.”

“I have lived here for years,” Molly reminded her, “and you have been more generous than you should in giving me things to
take with me.”

“Well, one canna imagine what ye might need in your new home, and we dinna want ye to go without such as we might provide
for your comfort. Doubtless, though, the number of sumpter baskets and kists will astonish Kintail.”

“Let him be astonished,” Molly said with a smile. “I want to astonish him.”

“Aye, I saw how ye taunted him with that yellow gown of yours at noon, but dinna underestimate the man,” Lady Mackinnon said,
returning the smile. “Ye’ve spent most of your life amongst them who want only your happiness. Ye may not find that at Eilean
Donan.”

“Then I shall write to King James and command him to return me to you,” Molly said with a saucy grin.

“Aye, and I wish ye could do that,” Lady Mackinnon said with sudden dampness glistening on her eyelashes.

Seeing those tears, Molly experienced a sense of loss and wondered if they indicated that her foster mother might have welcomed
a closer relationship had Molly but let her know she wanted one. Deciding that to ponder such a possibility would lead only
to more grief, she said, “You are very kindhearted, madam. I pray only that Kintail may prove to be half as kind to me.”

“I, too,” Lady Mackinnon said, wiping her tears away. “Doreen,” she added more briskly, turning to the maidservant, who was
folding clothing from a pile on the bed, “I’ll leave ye now, but do ye see to finishing Mistress Molly’s mending straightaway.
We canna ha’ our lass taking shabby garments to Eilean Donan.”

“Aye, my lady, I’ll see to it,” Doreen said complacently.

“Never mind the mending, Doreen,” Molly said as soon as the door had shut behind her ladyship. “Order me a bath, and then
fetch the red velvet gown I wore at Christmas, the one with the sable trimming round the wrists and hem.”

“Mistress, ye’ll never wear that to supper,” Doreen protested. “It be far too grand, that gown! Recall that the laird did
say that, by the sumpter laws, that sable should be worn only on truly festive occasions.”

Dismissing the warning with a careless gesture, Molly said, “I am feeling festive. That devil Kintail ordered me to wear blue
to the midday meal, and when I wore yellow instead, he declared that he was permitting it only because he feared I had not
known that he meant his request as a command. I am to wear blue to supper now, if you please.”