Highland Heat (3 page)

Kaie smiled, but it was a gentle curving of her lips that didn’t show any of her teeth. She had her hands tucked up inside the sleeves of her overrobe and looked so serene Deirdre simply shook her head.

“I envy ye yer happiness, Kaie, but I am also glad to see ye so content.”

A soft sound passed her sister’s lips. It was a bare whisper of a laugh and made Deirdre smile.

“And yet I envy ye the courage to have stood so confidently in Laird Cameron’s path. I was bending to his earthly position of power without enough protest.” Disgust edged her sister’s voice.

“For all the good it did me.” Deirdre began to scrub at the floor again. “No’ that I regret it.”

“No one thinks ye’re repentant.”

There was a note of regret in Kaie’s voice that made Deirdre grateful for the chore, which made it possible for her not to look at her sister. It wasn’t shame making her want to avoid eye contact, but a desire not to quarrel. Kaie enjoyed the humble life.

“I’m no’ proud of arguing with the man like a shrew.”

She heard her sister sigh. “I believe Laird Cameron could take notice of nothing short of what ye gave him in a woman. That man needs a wife who can demand his attention.”

Deirdre jerked her face up toward her sister. “Do nae begin with that, Kaie.”

Her sister returned her glare with too much sweet serenity. That brought a touch of heat to Deirdre’s cheeks, for it felt like she was being surly with an innocent child.

Or arguing with a mother superior. Deirdre smiled at her sibling. “Ye are raising to the challenge of yer station here, Sister. Maybe I should have pushed ye in front of Laird Cameron.”

There was a rare flicker of pride in Kaie’s eyes, but she shook her head. “Nae I believe ye stepped up to the man for a reason, one which will become clearer in time. I’d send some of the others to help ye, but I know ye would refuse the kindness.”

“I would.” Deirdre dunked the rag again. “I shall endure. I promise ye.”

Kaie’s expression became somber once more. “Spite has no place here; the chores should be shared by all. The novices need to be reminded of that fact.” She paused, her eyes narrowing with consideration. “I also believe yer spirit has its place, Deirdre, and it isn’t inside these convent walls.”

Her sister didn’t give her any chance to respond. Kaie turned without making a sound and walked with soft steps along the side of the room. Deirdre watched the way her sister kept near the wall, even when she entered the hallway. Kaie didn’t go down the center of it. Instead she drew as little notice to herself as possible. That had always been her way, and somehow, Deirdre had never considered that Kaie belonged wearing the undyed robe that had been given to their younger sister, Brina. The third-born daughter went to the church; it was tradition, and their father had followed it.

Deirdre smiled as Kaie disappeared from sight. Well, it might have been expected that Kaie would marry, but she hadn’t, and she was happy. Brina was pleased to be wed to Connor Lindsey as well, or at least Kaie claimed that was what Brina’s letters said.

Deirdre heard the wind howl outside and looked down at the section of floor she had yet to wash. It would be past dark when she finished, but that did not send her looking for a candle to light. She continued to work, moving fast enough to keep warm while the wind rattled the wooden shutters covering the windows. Her eyes adjusted to the fading light, and soon she could see the faint red glow of the coals in the hearth in spite of the layer of ash covering them.

She suddenly lifted her head, a sound rising above the wind gaining her attention. Her fingers tightened on the rag, making water stream out of it to soak her robe.

The sound came again, this time closer, and the huge wooden doors, which were closed against the night, vibrated as someone pounded on them.

Fear shot down her back, but she stood up, unwilling to cower on the floor with a washrag in her hands. Deirdre shook off the whispers of a hundred remembered tales of raiders and Vikings that she had heard around the winter fire during her childhood.

Hell’s army had not been seen in many years. Many of the Highlanders were descendants of the Norsemen who had settled down instead of raiding their entire lives. Besides, raiders wouldn’t be knocking.

She went to the window nearest the door and unlatched the shutter. She opened it and looked out to see who was standing in front of the doors.

“Sanctuary, we seek sanctuary.”

The words were whispered, from one of four forms standing near the door. But the voice was undoubtedly male.

