Emerald Embrace (12 page)

“She’s a lovely animal,” Martise agreed, patting the mare’s neck.

“Desdemona,” he informed her. “You must feel free to take her out whenever you desire.”

“How kind.”

“Not at all. She belonged to Mary.”

“Did you ride with Mary as you have been riding with me today?” Martise asked him. The sun was warm on her face, despite the coolness of the day. Birds whistled and sang from the forested fields around them.

“Why do you ask?”

“I—” She hesitated. “I never knew Mary had become so accustomed to horses.”

He smiled, and she sensed the devil’s curve to his lip. “Ah, and if I took Mary out on such a ride, I would indeed be risking her life. Mary did not die upon a horse, milady. Nor had she been riding the day that she died.”

“Still—” Martise began.

“Still. No, Martise. I never rode with Mary as I rode with you today. Mary was no horsewoman. She loved Desdemona, but we were careful with Mary and the horse, and her riding was limited.”

“And yet you took me out like this.” Martise said.

“Ah, but you see, I knew that you were an excellent horsewoman, Lady St. James.”

“And how would you know such a thing?”

“How could you be any other, married to Lord St. James, traveling here and there in his reckless world?” He arched a brow to her, smiled, and added, “I am not after your throat, Lady St. James, no matter where it is that your thoughts may lie.”

He nudged the bay, and the horse leapt to life again, racing away like the wind. She did not need to touch the mare Desdemona—the horse tore after the bay with her beautifully smooth gallop.

Martise seethed, although her temper eased as she felt herself become one with the fluid motion of the horse, as she felt the power thundering beneath her, and the wonder of the wind and the air and the sky all about her.

They cut through the woods and rode southward, and soon enough Lord Creeghan was slowing his pace again. She came up behind and could see the village stretching before them. It was enchanting in the waning sunlight.

The village sat upon the water as did the castle, except that the bluffs and tors were worn here, and there were several docks with dozens of fishing craft lining them, and there were stretches of cream-colored sandy beaches, and behind all that, rising again into the tors, was a multitude of thatched-roof cottages and houses.

“Creeghan,” he said softly, and his arm stretched out to encompass the land and sea as he showed it to her. “Across the sea lies Ireland. Our people, the ‘Scotia,’ came from Eire in ships long ago, and so many settled here that we became Scotland. The Vikings ravaged all these lands. But the Romans never came. The mountains and the tors stopped them. They couldn’t fight the Highlanders, the people who ferociously clung to their clans and families, who fought by darkness, and melted into the earth by night.”

He turned to her and smiled suddenly. “Do you like it, milady?”

“It’s very beautiful,” she told him.

“Good,” he said simply. “Come, then, I’ve business below.”

They rode down by the docks, past the many dwellings that also housed businesses. There was a large blacksmith’s shop as they first left the trail and reached the valley, and beyond that, there was a cabinetmaker and a shop filled with farm machinery. There were also numerous fisheries. It was a small village, but it seemed to be thriving.

The fishermen, just bringing in their catches, stopped as they rode by, the men lifting their hats and even bowing to Creeghan. He waved to them all in recognition.

They turned a corner, and Bruce dismounted from the bay before a small, quaint house. He came around to lift Martise from the mare, and she was greatly aware of his arms as they came around her, sweeping her easily to the ground.

“Me Laird Creeghan!” came a female’s voice. Martise turned to see a slim, graying woman with beautiful light eyes coming their way, wiping her hands upon her apron. She paused before him, bowing her head, then smiled up to him anxiously.

The woman had been at the memorial service, Martise recalled.

“’Tis a privilege to see you, milord.”

“Thank you, Peggy,” Bruce said. “I’ve a bit of business with your man. Mind if Lady St. James has a sip of your chamomile tea and a taste of your fine shortbread?”

“Oh, me lady, ’tis an honor!” Peggy said, smiling broadly.

Martise looked to Bruce but he was already mounting the bay. “Tell your boy to look to the mare, Peggy. And I’ll return soon enough.”

He was gone before Martise could protest any of his arrangements. Not that she really wanted to. She was curious about the villagers, and Peggy seemed friendly enough.

“Please, ye come in, now, I donna wan’ ye catchin’ yer death of cold in this weather!” Peggy told her, leading the way to her house.

