Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (14 page)

19

Nessa entered the great hall to find it filled with expectant and curious faces.

“Ye were expecting the priest,” she said. “’Tis only me, the Lady Douglas. I ha’e been out all morning searching for my maid. She picked a fine time to run away, when so much needs to be done before the wedding ceremony.”

Kendrew had been sitting next to his wife Margaret on a worn bench, rubbing his sword with his oil cloth, and he set it aside. He stood and approached Nessa. “What say ye?”

Margaret joined him. “Yea, what say ye?”

“My maid, Nessa, she’s run off. To be with her lover.”

“That doesna sound like something the maid would do,” Margaret said.

“I dunna like the look in yer eyes,” Kendrew said.

Malcolm strode from the dais to hear what was being said and stood towering over Nessa.

Nessa gave an arrogant flick of her wrist. “It matters nae. She is just a maid and I will replace her with another.”

Murmurs swept through the crowd in the great hall. Malcolm’s eyes were dangerously dark. “Who is her lover?”

“I dunna ken nor do I care. She left a note. She’s run away and she’s nae coming back and I say good riddance. She wasna a vera good maid.”

The Highlander, dressed for the wedding ceremony, stood tall and handsome in his plaid, a pewter brooch pinned near his throat, his black hair pulled back in a leather thong. The brooch contained small sparkling gems and was engraved with the Maclean clan motto,
Virtue Mine Honor
.

“Where is this note?” he asked.

Martha had become interested in the conversation and hovered nearby, absently sweeping the rushes. Because she was a half-blind servant, people often ignored her.

Nessa, flushed with excitement and glad to be the center of attention, eagerly filled the rigid silence. “I burnt it in the hearth so she wouldna be ashamed of what she’d done.”

“Where is she?” Kendrew asked. His tone wasn’t encouraging; it was demanding.

Nessa could weep beautifully whenever she wished and she did so now. “I tried to stop her, I did.” She was greeted with silent stares. “She is but a maid!”

Kendrew’s weather-beaten face was unmoved. “Yer story is daft, my
lady
. She would ne’er desert her clan.”

“I tell ye the truth!” Nessa stormed. She swung her eyes, pleading for sympathy, to Malcolm. “Ye may kill me for it if I speak a lie, Malcolm. Did ye tell her as my maid she must accompany me wherever I go, that she must leave this place, the only place she has ever called home, to travel with us to the Highlands after we are married? Did we nae talk of it last evening, in yer bedchamber, when ye kissed me?”

Malcolm’s eyed glittered hard. “Aye,” he said. “I did tell her that.”

There were more whispers but Malcolm did not explain what had truly happened in his bedchamber, that he had rejected her advances. It was more important to discover where the maid had gone.

“Highlander, she told me true she didna want to accompany ye to the Maclean land. She said she didna want to accompany ye
anywhere
. She hates ye.”

Martha quietly disappeared up the stairs.

“It still makes no sense that she would leave this place, the only home she’s e’er kent, as ye pointed out,” Kendrew said. “She had no wish to leave regardless, so why would she run away now?”

“I tried to stop her, I did. I tried to talk sense into her. But she wouldna listen. She’s a woman…in love.” She sank to her knees on the rushes, wringing her hands. “I fear my base mistreatment of her has led to this.” She bowed her head, weeping into her hands, her face hidden.

“I ha’e no doubt,” Kendrew began and she looked up hopefully, “that yer lying.”

It took a moment for Kendrew’s words to sink in. Kendrew was not a simple man to be influenced by a woman’s copious tears. He was chief huntsman and she felt cold dread in the pit of her stomach.

“Yer lying and I would ken why,” he said.

“She is with her lover,” she said weakly.

“What lover?” Malcolm demanded. “Is she in danger?”

“I dunna ken.”

“I will search for her myself and bring her back.”

“But she is just a maid, and inconsequential! Ye would delay a wedding ordered by a king to find a missing servant?”

Kendrew reached down and grasped Nessa’s wrist cruelly, dragging her to her feet. “Yer the crafty one, aren’t ye? Now where is the lass?”

