Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (13 page)

16

As the evening meal progressed without any thrown objects or screeching from Nessa, Sorcha went below stairs to get Cook herbs from one of the vaulted rooms in the cellar. She used the servant’s entrance. The stone corridor was dark and cold and she carried a torch to light the way. She was alone.

She heard the sound of a door opening and she peered into the deep gloom. “Who’s there?” she called. There was no answer, and she thought of the tall Viking ghosts rumored to roam the halls. “Hello?” she called again.

A shiver went up her spine. She hurried toward the sound, finding a door to one of the vaulted rooms slightly ajar. It was an undercroft that was hardly ever used. She pushed it open with her booted foot and held the torch high. Dust motes swirled. She spied old trunks and clothing, broken armor, feathered pillows, and a carved wooden screen meant for a chapel alter, the paint chipped from the faces of the holy figures on it, giving them a ghastly appearance. A pair of grotesque Green Man masks from whose mouths lights would have once been suspended stared at her from a corner. There were vines protruding from their mouths and the faces were surrounded by leaves. The Green Man was a symbol of growth and rebirth, the eternal seasonal cycle of the coming of spring and the life of man.

There was a tattered stool on the floor covered with cobwebs, and a large cupboard against one wall. Near it was a stone tile in the wall, depicting a Viking ship much like the one Gillis had carved. Near the cupboard was a cradle with something in it. She ventured cautiously into the undercroft, holding the torch high.

Her hand flew to her mouth. Someone had placed her childhood princess puppet in the cradle. The strings had been cut and the puppet’s dress had been viciously torn in several places.  Someone had slashed at the wood on her small wooden chest and face. Sorcha whirled at the sound of the door being shoved closed, trapping her in the room, and she heard deep, ghostly laughter retreating down the corridor.

She pushed at the door but it wouldn’t open. The wood was swollen and wedged tightly shut. She leaned into it with her shoulder twice before it finally opened and she all but tumbled into the hallway. “Who’s there? Show yerself!” There was no answer. Only silence.

She realized her hands shook and she hid the puppet beneath a pile of clothes. She would retrieve it later. Gathering the herbs she needed from the herb room, she quickly returned upstairs. Mayhap she would show the puppet to Kendrew. There were any number of her own clan who could be wearying of her games to avoid marriage with the Highlander. But she couldn’t think of anyone who would be angry enough and sick enough to debase her childhood toy that way. Had the puppet been in her bedchamber earlier today? Had someone removed it while she’d been out with Malcolm?

She decided not to tell Kendrew or anyone else what she’d found just yet. It would be easier to ferret out the culprit that way. She put on a brave face and continued to serve the evening meal. People filled the cavernous, oak-paneled room with its beeswax candles and torches. Any one of them could’ve slipped downstairs unnoticed to shut her in the undercroft with her damaged puppet, but they would have to know about the servant’s entrance.

The castle air was scented with the smell of roasted meat, damp wool, and whisky. As she made her many trips between the kitchen and the hall, she was brushed often by scratchy, twirling plaids. Wee children squirmed and fought with sticks and women whispered in low tones. She tried not to think of the toy in the cradle, which had obviously been meant as some kind of warning.

The evening wore on and bold tales were told. People sat on floors or chairs or at the great table, which brimmed with food and whisky cups. Men quarreled and laughed in Gaelic. They talked of their women and children and how they missed them. A Douglas man named Hamish with wild grey hair played the pipes badly, for he was drunk. Hounds chewed bones by the fire, occasionally wailing in protest at the sound.

When men began to curl up in their plaids for sleep, their swords next to them, Sorcha and Nessa headed upstairs. When Sorcha lay on her pallet in front of the warm hearth, she was so tired she fell asleep immediately, her dreams a frightening blur. She saw the ghostly figure of her mother standing in the Black Burn of Sorrow, beckoning her, and then her mutilated princess puppet and hulking, dark figures hiding in stone corridors. At one point in the dream, Sorcha was dressed like her princess puppet and was the bride of the Highlander, and he was tearing at her clothes, a diabolical look on his face and a dirk in his hand.

