Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) (7 page)

And then later, in the hovel
nestled snugly against the eastern slope of Corryhabbie Hill, Athol had spoken
with a blind old woman who’d kept sheep there for longer than anyone
remembered. It was she who’d supposedly cared for the earl after a boar had
torn a hole in his side large enough to put your fist in. She’d smiled when
Athol had delicately mentioned that there were still rumors abroad that she’d
cared for more than just his wounds. Alas, nay, she’d said. He was a good and
handsome man, and a generous laird, but he’d never been more than a friend to
her...though she was as handsome a lass as any in those days, if she did say so
herself.

The keeper of the Inn at
Dalnoshaugh had no more to offer than the others, though he did recall the lass
asked about, the one who’d drowned herself there in the river all those years
back. That incident had nothing to do with the earl, though. In fact, the
bridge keeper knew for a fact that the lass had been carrying the bairn of a
godless, murdering outlaw whom the earl had subsequently searched out, caught,
and hanged from the bridge there, bless his heart.

The mists rolling in around Cairn
Uish were just beginning to blanket the descending sun when the miller turned
to Athol and pointed ahead. There, beneath a great old oak overhanging the
stream, an older, frailer version of the miller himself sat sleeping, fishing
pole across his knee, a basket of trout beside him.

“Hullo, Wink,” the miller shouted
as they neared. “Wake up, old man.”

The older miller raised his head
and turned his head only slightly, picking up the end of his line and baiting
the hook before tossing the line back in the water.

“Up, Wink, you’ve got folk here
that want to be speaking with you.”

“Quiet down, you fool,” the old man
spat out of the side of his mouth. “D’ye want to be scaring off yer supper?”

“Never mind that,” his son said as
they came alongside of him. “The Laird of Balvenie himself has been traipsing
all over the countryside looking for you, so get your carcass up.”

Wink, who’d probably been the
miller at Rothes when John Stewart’s father was a bairn, turned his bristly
face toward the visitors, and gave Athol an appraising look.

“Aye,” he said without rising.
“Ye’ve got the face of old King Jamie, rest his soul, but ye’ve got your
father’s height, too. Come and sit, m’lord, if ye’ll not mind yer own soil for
a place to be restin’ yer arse.”

Waving away Tosh and the miller,
Athol took a seat on the grass, resting his back against one of the thick,
gnarly roots that protruded from the ground.    

“Ye’ve come to ask me about my
daughter and yer father, have ye not?”

Stunned by the directness of the
old man’s question, Athol nodded. “Aye, Wink. I’ve heard some things...”

“Well, none of them are true, and
you can all go to the devil!”

Wink’s son shouted from the
distance. “Watch your tongue, old man.”

“I’m not saying anything against
your kin, miller.”

“I told him, I’m telling you, and
I’ll tell anyone else who comes to call. My daughter was a good lass, a bit
bold perhaps, but a good lass.”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

“Aye, ‘tis simple enough.” The old
man yanked in his line and dropped the fishing pole on the ground between them.
“Yer good father came up to Rothes when Makyn was just a lass. They were
building the church in the village, and the earl come up to see the doings.
That’s when Makyn asked him.”

“Asked him what?”

“She wanted to be a nun, the brazen
thing. So the laird gave her a bag of gold to get a good place at the cathedral
at Elgin, and she went off without so much as a ‘by yer leave’ to her own
father.”

“That’s it?”

“Aye, that’s it.”

“Then what of all the talk?”

“‘Twas all wickedness and lies, I
tell ye.” Wink glared at the earl. “They were all jealous that the laird would
be so good to her and not to them.”

“So there was no bairn.”

“Nay, m’lord. There was no bairn.”

“And your daughter went to Elgin.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Athol’s look of barely concealed
skepticism was met with a look of anger from the old man.

“She’s still there, for all I know.
I told the other the same thing. Go and look for yerself!”

Athol stared at the man for a
moment. “What other?” he asked quietly. “Has another been here before me?”

The aged miller looked away
quickly. Clearly, his tongue had revealed more than he’d intended.

“Who has been here, miller?”

