The Laird (26 page)

No faint heart, his lady.

He’d seen many a brave man die and never before had heard such. Ack! His skin still pebbled like a plucked fowl just thinking on her temerity in calling God to task. ‘Twas also at that very moment—-when she keened her demand—-that he kenned fully that she had spoken nothing less than the truth from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.

He had no need to fear his enemies. He would be the undoing of himself.

And he couldna blame her if she decided to disappear for all eternity. Nay, given all the angst he’d caused her, he could only expect it.

Why the thought caused a dreadful tightening around his chest he’d not dwell on. He had yet to tell her a painful truth and he owed her that much before she left him.

He stepped forward to stand at her back. “Beth, I do believe all ye have said.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Aye, I ken ye are not wode but from another time and place.” He studied the stars as he gathered courage to say what must be said.

“‘Tis been difficult for me to accept yer tales. For if I believed in sky scrapes and plum mink, then I had to believe I willna be laid to rest when my time comes, but will haunt these halls for all eternity.” He took a deep breath. “’Twas far easier to believe ye coddled in some fashion than to admit I am doomed for what I have done, for the lives I have taken.”

Beth spun and found him rigid, his gaze glassy with unshed tears as he stared blindly over her head into the night.

Oh dear God!

She placed her hands on his chest and felt furious beating beneath vibrating muscle. He was terrified--not of her--but of the future.

She hadn’t thought him a religious man, but given the time and the Church’s influence on their everyday lives—-the in-house priest, the daily vespers so many attended--she should have seen this coming. Should have understood the impact her words would have on him.

“I’m so sorry. I never meant...”

He slowly, gently, brought his powerful arms around her while his eyes remained on the stars. “Nay, Beth. Ye’ve not done anythin’ to be sorrowful for. Ye told only the truth.” He then looked at her, a small grin playing at one corner of his mouth. “‘Tis by my own doing—-my own hand—-that I shall have no peace.”

“But it makes no sense. You’re honest, a man of character. Surely, there must be more to this--”

“Sweet Beth.” He kissed her forehead. “Ye wish to ease my mind, but why? I am nay digne of ye forgiveness.” His tears escaped the confines of his thick lashes. “I nearly smote ye with my sword.”

“You were upset. Fear of the unknown can--”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Too, I’m a widower thrice and carry that blame. And lest we forget, I’ve killed in battle more men than we—-together--have digits.”

She hadn’t meant for her eyes to grow wide in shock but they did, and he murmured, “Aye, lass. At last count the number is close to sixty.”

“Oh.” It came out as a squeak. What more could she say? That isn’t so great a number? Or he really shouldn’t worry because he’ll be a relatively pleasant ghost, who only has a tantrum now and then and has much more mourning yet to do? Oh God.

“My lady?”

“What?” She’d been woolgathering.

“I asked if I had issue. Did I at least leave an heir?”

Matters were definitely going from bad to worse.

She ran a tentative finger along his finely crafted lips then caught a tear as it trailed down his smooth well-chiseled cheek. He’d kept his face shaved only because she preferred it.

Please, God, let what I’m about to tell him be so.

Aloud she whispered, “I suspect that very problem is the cause for my being here.”

His moan escaped before he could collect himself. He then nodded resignedly and threw back his shoulders. It was an admirable job of sucking up, but defeat still lurked deep within his eyes as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. “So be it.”

She took his right hand in hers and examined his long, well- shaped fingers and heavy calluses. With it he had brought her to the heights of ecstasy and the pits of despair. Whether she chose to stay or not, he had forever changed her view of life.

“Duncan, I honestly believe everything happens for a reason. I could have drowned in my time, but didn’t. I could have died in that coach, but was spared.” She didn’t add he could have severed her head just moments ago, too. He had, after all, apologized and was upset enough.

She took a deep breath. “I believe I’m here to give you an heir.”

W
ithout warning, Flora began walking along Oban’s rutted roads at a fierce pace. Rachael growled as she tried to keep up, doggedly dodging harried wives, venders, dogs, and waste along the town’s sodden ways.