“I told ye, I dunna ken! It matters nae! I am to wed the Highlander! The priest will arrive any moment and we will say our vows, uniting our clans!”

More than a few confused looks greeted her, for the Douglas clan knew the truth about the woman standing before them but the Maclean clan did not. The Douglas clan was complicit in the lies, but no one expected Nessa to
actually
marry the laird in Sorcha’s stead. She was only supposed to help drive him away with her awful behavior.

“There will be no vows uttered until the maid is safely returned to this keep,” Malcolm said. “And I willna leave this place without her.”

Nessa’s features filled with rage and she clenched her fists at her sides.

“Aye, we will organize a search party now,” Kendrew said. He pierced Nessa with his iron gaze. “Ye dunna decide who is inconsequential to this clan.”

Nessa’s tears flowed in earnest this time as she wriggled free of Kendrew’s grasp and raced from the hall.

During the lady’s emotional performance, no one had noticed Gillis approach. He tugged on Malcolm’s plaid.

“What is it, Gillis?” Malcolm asked.

He pointed to the stairs where Nessa had fled. “She’s nae Sorcha. She’s Nessa.”

There was complete silence and shock. Gillis had spoken for the first time in years.

Malcolm looked at the stairs where Nessa’s small form had retreated and then back at Gillis. He glanced at Kendrew and searched the faces of the Douglas clan, who seemed to shrink back from his heated, questioning gaze. “She isna the Lady Sorcha Douglas?” Malcolm asked, his voice deadly calm, his jaw hard.

Gillis shook his head. “She isna my sister.”

“Then who is the true Lady Douglas?” But he looked like he already knew the answer.

“The priest arrives!” a guard announced. Everyone turned their attention to the entrance of the hall. A fat, little man in a black cloak spattered with mud stood there grinning. His round head was wreathed with a mash of cloud-grey hair. He raised his corpulent arms from his sides and it appeared to be an effort. “I am Father Roslin. I am here for the joyous occasion of marrying Malcolm Maclean and the Lady Sorcha Douglas! But first if I may wash my feet and partake of some of yer fine whisky?”

Martha, huffing and puffing, red splotches on her round cheeks and cap askew, came hurrying down the stairs, holding something in her hand. “I found this in Sorcha’s room,” she said breathlessly. “’Tis a note Nessa left for Sorcha, telling her she was going to end her life at the Black Burn of Sorrow and nae to follow her. I hid it in my gown as Nessa passed me on the stairs just now. She doesna ken Sorcha didna burn it in the hearth.”

Martha handed the note to Kendrew and he swore as he read it. “And of course Sorcha followed her, as she kent Sorcha would.”

Malcolm, sword at his side, strode past him. “We ride for the burn now. We canna waste another moment.”

The priest stepped from the tall, dark-haired Highlander’s path in fright and confusion.

“Ha’e a tall draught of whisky by the fire, father,” Kendrew said. “The nuptials are going to be slightly delayed.” He turned toward a group of men who were readying for the search. “Ronald, take Murdoch and find Nessa. Be sure she doesna leave the castle. The rest of ye come with me.”

20

It was a miracle Sorcha hadn’t hit any rocks. She’d plunged deep into the stinging, cold water and was quickly engulfed. The current dragged her down and she tumbled along, fighting and kicking to get to the surface.

              It was just like it had been in her dream.

              She managed to break the surface and gulp in air but was quickly pulled under again, the current swifter and stronger. She fought and kicked until she felt her chest would burst. And then a strange peace came over her and she stopped struggling, letting the water carry her along. The surface was too far above her now. She thought then,
the water sprites are dragging me down, their little hands like claws….

              She saw Malcolm’s handsome face in her mind, felt his arms about her. And just as she was about to give up, she thought she saw a ghostly green woman beneath the water with her, the Glaistig, her golden hair and her green gown rippling around her. And then the Glaistig became her mother, and she made a sweeping gesture with her arms. A great wave took Sorcha up and deposited her half on the lip of a rocky bank. Her lower half was submerged in water.