She slept in a skein of nightmares that would not release her. She did not hear Nessa slip quietly from the room at midnight.

17

Malcolm could not sleep. He paced in front of the hearth in his bedchamber. For the first time since arriving at the Douglas keep, he seriously considered traveling to Edinburgh and beseeching the current king to negate this betrothal. He wondered how he would tell a king he did not want the Douglas lass or the Douglas land without creating royal ire.

              He could not imagine the Lady Douglas as the mother of his children. She was still a child herself in many ways—petulant, obnoxious, selfish, and cold. They were ill-suited, and the thought of spending a lifetime with her did not sit well.

              He’d removed his clothing except for his trews and now stood bare-chested in front of the dancing flames. He thought of the maid who had won the bow-and-arrow contest and taken his prized war weapon and he smiled.
If only she were the Lady Douglas.
He admired her spirit, her courage, the way she spoke her thoughts with intelligence and passion. Truth be told, she was the reason he could not find sleep. He could not stop thinking of her fiery auburn hair, her luminous deep green eyes, her womanly curves and her kiss laced with angry passion and curiosity. Her touch had flooded his entire being with desire.

              Another truth: if he was going to go through with this wedding, it would be for more than one reason. The first being, kings were arrogant. You did not refuse an offer of land made by a king without repercussions. The king’s son now sat the throne and would not take kindly to the Maclean’s refusal to follow through on his father’s decrees. Then there were the troubling visions Malcolm sometimes had of his clan’s future. They did not come often but when they did, they were disturbing.

He saw a weakened and nearly destitute clan, castles in ruin, the looming mountains behind them mocking and defiant in the mist-filled darkness. He saw meadow grasses soaked with the blood of his kinsmen and future Campbells living on Maclean land. He saw iron bars and explosions rending the night skies. And beyond that he saw families huddled on hillsides, shivering in the snow or rain as the walls of their houses were pulled down and the thatch and wooden beams destroyed by flame. He saw them drinking the blood of cattle to survive. And finally, droves of Highlanders leaving on ships, deserting the land they loved, ragged, beaten down, and filthy.

He needed to make decisions now for the good of the clan. If he could change what he saw in the future, if he could somehow affect it, he must marry the blonde-haired gomeril, even if he could never love her. He must keep the peace. Perhaps then the fiery, bloody future he saw in his visions would not come to pass.

Another reason he would wed the Douglas lass was the lady’s maid. She would accompany them wherever the Lady Douglas went. He would demand it.
He would have her in his life.

              A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Malcolm?”

Hoping it was the maid, he opened it, but found the Lady Douglas standing there. She was barefoot, her pale blonde hair unbound, her shift exposing the rounded tips of her full breasts. She waltzed into the room without being invited, her honeyed curls dancing down her back, and closed the door.

“I see no reason to wait,” she announced.

              “No reason to wait for what?”

She boldly ran her fingertips across his bare, muscled chest. “Dunna be coy. Yer a hungry man, Malcolm Maclean. I see it in the way ye look at my pathetic maid. Ye want to possess her body and her soul.” She laughed. “’Tis a dangerous thing to possess both a woman’s body and her soul. Ye ken?” She smiled and her hands wound their way into his thick, black hair. A muscle in his jaw twitched and the cords in his neck were taut.

              “We’re to be married on the morrow and I see no need to wait. I am nae a virgin. I ken how to make a man feel like a man. Kiss me now. Take me to yer bed and spread my legs wide.” She planted her mouth on his, grabbing his hand and placing it firmly on her breast, urging his lean fingers to roughly explore her flesh.

              Malcolm did not want to kiss her and yet he did want to know how it would compare to the maid’s kiss. Nessa ground her lips furiously over his. There was nothing gentle or graceful about it. Like the woman’s beauty, there was no warmth.