To her relief Flora finally slowed before the market stalls. When Flora came to a full stop before a woman selling flasks of perfumed oil, Rachael, gasping, sent a thankful prayer to heaven. Flora started negotiating with the vender and Rachel relaxed, her attention drifting to the next cart overflowing with fresh greens.

She finally held up a nice clump of watercress to ask Flora’s opinion and found her gone.

Rachael’s panic quickly shifted to aggravation. How Flora had slipped away unnoticed mattered naught at this point. She was gone. Finding her without asking their guards for help--for they could not know of Duncan and Isaac’s suspicions--would take precious time from her shopping. Oban might not be London or even Glasgow, but it did have merchants and peddlers on market day that she normally had no access to in her little corner of the world.

Teeth gritted, Rachael cursed Flora, lifted her skirts and raced along the rutted roadway fronting the loch. Here she could no longer wear her stylish French pattens--her high wooden overshoes to keep her feet dry and her hems clean--for fear of twisting an ankle. Stepping into a puddle, she cursed Flora once again.

She peeked in every window and doorway she could find. Not seeing so much as a glimpse of her wayward charge in the obvious places, Rachael began a methodical search of all the mews and stables.

Thirty minutes later, annoyed beyond words and desperately thirsty, she entered a public house and heaved a sigh of relief. There sat Flora in a dark corner across from a man Rachael didn’t recognize.

“‘Tis here ye be!” Out of breath, Rachael didn’t remark on Flora’s startled expression but wiggled in beside her on the bench. She caught the tavern maid’s attention as she set her basket of greens at her feet.

She smiled at Flora and the pox-marred man across the table. After waiting a respectful amount of time for an introduction and receiving none, she said to the man, “I am Madame Silverstein, and you be...?”

“Richard of Oban.”

“‘Tis a pleasure to make yer acquaintance.” The tavern lass appeared at her elbow. She ordered a tankard of ale and wondered why the man neglected to mention a surname. She dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with her handkerchief. “Flora hasna mentioned that she has been keeping company with a gentleman.” She elbowed her charge playfully. “Naughty girl.” To the man she asked, “So how did ye come to court our full fair and fetish friend?”

He turned scarlet at Rachael’s question and well he should, she thought. From the sour odor wafting across the table, Rachael could only deduce he’d not bathed since her son, Jacob, had been born. Too, half the man’s teeth had hied off with most of his auburn hair, no doubt in an effort to escape the stench she now labored under. What remained had a decidedly yellow cast.

“I met Mistress Campbell...” He blinked and brought his tankard to his lips, apparently seeking the answer to her question on the pewter bottom.

“If ye must know,” Flora interjected, not quite masking her annoyance, “I commissioned Richard to make our liege and lady a marriage gift.”

“Ah.” Rachael waited expectantly. When nothing materialized she asked, “May I see it?”

Flora heaved a resigned sigh as she delved into her pocket and pulled out a fist-sized packet. “‘Tis a small token.”  She uncovered a brass enseignes—-broach--with two doves carved into it.

“‘Tis lovely! What fine craftsmanship.”

Thank heaven,
Flora thought. She’d purchased the piece from a peddler only a week ago in the event she got caught with the odious man across from her. She had no choice but to come today. Had she missed this rendezvous with the Bruce’s man, she would have been forced to wait almost a fortnight before she could pass along her information, and then ‘twould be too late. The tournament was set for the next full moon.

She had hoped to get through all this intrigue and keep the broach for herself, but better to lose a pretty than to lose her life. “Thank you.”

She did have exquisite taste.

“Our lord and lady will be verra pleased.” Rachael said as she turned the piece in her hand then smiled at the man. “‘Tis truly fine. Yer talent is such, ye should be abiding in a major city, not hiding here where only a few can appreciate ye labors.”

When Richard blushed and remained mute, Flora mumbled, “He does travel extensively to sell his wares.”

“Ah.” Rachael handed back the broach. “Have ye been to Edinburgh, sir?”

Looking uncomfortable, Flora’s hapless partner mumbled, “Aye.”

“Ye made him shy with ye teasing, Rachael.” Not kenning if he’d been to the capital or not she said, “Richard was just telling me how difficult ‘tis getting his cart up the steep ways of Edinburgh.” When he remained mute, she kicked him under the table and ground out, “Is not that so, sir?”