              She coughed and gagged and sucked in air, realizing her tunic was twisted and caught on a fallen tree branch. She couldn’t untangle herself, and when the water rushed her way, she turned her head in order not to swallow any of it. She shook from the cold as she remembered her dirk. Twisting, she was able to pull it from her boot and cut away the part of her tunic that was caught.

              Exhausted, she climbed fully onto the bank and lay on her back, breathing in the spring air, acutely aware, in this place of lost things, of the solid earth beneath her, the trees stretching above her, of the water gushing and whispering. She thought she heard her mother’s voice in the rustle of the leaves:
Live Sorcha, live. It is nae yer time.

              In the moments she thought would be her last, why had she seen Malcolm’s handsome face? She’d remembered the feel of his strong arms about her, the warm touch of his lips, the intense way he looked at her, and she’d wanted to live.
Because of the Highlander, of all people, whose presence angered, excited, and challenged her.

              Weary and shivering, her clothing torn, ragged and sopping wet, she slowly made her way up and around to the top of the ledge. She was alone. There was no sign of Nessa and her accomplice. She whistled for her horse, hoping he was near.

Nessa and her accomplice thought she was dead. She felt her strength returning and flexed her numb fingers. She was very much alive in this place where things ended and things began.
The burn had tried to take her and she had crawled from its banks alive.

She heard the trampling of hoof beats and her heart soared with joy as her horse broke into the small clearing and nudged her face with his nose, snorting.

She cried with relief. Sorcha knew then that in her nightmare, her mother had not been beckoning her to join her.
She had been saying goodbye.
Tears wet her cheeks. She knew, too, that she would not dream of her mother anymore. She believed her mother was finally at peace.

             
Live, Sorcha, live.

After she’d lost her father and two of her brothers, she had lived in fear of losing Gillis and others who were dear to her. She’d kept herself busy with learning to run the keep. She’d deceived the Highlander with the hope that she would not have to marry him. Now, she didn’t want to lie. She didn’t want to be afraid.

Live, Sorcha, live.

In this harsh and beautiful land of Scotland, people became ghosts all the time. Their lives were like moments, flashing and stretching, and then they were gone. Wisps. Wraiths. Memories. Like clouds rolled back out to sea. They disappeared, and most of the time, too soon. The winds in this land of mountains, fortified keeps, and changing alliances carried secrets and seemed to catch souls, whispering of battles that had been and battles yet to be. Sorcha had never been one to shy away from a battle, whether a battle of body or soul.
She was a Douglas. Her whole life thus far had been a battle.

She thought of how surprised Nessa would be when Sorcha strode into the hall, flesh and blood, still very much alive. What had possessed Nessa to try to kill her? She had not realized until it was far too late the extent of Nessa’s madness.

It began to rain again, the droplets pelting the leaves. The mountains in the distance were dark and shiny, notched like teeth in a wolf’s mouth. With a steely resolve, she climbed onto her horse’s back, leaning fully against his soft mane, inhaling his wonderful, familiar smell. He pricked his ears. “Home,” she whispered. He began to move. He would take her there. He knew the way.

21

In Sorcha’s bedchamber, Nessa admired the rich blue velvet gown on her figure. The plunging bodice was encrusted with tiny pearls and a lovely, dark blue ribbon was wound around her small waist several times to hang in a long bow down the front of the dress.

Sorcha’s mother Lizbeth had been married in this dress.

Nessa slipped a dirk into her soft leather boot, as she’d seen Sorcha do many times, and then fixed her hair with ivory combs that had belonged to Sorcha’s mother. She gazed at herself lovingly in the small mirror. “No plain mouse, ye,” she said. “What man could resist ye? Oh the Highlander may ha’e once, but he’ll come to his senses when he sees ye in this dress.”

Some claimed it was bad luck for the bride to look in a mirror right before her wedding. It was believed part of the bride would be trapped in the reflection forever, and thus she would not be giving all of herself to her new husband. But Nessa didn’t believe that.