Martise entered the cottage behind her and found herself in a warm kitchen that was surely the center of the family’s existence. A fire burned, with something bubbling in a pot above it. Herbs and leaves lined the walls and the rough wooden table in the center of the room was covered with jars filled with jellies and jams and pickled fruits and vegetables.

“Sit, sit, me lady, if it please ye,” Peggy encouraged her.

Martise smiled and sat at the table.

“It’s very warm and comfortable. And I’ll have yer tea in a wee bit,” Peggy said, coming forward with a crockery dish and placing it before Martise. “’Tis the very best shortbread in the Highlands, I promise ye!” Then she paused and studied Martise openly. “Ye don’t look much like her,” she said flatly.

Martise smiled. “Like Mary? No, I suppose I don’t resemble her much.”

“Not at all. Ye’re prettier. Not that milady of the castle warn’t a sweet beauty, aye, that she war! And we loved her, we did. ’Twas a sad day when she left us. And sad fer his lairdship, too. Why, they say that they could hear his roar of pain like that of a cat, filling the hills.” She crossed herself. “She rests with the Saviour now, she do. Alas, ’tis sad when they’re young, is it not? Yet it seems that God do take the young ones when He do so desire.”

“Yes, of course,” Martise murmured.

Peggy turned around, going to the fire and the kettle against the bricks. She prepared the tea, strained it, and came back by Martise.

“Did my sister come to the village often, Peggy?”

“Oh, aye, she did!”

“With Lord Creeghan?”

“With him, without him.”

“Oh?”

“She was always willin’ to be of help, Lady Creeghan was. I remember once, when there’d been a shipwreck, she was here, and so distressed, and with her hands in the dirt and the sand like the rest of we, trying to save a child, she were. But the ship, it had broke up too bad, and none of them did make it, not the sons nor the daughters.” She shrugged fatalistically. “It do happen.”

Martise nodded.

Peggy looked to the door, then clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Where is that lass of mine? She should have been about the house long ago. Her da will be home with the master now, and he’ll not be pleased.”

“You’ve a daughter?” Martise asked.

“Aye. Why, ye saw her yesterday, milady, so ye did. Clarissa. She’s me lass. I’ve three sons, mind ye, and not a spot of trouble among them, but that one.” She shrugged. “Men do turn her head. The village is not enough fer her. She yearns fer the city life, and I fear fer her, I do. She is too quick to speak with the sailors.” She sighed softly. “Her heart is set too high, ye see, milady.”

She rose suddenly and looked out the window. “Ah, here they come. My man, Henry Cunningham, and Laird Creeghan.”

The door opened. Peggy’s husband, white-haired and kindly looking, and hardly the ogre who would lash into the wayward Clarissa, entered with Bruce. His cap was in his hand and he wrung it around and smiled a hesitant greeting to Martise. “Lady St. James, honored we are to have ye in our wee home.”

She smiled and told him, “I’ve just enjoyed the best shortbread in the Highlands. It has been my honor, Mr. Cunningham.”

“Henry, milady, Henry,” he offered shyly.

“Henry, then,” she said.

Bruce was watching her. And she thought that, for once, he seemed to approve of her.

“Is the lass home?” Henry asked his wife.

She shook her head broodingly. “I’ve not seen her, Henry, since she set to her bed last night.”

“She’s nowhere about?” Bruce asked.

“Nay, Laird Creeghan,” Peggy said.

“I’d a mind to talk to her,” he said.

“Is there something amiss?” Henry asked worriedly.

“Nay, no more than what we’ve been seeing already this day,” Bruce told him.

“Why? What’s happened?” Martise asked.

Bruce looked at her across the room. “There’s been another shipwreck along the rocks. The children began to see the bits and pieces of salvage breaking up upon the beach today.”

“Oh, dear God! How horrible!” Martise said.

Bruce nodded. “I cannot take you back to the castle, Martise, I’ve got to stay and go out with the men and see if there is any help to be given.”

“Of course, of course,” she said quickly.

“I can have me lad lead the lady to Castle Creeghan—” Henry Cunningham began, but Martise cut him off.

“No, please, I’d like to stay. Perhaps there is something I can do that will be of assistance.”

“You should go back,” Bruce said curtly.

