English, Elizabeth (8 page)

There
were others here, yet he was utterly alone. The lost ones were too concerned
with their own affairs to give his any notice. And there was nothing he could
do to help them. Their time here was measured, by what he did not know, and
though he could lead them to the doorway, they could not see it until their
time had come to do so. When it did they passed through joyfully, without a
backward glance. He used to watch them go, sick with misery and envy, but he
never went there now. It only made the darkness darker, the emptiness more
empty...

For
he was not like them. He had bound himself to earth, knowing full well the risk
he took. With anguish undreamed of by the living, he had turned his back upon
the doorway with its beckoning light and music. He could still find it if he
wanted to, but one day—
How long? How long did he have left?
—it would be
closed to him. And then he could search for all eternity without finding it
again. But even knowing that, he would not leave—not now, not yet, not all
alone. And so he waited, each moment an agony of longing, as all that he had
been slipped inexorably away.

There
it was again. A stirring of the mists, a silken brush of mind on mind, a memory
of sunlight and green meadows, laughter, love, belonging...

Awake
now, his silent cry echoed through the cold stone chamber.
My love, my love,
where are you? Come to me—

He
passed up the stairway and into the great hall. It was full tonight and there
was a great deal of excitement. Someone had been married. He concentrated hard,
plucking the thought from a random mind. Why, it was Jemmy. Jemmy was home?
When had that happened? And he had married Darnley's daughter.

What
did it mean? What did Jemmy's marriage have to do with him? Why had he woken?

Oh,
let it go, he thought wearily. The affairs of the living held no interest for
him now. Once he had stood among them, listening to their talk, trying vainly
to be part of it again. That was when he had fought the mists with every ounce
of will...

But
the mists were always there; cool, insidious, sapping memory and strength and
hope. How hard it was to keep remembering, when memory brought only pain! How
much easier to sink back into the mists.

No,
no! He must remember... something. What had pulled him back?
My love, my
love, where are you?
he cried again, but the words held little hope. She
wasn't here. Once or twice before he'd thought... but this time he'd been so
certain. Why had he been certain? He could not remember now, he only knew that
he'd been wrong. She was not here, and he was alone, alone forever...

His
silent wail of anguish ripped through the crowded hall. Two dogs leaped from
the rushes, hackles rising. A light-haired man spun on his heel and signed
himself uneasily with the cross before resuming his conversation.

The
cry faded and he listened to its echo, bewilderment clouding his thoughts. What
had made him cry out like that? Why was he here at all when he never came to
the hall? He had to remember. No matter what the pain, he must not slip back
again.

She
was not here, but she was close. He could feel her presence more strongly than
he ever had before. There had to be a reason for it. The hounds backed away,
whimpering, as invisible mist swirled through the hall and began to take on
shape and form.

Something
had changed. It was time for him to wake.

Alyson
sat up with a gasp as the curtains were drawn back from the bed.

"Good
morning, my lady."

The
woman looking down at her smiled, her face crinkling in good-humored lines.

"I'm
Maggie," she said, handing Alyson a cup of morning ale. "Did ye rest
easy?"

"Aye,
thank you," Alyson said automatically, her mind still muddled with sleep.
It was morning and she had made it safely through her first night-—alone. She
gave a great sigh of relief and wondered what the time was, though she knew
instinctively it was far past daybreak. She could never remember having slept
so far into the morning.

The
chamber was dim and very quiet. When Maggie opened the shutters, sunlight
streamed into the room to fall across the rich, dark wood of the window seat
and brighten the flowers among the rush-strewn floor. Alyson lay back against
clean linen and soft pillows, things that no doubt Maude would take entirely
for granted. Maggie was humming softly and the pleasant sound reminded Alyson
of her mother, who had often sung or hummed as she went about her work.

Alyson
rarely allowed herself the luxury of such memories, for all too often they
brought an aching sorrow. But last night she had dreamed of Mother, a wonderful
dream that still lingered in her mind.

The
door opened and Celia walked into the room. At once Alyson sat up straight.

"What,
still abed?" Celia asked, and though the pink lips curved in a smile, the
wide blue eyes were hard as agate.

"Och,
now, let her rest," Maggie scolded gently.

"I
was just getting up." Alyson pushed back the covers and swung her legs
over the side of the bed, the peaceful moment shattered.

She
allowed the women to dress her, though this was perhaps the hardest lesson she
had learned. Maybe someone like Maude needed two or even three women to get her
into her clothing, but Alyson thought it ridiculous to allow others to do
things she was perfectly capable of doing for herself. She felt foolish sitting
helpless as a babe while they brushed out her hair and began the intricate
braiding.

Maude
had pointed out several times that any lady was accustomed to such service and that
Alyson had better seem to be accustomed to it, as well. Alyson thought now as
she had then, that surely the servants had better things to do than this! But
she gave no sign of her thoughts, for apparently there was something to Maude's
advice after all. Alyson's performance last night had been more successful than
she'd imagined possible. If the bridegroom disliked her so much on first
meeting that he hadn't even come to her bed, she would make it her business to
see that he disliked her more every day. Why, if her luck held she might get
out of this without him ever touching her.

They
were just settling the gauzy veil over her braids when there was a knock on the
door and Jemmy himself came into the room. Alyson's stomach clenched in fear
and she got quickly to her feet, though even then she felt at a disadvantage,
for her head reached no higher than his chin.

"My
lady," he said with a slight bow. "I trust you slept well."

His
expression was one of polite interest, but his eyes were dark and cold as a forest
pool in wintertime. He knows, she thought, panic seizing her. He sees right
through me. She stared at him, too terrified to breathe, and realized that
beneath his cool facade was a smoldering flame of anger that sent a welcome
rush of heat racing through her veins.