              He set her firmly from him and she pouted. She tried to kiss him again and he would not have it. “We will wait until we ha’e said our vows.”

              She laughed, her blue eyes cold. “Since when does a savage Highlander wish to be proper?” She caressed one of her curls, twisting it slowly around her fingertip. “I ken
why
ye deny me. Yer wishing my maid was in yer bed.”

              He did not deny it.

“Oh aye, she told me of yer demand that she accompany me wherever I may go after ye and I are married.” She smiled wickedly. “Ye think she will become yer mistress. But she doesna want to go with ye, Highlander. She doesna want to be with ye like I do. She is
repulsed
by the idea of touching ye. In fact, she told me it would be a cold day in Hell before she had a Highlander in
her
bed.”

              She bent forward, pushing her breasts from her low neckline. “Unlike my maid, I am soft and willing. Ye can take me wherever ye like, Highlander, and take me hard.”

              He took a step back and she gave a low laugh.

“Are ye afraid I’ll bite?”

Moonlight touched the rosy tips of her hardened nipples. Her breasts were lush and her mouth was lovely, but he had heard the strident and compassionless words that always seemed to tumble from it, and he felt no desire for her.

              “My last lover did not need coaxing,” she said. “He liked me to bite him and slap him. I found I enjoyed it too, biting like a wild animal during lovemaking. I would let ye hit me, if that was yer desire. ‘Tis lawful for a man to beat his wife as often and as hard as he likes, and I am soon to be yer wife.”

              She bit her lower lip. “I think if ye want to do something, ye should do it.” She launched herself at him again, this time slapping his face.

              He caught her wrist in his iron-like grip. His eyes darkened and narrowed, specks of gold swimming in amber fire. “
Ne’er
strike me again,” he growled, releasing her wrist in disgust. “It shouldna be lawful for a man to beat his wife. I would ne’er hit a woman and I would ne’er find any pleasure in hurting a woman. The men who do are despicable and weak.” The look on his face was so severe Nessa took a step back from him.

“So thank ye, but nay.” Knowing he had already made an enemy of her, Malcolm yawned. “Leave me now. ‘Tis been a vera long day.”

She jerked her nightgown up and covered herself, glaring at him, and left.

Malcolm shut the door, this time dropping the latch into place. Weary as he was, he did not seek his bed. This was the last night he would be his own man, with no childish, loathsome wife. He stood at the window for a long time, listening to the rain pelt the stone fortress, looking at the mountains looming in the darkness, and dreading the morrow, when he would take the Lady Douglas to wife.

18

Sorcha was dreaming. She was caught in a dark, fast-moving burn, the cold water pulling her down, unable to breathe. She tried to scream but could not open her mouth. She tumbled in the rough current, the world upside down, the sun a dim light somewhere far above her.

She came awake gasping, her heart thundering. She was alone, lying on the pallet on the floor. Sunlight gilded her pillow and she willed herself to be calm, staring at the fire crackling in the hearth. She was warm and dry. She did not want to rise. But today she must confess her deceit to Malcolm. She threw her blanket off and began to wash and dress.

It was then she saw the small stone on the floor sitting atop a piece of sheep-skin parchment. She pushed the stone aside and read the note:

Sorcha, I canna go on like this. Burn this note in the hearth after ye read it. It is poor ink so forgive my inadequate hand. I would be ashamed if anyone but ye kent I had written it. But I did want someone to ken where I’ve gone. To the Black Burn of Sorrow. It will be peaceful when the waters take me down. There will be no more sorrow. There will be no more pain. I will simply disappear. I will think on Lulach and his betrayal no more. The ache for him will be gone and my spirit will be free. I wanted ye and ye alone to ken it. Tell no one and dunna follow me. Ye ha’e been a fine friend to me. “N”

Sorcha dressed quickly, sticking her dirk inside her boot. Since her experience with the English raiders, she never liked to be without it. She hurried through the castle. No one paid her any mind, and she did not see the Highlander in the great hall. It was just as well, for her confession would have to wait.