“But I do not care to,” Martise said, staring at him. Then she suddenly felt that to argue with Bruce Creeghan would be futile. He was the laird here—not just of the castle, but of the village, and of the people. She didn’t mind fighting, but she preferred to do so with a chance at winning.

And if he wanted her gone, there would be no help.

“Please!” she said. “Really, I could help.”

Bruce Creeghan turned around, slamming out of the house. Henry and Peggy were still, and Martise flashed Peggy a fleeting glance, then hurried out behind Bruce.

“Please!” she called to his back as he walked toward the bay. “Wait! Honestly, I have helped through battles, and if there are any wounded—”

He swung around with a sudden violence and fury so startling that she backed away from him. “There won’t be!” he said savagely, striding toward her. She wanted to run as he gripped her shoulders with an almost cruel force. “Don’t you understand, there won’t be! There are never any survivors!”

For once, she realized, he wasn’t angry with her. There was pain and sickness in his eyes along with the fury. He didn’t even seem to really be seeing her. His anger was directed elsewhere.

“By God, this time I am going to London! Something must be done, something to better chart the waters and warn these captains about the Dragon’s Teeth!”

“The—the what?” Martise gasped. His fingers were biting painfully into her, and still, she wasn’t at all sure that he was aware of her.

Then his eyes focused on her at last. “The rocks,” he said more quietly. “These cliffs and tors you see here, the rock. It does not go out into the water and disappear. They extend, like teeth, and dear Lord, over the centuries they have trapped endless ships.” His voice took on an edge of harshness again. “The ships should not flounder! There are lights set for them, here, in the village, to follow a course away from the rocks. Yet sometimes the ships come in. Fools! As if they are beckoned to the bloody rocks.” He paused, still tense, features stark and strained. He looked at his hands, where they lay upon her shoulders. His grip upon her eased, and his gaze caught hers once more.

“There will be no survivors,” he told her softly. “There never are. Go home. This is not your affair.”

“Let me stay—”

“Martise—”

“Peggy is distressed. Perhaps Clarissa will come home.”

He stared at her several long moments. Then he looked past her and she saw that Peggy and Henry had come from the cottage and were silently awaiting Laird Creeghan’s next command.

He looked at Martise again long and hard, and shrugged. “Stay with her, then. I’m surprised that you’ve a mind to, after Clarissa’s behavior yesterday.”

“I’d not punish Peggy for that. Clarissa is in love with you. She’s jealous of anyone in your house.”

His brows flew up and he looked at her with a great deal of surprise. Then he managed a crooked smile.

“Fine, then. Stay.”

He was about to walk away. Martise stopped him, feeling a ripple of fear snake along her spine.

He stared down at her hand upon his arm, then looked into her eyes. “Aye, lass?”

“You haven’t seen her today, have you?”

“Who?”

“Clarissa.” She didn’t know why, but she had to pause and wet her lips. His eyes were darkening at the question, their color growing deeper. “Your sister told me that you were very angry with her, that you … that you might speak with her.”

He pulled away from her touch and responded coldly. “No, Lady St. James, I have not seen Clarissa. Not since yesterday. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

It wasn’t a question. And it wasn’t polite or courteous. He swept past her, whistled to the bay, and called to Henry. “Come, let’s see of what good we can be.”

He was up on the bay, staring down at Martise, and his eyes were all fire, scornful, condemning fire. “We may be late, milady. But ’tis your choice.”

Then he was gone, riding back toward the sea.

Martise closed her eyes, miserable, and not at all sure why. It was the tragedy of the sea, the horror of the breakup of a ship, any ship, the lives that could be lost, dashed against the shore.

But there was more. She felt as if she had betrayed him.

What did it matter? She owed him nothing, nothing at all! But she had felt his passion, felt his distress at the death upon the Dragon’s Teeth, felt his fury and his tempest.

Clarissa was missing …

And Martise had a very uneasy feeling deep inside and not even the rise of the wind and the rush of the surf could sweep it away.

She wanted to run after him. She wanted to stop him and beat against him and cry out, “Swear! Swear to me that you did not see Clarissa!”

But he was gone, and she could not reach him, and if she could, he would surely stare at her with fury.

He wanted her belief, she thought, her trust. He demanded it, in fact, and when he did not receive it, he was angry.