“Oh, aye,” Richard agreed. “‘Tis verra steep the streets. The castle sits upon a mountain, ye ken? And the high street runs from the gates to the valley below.”

When Rachael asked, “Has the great tower started by King David been completed yet?” Flora nearly choked on her brew. Why on earth had she foolishly encouraged talk of Edinburgh? Arriving in Scotland, Edinburgh was the first place the Silversteins had sought refuge, only to discover the city filthy and full of pestilence.

Flora glared at the Bruce’s man. He had the plan to bring her brother-by-marriage to his bloody knees, so why in hell was he still sitting here tolerating Rachael’s inquisition? She kicked out again to gain his attention.

This time he kicked back—-hard.

Ignoring her, he smiled at her companion. “Nay yet, Madame, but the chapel has been restored.”

Rachael smiled. “How nice.”

To Flora’s relief the Bruce’s man then emptied his tankard. He had manners enough to wipe the foam from his mouth before saying, “Talking with ye has been most pleasant, ladies, but ‘tis time for my leave taking.” He bowed to her. “’Twas a pleasure doing business with ye, Mistress Campbell.”

She forced a smile. “Good day, sir.”

When he disappeared Rachael murmured, “We should be finding our guards. ‘Tis past the appointed hour, non?”

“Aye.” Flora came to her feet and noticed Richard had neglected to pay for his ale. She reluctantly dropped extra pennies on the table. Revenge was becoming more expensive by the hour. “If we hie home, we may be in time to hear what happens next to Oliver Twist.”

“Ah, the poor wee lad.” Rachael picked up her basket and frowned at her purchases. “Can ye imagine selling a bairn? And to learn the Sassenach starve poor laddies to keep ‘em wee so they can force them down chimneys and then chase after them with lit brooms should they be slow at their task. Ack! ‘Tis abhorrent.”

Flora readily agreed as she headed for the door. Not spying the Bruce’s man lingering on the street, she heaved a sigh.

H
earing her husband’s call, Beth quickly ducked behind the enormous wicker baskets at Angus’s back. She held her breath and silently cursed her big mouth.

Duncan MacDougall was a man on a mission, while Beth had never been the brunt of so many jokes in her life.

It wasn’t that she minded her husband’s attention--Duncan was an incredibly considerate lover--but she’d been spending more time on her back than on her feet of late and things were falling apart in the keep. And Duncan’s time would be better spent at the lists rebuilding his strength readying for the tournament. If she’d explained ovulation once, she done it a dozen times and still she’d not had a moment’s peace or a solid night’s sleep since that fateful evening.

“Have ye seen my ladywife?” Duncan asked as he approached.

“Ye ladywife, my lord?”

“Aye, ye twit!” Duncan paced before her hiding place. “The skinny lass with the fine arse.”

Angus cleared his throat, no doubt in an effort to cover a chuckle. They’d all seen her carried away over Duncan’s shoulder often enough in the last two weeks to know the laird of Blackstone was intent, to the point of obsession, on making an heir. To her infinite relief Angus responded, “Um...she was in the distillery an hour ago.”

“Well, she isna there now.”

“Have ye checked the chapel?”

“Why would she go...
Ah ha
!”

Duncan’s heavy footsteps receded and Beth peaked out from behind the basket. “Is he gone?” she whispered.

“Aye, but ye’d best be away. If ye linger, he’ll be wondering why the fish are still sitting here.” As she came out of hiding, he said, “Now dinna ye be forgetting the pie ye promised me.”

“Angus, I’ll make two if you can keep him occupied for that long.”

Angus called, “I’ll try,” to her back as she trotted across the bailey, keeping well away from the chapel and to the shadows.

She’d almost made it to the keep’s door when she heard, “Hold ye, lass, right where ye be!”

Damn
.

Whipping the door open, she waved over her shoulder. “Can’t dear! Something needs my urgent attention.” She then ran for her life.

“Oh, nay, ye sweet thing!”

Chickens scattered and men laughed as Duncan raced after her.

~#~

“Ye heard nothing?”

“I was too late, Isaac, but I feel certain the ensigns is Burgandian, not crafted by that sloth.”