“This is the convent,” Deirdre informed them. In the dark, it was impossible to see any details about who they were. The moon hid behind dark clouds that promised rain before morning.

The group shifted, turning toward one while they whispered. They leaned in to conceal their words while the wind whipped at the hems of their long cloaks. Deirdre felt suspicion ripple its way through her thoughts as the group argued among themselves for several long moments before there was a short grunt from the man who had requested sanctuary. He turned back toward her.

“I request shelter for the ladies.”

Deirdre set her teeth into her lower lip, but she could not refuse a request of sanctuary. It was a strict order of the pope, and living beneath the roof of the abbey meant she must be obedient to that dictate.

Deirdre pushed up the heavy bar that held the door secure, and stood it beside the doors. A single lantern burned outside, its flame protected by tin that had numerous tiny holes punched into it to allow the light to illuminate the door for pilgrims who needed the church’s mercy.

“We will return at dawn, Yer Ma—”

The man shut his mouth, but it was too late. Deirdre recalled instantly Laird Cameron’s reason for searching the abbey.

It would appear that the queen had arrived.

Three people entered, flipping their hoods back to reveal that they were women. The men who had escorted them turned and disappeared into the shadows beyond the light of the lantern.

“We are grateful for your hospitality.”

Joan Beaufort was English, and her words carried an unmistakable tone from her native country. There was also a regal edge to the way she swept inside the abbey and stopped when there was nothing but darkness to greet her.

“Are there not candles in this abbey?” she asked quietly, almost as if she didn’t care for the night like a child who had yet to grow past her fear of the shadows.

Deirdre closed the door and lifted the bar up and into the slots that would keep it secure. She turned to find the queen of Scotland watching her. Although Deirdre had never met the woman, her name was well-known, for prayers were offered every day for the king and his mother. Quinton Cameron’s visit also confirmed that the fair-faced woman was in fact the cousin of the king of England and the mother of the king of Scotland. It was slightly amazing to see her standing with only two handmaidens.

Joan looked about. “There must be candles.”

“We are very careful when using anything, for nothing belongs to the inhabitants of this order, Yer Majesty.”

Deirdre began to lower herself, an action she did without thought, because she had been taught to offer deference to her parents and other nobles from the time she could walk.

“Do not.” Joan Beaufort hissed. “How did you know me? Have you come to court? That is odd, when you were promised to the church.”

The queen obviously wasn’t accustomed to allowing others to speak until she was finished with her thought. She finally stopped and looked toward Deirdre to answer her questions.

“I was nae promised to the church, Yer Ma—madam.” The queen made a motion with her hand.

“But you are here.” Joan pointed to her undyed robes, the garments of piety that nuns wore to shun earthly vanity.

Deirdre felt her temper rise as she recalled the reason she was at the abbey. Her anger was still too hot, just as Kaie had told her it was. But she refused to lie about what she had done. She had gone to Melor Douglas willingly and eagerly.

“My father sent me here for disgracing him by taking a lover. I have taken no vows, and the order will hear none from me.”

The queen’s ladies shook their heads, one of them clicking her tongue in reprimand. Deirdre held her chin steady.

“Enough.” Joan raised her hand to silence her escort. “Do not be so dim-witted. This might be exactly what I seek.”

The two women with the queen looked at her with confusion showing on their faces. Deirdre felt her own forehead creasing too as she walked toward the table where a single candle stood in a wooden holder. She grabbed a handful of her skirts and swept them aside as she knelt next to the hearth. The coals were still hot enough to bring life to the wick, and the flame cast a warm glow around her as she rose and placed it back in its holder.

Deirdre jerked when she discovered the queen so close to her. The woman studied her with the help of the candlelight.

“You favor me in many ways,” Joan announced suddenly. Her two ladies stepped closer and scrutinized Deirdre in response. One of them began to smile.

“Ye are correct, my lady.” The one who had spoken reached out and pushed the edge of Deirdre’s head covering back so they might see her hair.

“Excuse me, Yer—madam, but what are ye about?” Deirdre yanked her head veil forward and then frowned when she realized how quick she was to hide something she had sworn not to feel shame over. It was only hair, and she wasn’t a bride of Christ, so there was no reason she should jump to defend her modesty. With a soft snort, she shoved the head covering completely over the top of her head until it drooped down about her neck.