Wink hesitated a moment, mumbling
to himself before turning and looking the earl directly in the eye.

“Adam, m’lord! Adam of the Glen!
Why, the lad asked near the same questions that ye’re asking now. I’m telling
ye, the lad’s keen to know the name of any mistress the laird might’ve had. But I sent him on his way, m’lord, that I did. Yer father kept no lasses here!”

So why did he marry
her
?
Catherine wondered. He could have had Susan and made everyone happy!

She frowned at the slender
shoulders and tight braids curled beneath the starched cap of the young woman
walking half a step before her. These were the same corridors that Catherine
had traveled earlier, and the deepening of the gloom into night did nothing to
improve their character. The only architectural relief was a narrow ledge that
ran along the wall, beneath the occasional slit windows that looked down on
roof of the kitchens and the courtyard. Jean walked just ahead of the other
two, carrying a flickering taper and occasionally glancing back inquisitively
from one woman to the other.

Well, Catherine thought, it was no
wonder that--even after knowing that she was not Ellen Crawford--Susan
MacIntyre had had little to offer her but the most indifferent whisper of
greeting.

Catherine furtively studied the
other woman again. It was interesting to see how, in appearances anyway, she
and Susan were so similar. Though Susan appeared to be a few years younger,
they were both of medium height, with black hair and fair complexions. Susan
had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, but her tightly pursed mouth and
downcast eyes allowed no hint of humor to break the somber look of her. Even
her dress, black and plain, was modest to the point of primness, its neckline
high with a collar of linen to hide any glimpse of skin.  She appeared to have
a taste for a fashion that made her look much older. Of course, Catherine knew
she was somewhat partial to that style herself. She’d been taught early on that
it was much better to have people remember you by your wit rather than the
fanciness of your dress.

Lady Anne Stewart’s chamber lay in the
southwest corner of the castle. As they passed into the wider corridor,
Catherine’s eyes took in the fine tapestries hanging on the whitewashed, plastered
walls. This section was clearly finer than the wing where Catherine had been
placed, but even if it were her nature to complain, she was not about to. No
doubt John Stewart’s chambers were nearby, and she was grateful for the
distance.

From the few words she’d been able
to drag out of Susan, the earl’s mother had become bedridden for the first time
in her life, early in the summer, after a cough began to weaken her. But as the weeks had passed, the castle physician had shaken his head, speaking of the kink and
then, the ague. And as the body of the aging woman grew thin and frail, Susan
said, the dowager’s spirit had grown weaker. Now, for more than a fortnight,
the physician had been telling all that the end was not far away.

It occurred to Catherine that it
was sad to meet someone under these conditions. No matter what mistakes Lady Anne might have made in raising such a stubborn son, she still commanded great respect in
Catherine’s mind, as one who had lived so long in such ruggedly wild country.
She frowned as they neared the dowager’s great oak door, thinking how, under
different circumstances, they might even have developed a good and lasting relationship.
 

Putting such thoughts aside,
Catherine followed Susan quietly into the large, darkened chamber. The thickly
perfumed air of the room struck Catherine like a slap in the face. Remaining by
the entrance, she watched Susan whisper some orders to the two waiting women
positioned by the dowager’s bed. An ancient woman-in-waiting that Susan called
Auld Mab sat silently listening by a wide hearth. From where she stood,
Catherine couldn’t see past the heavy, French damask bedcurtains, or make out
anything of the figure stretched beneath the embroidered bedclothes. Instead,
she let her gaze drift about the huge chamber. The fine furnishings were lavish
and comfortable, and Catherine might have been impressed, were it not so grim.
Darkness hung like a shroud in the room, and the heavily curtained windows
seemed to be intentionally holding out all light, and all fresh air, as well.

Catherine heard the dowager cough
weakly behind the curtains.  The thought struck her that, between the smoke
from the burning logs on the hearth and the closeness of the unaired sick
chamber, it was a wonder that the older woman could possibly take in a full
breath. Catherine could hardly breathe herself.

A low croak cut through the
darkness. “Come close!”

When no one else moved, Catherine
realized that the raspy words spoken from behind the curtains were directed at
no one but her.