She practically ran to the stables and was soon galloping across the wet moors, hoping she would not be too late to save Nessa from whatever foolishness she planned. She’d found her nearly drowned once before.

A wraith-like mist crawled from the sky, shutting out the view of the village and the sea beyond. Fortunately, she knew the land well and so did her horse. She moved over the moors like a falcon soaring the skies in search of prey.

It didn’t take her long to reach the wooded ledge above the gorge, where the wind whistled through the tree branches. Several waterfalls flowed and dropped far below, where trees, green ferns, mosses, liverworts, and trailing vines clung tenaciously to the steep limestone rock face of the gorge. The thumping of water on the boulders sounded like a mill grinding.

“Nessa!” Sorcha called. There was no answer. She waited and finally caught the faint sound of someone singing sweetly in a childish voice. She urged her horse forward and found Nessa sitting precariously on a high ledge, swinging her legs. Her voice carried over the chasm:

O I loved a lass and I loved her well

I hated all others who spoke of her ill

But now she’s rewarded me well for her love

For she’s gone and she’s married another!

Sorcha slid down from her horse, not bothering to tie the reins to a branch. “Nessa, come away from there.”

Nessa turned her head and laughed, an eerie, unbalanced sound that seemed to echo through the copse. She stood up, wobbled, and nearly fell below. “Ye read my note. I knew ye’d come. Ye didna tell anyone and ye werena followed?”

“I didna tell anyone but came straight away. Ye dunna need to do this, Nessa. Lulach is nae reason to end yer life! Ye must move on from him. He isna worthy of yer affections. He has no heart and his soul is black with greed.”

Nessa peeked over the ledge at the churning waters below and the mist rising from the waterfalls. “Do ye think I will dash my head upon a rock when I fall? There’s a good chance. Of course, it doesn’t really matter if I hit a rock or miss the rocks completely, as I canna swim.”

Sorcha took a step closer and Nessa dangled a foot over the ledge, putting her arms out at her sides as if she would fly. “Dunna come any closer.”

“Please, Nessa, dunna do this.”

“Did ye tell the Maclean about all of our lies?”

“Nay. There was nae time. Ye need nae be afraid. I would ne’er allow him to punish ye for my own selfishness.”

Nessa laughed gaily, like a child. “How gallant of ye, Sorcha. Always so brave.” She put her foot back on the ground but kept her arms out and briefly closed her eyes. “I’ll join yer Mum soon, Sorcha. Do you think the Glaistig will save me? Do ye think I’m worth saving, Sorcha?”

“Of course yer worth saving.” Sorcha hadn’t thought of the Glaistig, a water-sprite, since she was a child. The Glaistig was a ghost rumored to live in the deep shadows behind waterfalls. She was also called the Green Woman. The tale went she was murdered in a bonnie green dress and ignobly stuffed up a chimney by a servant, cursed to wander eternity as half woman, half goat. She was said to lure men to her damp lair by song or dance, where she would drink their blood, or to cast stones in the path of travelers to throw them off course. While her hair was long and golden, her skin was ashen. Her flowing green robe disguised her goat half.

“Take my hand, Nessa, please,” Sorcha said, moving as close as she dared. “Lulach loves only one thing, a fat purse. Ye deserve so much more than that.”

Something hit the back of Sorcha’s knee, stinging and painful. A small stone fell at her feet and she turned in surprise.

“It must be the Glaistig, casting stones at yer feet!” Nessa said and giggled, clapping a hand over her mouth.

Sorcha turned to see who had thrown the stone. It wasn’t a ghostly green woman with spindly goat legs and a face as grey as the dead. It was someone made of flesh and bone. She barely had time to be surprised as a booted foot shoved her over the cliff.