“You are not repentant.” The queen wasn’t asking her a question; she was making a firm statement.

“I am sorry the man I trusted with my heart was only lying to me to strike at my betrothed, but that is the only thing I regret. He promised to wed me or I would never have gone to him.”

Deirdre expected her bluntness to shock the queen. Instead, Joan Beaufort slowly smiled. She reached out and fingered a lock of Deirdre’s hair. “Many a woman has loved a man who was unworthy of her tender affections.” She paused for a moment. “We have the same shade of blonde hair too—how fortunate.”

The last two words were spoken in a soft tone of awe, or maybe it was satisfaction. Deirdre felt a shiver shoot down her back, and it woke a memory of the way Melor had sounded when he informed her of the fact that he wasn’t going to wed her as he’d promised.

“What are ye seeking beyond shelter, Yer Maje—” Deirdre simply shut her mouth on the second part of the word. The queen frowned but looked about the room before answering.

“I need your assistance.” She said. “What is your name?”

“Deirdre Chattan. My father is Laird Chattan.”

The queen’s ladies’ faces brightened. One of them clasped her hands together. “An excellent bit of luck. If ye’re the daughter of a laird, even a Highlander, ye will have some sort of education in finer manners.”

“I’m proud to be the daughter of a Highlander.” Deirdre didn’t care if her tone was too sharp for the noble station of the women standing in front of her. Those who attended court liked to think of themselves as more civilized than the Highlanders, but she would have none of it.

The queen waved her hand to dispel the tension in the air. “Of course you are, I’d not be interested in asking anything of any daughter who didn’t hold her head high when she spoke of her kin.”

There was a note of compassion in Joan’s voice that softened Deirdre’s displeasure. “I am quite confused… ladies. The assistance ye seek here is offered to any who knock on the door.”

The queen stepped closer. “But I seek something quite different than anything a bride of Christ might offer me.” She reached forward and took Deirdre’s hand, clasping it between her own, which were chilled from the night air. She aimed eyes full of apprehension toward her. “There are many seeking me—men intent on imprisoning me for their own gain.”

“Laird Cameron was here today, and he had his men search the abbey from top to bottom.”

All three women drew in horrified gasps. The queen’s grip tightened until it was painful. Deirdre pulled her hand free.

Joan looked stunned that she had moved without permission. She shook it off quickly.

“Forgive me, but as I said, there are many seeking me who would see me set behind stone walls and denied my freedom.”

“Ye are the…” Deirdre stopped and searched for another word to use. Joan did not allow her time to think.

“A fact which makes men crave locking me away for the power it shall give them.” The queen looked furious, her fair features darkening with her temper. “I want to be happy, Deirdre Chattan. If you chose a lover and risked your future to embrace him, you must understand how I feel. I want to wed again, and I’ve run away, but there are too many seeking me. We have been hiding for days to avoid being captured.”

Deirdre felt shock run down her spine. The queen’s marrying again would indeed be cause for alarm among the Douglas clan as well as a few others. She had shared her husband’s crown, and any further children she birthed would be considered by England to have a claim to the Scottish throne. Her son, James II, was the only son she had given her late husband, and he was a boy too young to wed.

“Archibald Douglas would see me withering away while he controls my son, and Alexander Livingston is no better. That man kept me locked up for months.”

The queen began pacing, agitation fueling her rapid steps.

“But is there a man who can safeguard ye?” Deirdre asked. “There is little point in running if ye do nae have a place to go.”

Joan turned toward her and smiled. It was radiant one, which brightened her features, exposing how very beautiful she was.

“Oh yes, there is such a man. I’ve permission from the pope to wed him. I desire so much to be with him. It seems so very long since my James was murdered.” She held out her hands. “I implore you, Deirdre Chattan. Help me meet with my bridegroom.”

Temptation nipped at her. Deirdre tried to ponder the wisdom of following her impulses, but there was no controlling the urge to answer the plea she witnessed shimmering in the queen’s eyes. For a moment, Joan was simply another woman who wanted to be loved.