Wiping her wet palms on the skirt
of her dress, Catherine threw a hesitant glance in Susan’s direction and
acknowledged her nod before approaching the canopied bed. As she came near, the
two attendants and Susan all backed away to a respectful distance. Clenching
her jaw, she prepared herself for the worst. Hadn’t Jean told her that the
dowager’s wish had been for her son to wed Susan? Catherine could feel the
mother’s disapproval hanging in the air like the sword of Damocles above her
head.

“Closer, I said! Come closer!”

Catherine stared at the gleaming
amber stones of the rosary laced between the bony, wrinkled fingers of the
older woman, and took another half step.

“
Closer
!”

So be it! she thought. Lifting her
chin, she walked around the side of the bed, her gaze meeting and holding the
piercing gray eyes of the aged woman. The sharpness of that look, the intensity
that radiated from those eyes, bespoke intelligence and will. John Stewart had
his mother’s eyes. A long moment passed in silence as Lady Anne continued to examine her. And then she heard the noise.

Catherine first thought it was a
cough. Then she feared that a spell might be coming on the ailing woman. But as the dowager continued to gasp for precious breaths, Catherine realized that the old woman
was laughing at her.

Absolutely appalled, Catherine
watched Lady Anne’s shoulders begin to shake as a tear ran down the side of her
pale, wrinkled face. Feeling her cheeks flush hot with embarrassment, Catherine
had no doubt whatsoever that she was indeed an object of derision for the
dowager. 

“‘Tis a very great pleasure meeting
you, too, m’lady,” Catherine put in, trying to keep her tone civil. “And may I ask what I have done to be the source of such amusement for your ladyship?”

The dowager held up a bony hand as
her laugh turned into a fairly credible sounding cough. She turned her face to
the side, genuinely struggling to catch her breath. The thought of waiting for
the others to come to the dowager’s aid never entered her mind, and Catherine quickly
slipped a steady hand behind the frail woman’s back and moved her into a
sitting position. It took only an instant to reach behind the old woman and
prop her up with a couple of the down-filled pillows.

It still took a few more moments
and a sip of some greenish liquid that Susan brought in a cup before Lady Anne’s breathing became a bit less labored. Backing up a half a step, Catherine stood and waited
until the dowager became calm again. Taking hold of Susan’s wrist with one
hand, the frowning older woman turned her gaze on Catherine, and raised an
accusing finger in the newcomer’s direction.  

“You might as well know now,
Catherine Percy. You will never do!”

She didn’t have to ask. It was
clear that dowager was referring to her son, the earl. Catherine clasped her
hands tightly before her before looking up again and meeting the other woman’s
gaze.  She had been talked to honestly and directly.

“And would you throw another fit if
I were to tell you that I find your words a blessing? That I have no intention
of becoming your daughter-in-law?”

“You lie.”

“Let me burn in hell if I do.”

The frown on the dowager’s face
slowly disappeared, replaced by the hint of an amusement around her gray eyes.

“Leave us.”

Catherine had already taken a step
back before she realized that the ailing woman’s words were not directed at
her. Without a word, Susan and the two women in waiting slipped out of the
chamber, closing the door behind them.

“That worthless messenger my son
sent failed to tell me that the earl had not married the Crawford wench as he
had planned. The fool just said that the master had married and that the new
countess was coming.”

Catherine could see that Ellen’s
and Lady Anne’s lack of affection was mutual.

“And Susan also tells me that you
are the spinster daughter of that dear, restless Nichola Erskine.”

“Nichola Percy,” Catherine said.
“She took my father’s name when they wed.”

“Aye, of course,” she snapped. “I
might be dying, young woman, but I’m not feeble-minded.”

When Catherine said nothing, Lady Anne continued.

“Although I haven’t seen her for
years, I still remember her quite well. She was a bonny lass, that Nichola
Erskine, though far too spirited for her own good. Smart as a whip, too. But it doesn’t appear you have inherited much from her.” Catherine blushed in spite of herself
as the dowager’s gray eyes again scanned her hair, her face, her attire. “Och!
A shame, really, that you are not at all like her.”