"No,
I did not sleep well," she said, biting off each word. "Not well at
all."

From
the corner of her eye she saw Maggie staring in surprise at her abrupt change
of manner as she continued, "The bed was not aired properly. And these
rushes are moldy. I want them changed at once."

"Maggie,"
Jemmy turned to the older woman. "Will you see to it?"

"Aye,
Master Jemmy—that is, my lord."

"Thank
you."

He
glanced at Alyson again, his face impassive. "If there is nothing
else...?" Without waiting for an answer he said, "Then good
day."

She
nodded without speaking, hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. As
he passed by Celia, the girl bobbed a curtsey and said pertly, "And good
day to
you,
my lord." He stopped and Celia smiled up at him.

"Who
might you be?" he asked, smiling in return, and Alyson was certain she saw
a spark of interest in his eyes as he regarded the pretty serving girl.

"Celia,
my lord," she answered, giving him a coy look from beneath her lashes.
"I came but yesterday with my lady." Her simpering manner made Alyson
long to slap her soundly.

"Welcome,
Celia. I trust you won't find yourself too homesick."

"Oh,
no, my lord. I've no doubt I'll settle in."

Maggie
raised her brows, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as her eyes went
from mistress to maid and then to the door through which Master Jemmy had just
passed. That Celia was a saucy little baggage to be flirting with her master
before his wife's face. And the lady didn't like it one bit. Then Maggie sighed
as she remembered all the work to be done this morning. It was daft, of course,
for the rushes had been changed only yesterday, and she had seen to the airing
of the bed herself. A lot of work for nothing. Some of the sympathy she'd begun
to feel for her new mistress vanished as she bustled from the room.

When
Maggie was gone Alyson rounded on Celia. "And what was that?" she
demanded.

Celia
shrugged. "Ye may be too simple to see the quickest way of learning
everything from him, but I am not. And," she smiled slowly, "I
daresay I'll enjoy myself right well!"

Alyson
stared at her in horror but had no chance to reply, for Maggie returned with
two servants who began to sweep the perfectly good rushes into a pile for
removal.

"Perhaps
you'd like to go into the gardens, lady," Maggie suggested, adding
pointedly, "We'll be some time here."

"No,"
Alyson said. "I think I caught a chill yesterday."

She
took up some sewing and went to the window seat, conscious of Celia's smirk of
derision. But no matter how she upbraided herself for her cowardice, she could
not bring herself to go out the door. Now that she was actually here it seemed
impossible that she would not be discovered as the impostor she was. She would betray
herself in a thousand small ways, she was certain of it. No, she'd stay here
for today and perhaps tomorrow she'd feel differently...

But
the next day was even worse. Jemmy stayed but a moment on his morning visit, an
ordeal Alyson had been dreading. But once he was gone, she perversely wished
him back again. At least he spoke to her, no matter how reluctantly! Once he
had left, there was nothing to do but wait and worry, pluck a few chords upon
her lute, and spoil the sewing she attempted. Alyson chafed at the inactivity,
for she'd never spent an idle moment in her life. By the time the women
prepared her for the evening meal, her nerves were taut as bowstrings.

What
a hideous gown, she thought, staring at the stiff silver folds. And the
headdress she had thought so ugly upon Maude looked even worse on her. Bad enough
I have to do this, she considered glumly. But do I have to look so silly while
I do it? And must I be so damned unpleasant every moment? However does Maude
stand being herself?

Didn't
Maude find, after she'd insulted everyone in sight, that she was lonely?
Perhaps she did. Perhaps that's why she was always so bad tempered. But just
now Alyson hadn't time to pity her half sister, for she was too busy praying
that she might survive another endless meal.

***

"What
the devil do ye think you're about here?
"
Kirallen demanded in an
angry whisper as Jemmy sat beside him in the hall. "Why have ye no' bedded
her yet?"

"I
will keep our bargain," Jemmy said. "In my own time."

Kirallen
leaned forward. "Is there something I should know about?" he asked
smoothly. "Ye are able, are ye no'?"

Jemmy's
jaw clenched. "Aye."

"Then
get on with it. The sooner she's with child, the better."

"I
would prefer the lady to be willing."

"Willing?
Christ's blood, man, I trust she knows her duty—which is more than I can say
for ye! I won't have it. D'ye hear me, Jemmy? I want it done tonight."

Jemmy
rose to his feet as his wife walked into the hall. "I will keep our
bargain," he repeated tightly. "That's all you need to know. As for
the details, I'll thank you to stay out of it."

Maude
was wearing an elaborate gown of silver cloth, a color that did not suit her,
with a horned headdress that overshadowed her delicate features. She looks like
a child dressed in her mother's clothes, Jemmy thought, stifling a sigh as he
offered her his hand. Her small fingers were cold, and he instinctively closed
his own around them as she mounted the step of the dais.

Once
seated, she withdrew her hand from his and stared into the distance, ignoring
him entirely. She was an ice maiden tonight, remote, untouchable, with her
wealth of ruddy hair all hidden away in silver-threaded cauls. He had to look
very closely to find the softly tempting lass he had watched sleeping. She was
still there, but well disguised.

Damn
Father and his twisted plans! he thought furiously. But he knew that the larger
part of his anger was directed at himself. The Laird's plan would have come to
naught if he had not agreed to the deception. But he had agreed. Now he must
either take this lass unconsenting, or bring her to his bed with empty words
and promises of a future they would never share. No matter how he looked at it,
there was no way he could escape with his honor even marginally intact.