She was going to marry Malcolm and she was going to give all of herself to him. Because she was the true lady after all. She had thought it all along, and then when Sorcha had suggested the ruse, her plan had begun to form in earnest. She played along at first, demonstrating ill manners and beastly displays of ever-changing emotions. And she had made another plan. Lure Sorcha to the Black Burn of Sorrow and push her in. Then, with Sorcha gone, it wouldn’t be hard to convince the clan to go through with the wedding.

The Highlander expected her to marry him anyway.
She would be Lady Douglas, as she deserved to be. And she would show him her true self, a lady who was not obnoxious but beautiful and passionate. The clan would keep her secret, for they feared the Highlander and wanted to keep peace between the clans.

Lulach had told her, on many occasions, she should have the life of a lady. He had promised her one day she would. Usually he uttered the words right before he tore her clothes off and practically raped her. “But yer nae a lady, are ye?” he’d said and laughed. “And so I shall nae treat ye as one.” Afterward, she admired the fresh bruises and scratches on her skin. He had marked her as his.

She would marry the Highlander.
Because Sorcha was dead. She’d seen her fall into the roiling burn and disappear beneath the black waters. She’d waited awhile and had not seen Sorcha resurface. She was not coming back and Nessa would not miss her.
When Nessa was Lady Douglas, Lulach would finally love her. He wouldn’t need his other lovers. He would leave Caterina, his plain Italian mouse, and all would be well. And then eventually, they would get rid of the Highlander.

After she was married, Nessa would hire someone to paint her portrait. Scots had strong faces, and hers was particularly beautiful and strong. She would hang the portrait above the hearth in the great hall. She would have Kendrew remove the dross that hung there now, crossed swords used by some battle-revered ancestor. When her portrait was placed in the hall, everyone would admire it. Everyone would admire
her
.

She smiled, thinking of how cruel it would be to make the Italian mouse paint her portrait after Lulach left her. The Italian mouse was a painter of some skill, a shy, rich woman who spent hours with her paintbrushes, painting pictures of landscapes and sheep and cattle and sometimes portraits. Women weren’t supposed to paint. It was a sin. Nessa had heard the Italian mouse had been in a convent when she was a young woman, where she’d learned to read and paint. Something happened to change her mind about being a nun and she’d come back into the secular world.

Caterina had come to Scotland to marry Lulach because of some agreement between their families. She had no other marriage prospects. Who would want her? Her brows were thick, for she never plucked them, and her hair was as brown as peat.
If only she’d stayed in the convent
, Nessa thought.
If only she’d stayed in Italy!

Ha! There are those who pray and those who fight, Italian mouse. And yer nae a fighter.

              Caterina, the Italian mouse, was not beautiful like her name.
Shy, plain Caterina, who barely spoke and who painted faces and the bony rumps of cattle and the fat silhouettes of wooly sheep and who was rumored to have given the queen herself several painting lessons. Shy Caterina who felt more comfortable with paint-splattered hands and stinking, mud-hooved animals than with people.

Nessa slumped on the bed, covering her ears with her hands. The voices had returned and they mocked her now. There were so many, and they rustled and whispered caustically, sounding like dozens of bats flapping their tiny wings in a vast cave. She shook her head back and forth as a vision of Lulach nearly strangling her rose in her memory.
He hadn’t meant to hurt me. He would never kill her.
He’d tied her up many times, he’d bitten her breasts, he’d branded her thigh once with a hot poker, and he’d whipped her tender, naked flesh.

              Did Lulach mark Caterina the same way? She knew sometimes he also slept with men, usually weak men who enjoyed being tortured. And some who did not.

She rose from the bed, speaking aloud to the voices. “Go away! Go away then. Sorcha is dead and gone. She isna coming back.
I
will marry the Highlander. I will be the lady. And Lulach will leave his Italian mouse.”

The door to the bedchamber crashed open violently. ‘Twas her brother Tomas who stood there, his jaw grim, his mouth a twisted grimace.

“What ha’e ye done, wee sister of mine, and what do ye in that dress?”

Nessa stared at him but said nothing.

“Where is Sorcha?” he demanded.

She stood and twirled in a circle, admiring the gown, like a child playing dress-up. “Is the priest here yet, Tomas? Is it time for me to be married? Oh Tomas, it will be so grand!”