Parris Afton Bonds (20 page)

His fingers were working free her plaits. “
These little people . . . do they behave like ordinary people?”

“
Ach, no. They live cheerfully below ground, in chambers carpeted and richly hung with arras and abundant tables set with the best china and silver. Yet their doorways are but modest entrances, looking for all the world like gopher holes."

This playful side, almost innocent in its heathenish backwardness, co
uld be endearing. “Being a trowie has its good points.”

"Aye. They say that trowies are lovers of good music, and many Shetland fiddle tunes have been learned by listening at a trowie doorway.”

He spread loose her hair, fanning it across the bed. "The wee folk have always been here, ye know. They are disdainful toward humans.”

"Why?”
She barely got the word out of breathless lungs.

He began unlacing her stomacher. "Because we mortals only just got here
—at least in the slow-ticking watch of the trolls. A man stolen by a troll for what seems like just a few hours may be surprised to learn he has been away for days or weeks or even years."

Free of her stays, her breasts spilled into his palms. She strove to contain her gasp of pleasure as
he dipped his head and licked one nipple. “Are . . . are there both male and female trowies?”

His hand slipped beneath the layers of her skirts. “
Aye, but sometimes they go masqueraded as human men and women.”

Her thighs spread for his invading fingers. He
r voice was little more than the rusking of dead leaves against the windowpane. "I fear 'tis I who have been witched by a trowie."

"Enya?"

"Hmmm.” She barely found the energy to answer as his fingers worked their magic on her.

He rolled from her, rose, and
grinned down at her. "Next time, damp the pipe before ye put it away."

She bolted upright. "Where are you going?”

He tugged her skirts down over her exposed thighs. His lips curled merrily. "I’m off to free a bear. G’day to ye, mistress.”

"The wisdom of S
olomon," she murmured with a wry twist of her lips.

Once she was dressed she did not return to the kitchens, but instead went to Jamie
’s chambers, farther along the hall. She knocked, and when there was no response, she slipped inside. Her heart was beating rapidly. She scanned the room. Much like the others, it contained a rough-hewn bed, an armoire, and a rustic pine table that apparently served as a desk.

It was that to which she crossed. A few books, befitting a man of learning and letters, were stacked
at one end: Defoe’s
Robinson Crusoe
, Pope’s
Essay on Man
, Swift’s
Gulliver’s Travels,
and Voltaire’s
History of Charles XII
.

A brass pot for sealing wax, a sander for drying an inked signature, an inkwell of sandalwood, and a broken quill were scattered ac
ross the desk, but there was no evidence of any penmanship itself. Neither were there paper or parchment or even scribbled notes inside the pages of the books through which she flipped.

A queer chill in her neck made her glance over her shoulder. The door
was still shut. Feeling nervous now, she went through the armoire: shirts, tunics, knee pants and trousers, jerkins, and a frock coat, buckled shoes and boots of fine Spanish leather.

She abandoned her search and fled the room. With no one in the cavernous
hallway, she felt lucky to escape undetected. Or, at least, she thought so.

After she finished her kitchen duties she had no more returned to her chamber than she heard an imperative knock at her door. Her hands halted at unlacing her bodice. “
Aye?"

Witho
ut waiting for permission, Ranald entered, with Thane close on his heels. Saying nothing, he crossed to the fireplace, sank down on his haunches, and began rearranging the smoldering embers with the poker. “The flue is so primitive that more smoke swirls in the room than goes up the chimney.”

"True enough," she said carefully. Smoke had discolored the walls' wainscoting and painted paneling. She watched his profile for any revelation as to the purpose behind this visit.

"What were you doing in Jamie’s chambers today?”

“
How did you know?" she blurted.

His smile was enigmatic. “
I’m the seventh son of a seventh son.”

"What?”

He settled down before the fireplace and crossed his ankles. Thane dropped down alongside him.

She remained standing, arms folded, and stu
died him as he talked. "Every Highland glen and braeside has its resident wise man or woman. Traditionally, ’tis the seventh child of a seventh child who, through the power of fairies, inherits the gift of
taibh-searachd
.”

His rich accent didn
’t make any clearer the Gaelic word. "The gift of what?"

“
Taibh-searachd
. Prophecy. Or seers.”

"Oh, spare me the nonsense.”

" Tis true. For instance, a century ago a Highlander, Kenneth Odhar, was given a magic white stone with a hole in it by the fairies and was able to see the future in it. It seems that Kenneth paid dearly for his gift. He was
cam
—blinded in one eye.”

She squinted at him. "You don
’t really believe this, do you?"

He shrugged those massive shoulders. “
Kenneth predicted the Battle of Culloden over a century before it happened.”

“
Coincidence.” Yet despite his everyday tone, he sounded profoundly arcane. “I wager not everything he predicted happened,” she challenged.

"Weel, he did speak of a string of blac
k carriages, horseless and bridleless and led by a fiery chariot, that would pass through the Highlands. I admit that sounds farfetched.”  That grin again. "But then, how do I know ye were in Jamie’s room?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You spied on me.”

"And were you spying, mayhap?”

So, he had neatly boxed her into a comer. “
I had gone to get a book for Annie to practice her reading.”

"And where is that book?"

“There wasn’t one easy enough for her to read.”

He brushed off his hands and rose to his feet. Thane rose,
also, and looked to his master for a signal to leave. "Me thinks, Enya, ye are practicing your own kind of predicting.”

"What?" she asked again, taken aback.

He crossed to the door and paused with his hand on the latch. “Aye. Your confinement to the donjon, after all, should ye continue to make it difficult for me to treat ye as a guest rather than a prisoner.”

“
Does the host make love to every female guest?” she retorted.

"Don
’t mistake that, mistress, for lovemaking,” he said, and shut the door on her.

Chapter Thirteen

S
o the redheaded one had been a virgin after all.

Ranald tried to keep his mind on his surroundings. On the noises that belonged
—clink of metal bits of harnesses, creak of saddles, occasional snorting of horses, the baying of a hound. On aspects of the landscape that belonged— untrammeled snow; the glide of a golden eagle in a clear, cold sky; a single plume of smoke from a trapper’s cabin.

When one failed to notice small things that didn
’t belong was when large things occurred. Like ambush. The long night march, followed by an early-morning raid on a small patrol party of the enemy, had left his weary men dozing in their saddles.

For over a year now it had been a matter of stalking and attacking whenever he could, sometim
es moving his headquarters from day to day so no one knew where he would strike next. In this he was helped by people of the countryside who gave him the most recent news of the English movements.

On the northern horizon, blue clouds lay in a smooth line, a foreteller of heavy snow. Within another week the pass would be blocked. For the winter, Lochaber would be a snowbound island.

Why was he seeing dragon ships in windswept clouds? Why was he infatuated with a redheaded wench who seemed to wield over him the power of a pagan priestess? It was merely that she was so bloody unbiddable, distracting, and unpredictable.

At his side, Jamie said, "Hopefully, this was the last battle before winter. But afte
r that, Ranald? Do we do battle for the rest of our lives?"

He glanced across at Jamie
—his cousin, his friend, his confidant. A Redcoat’s bayonet had opened a small gash along his left sleeve. Jamie had not the eye-hand coordination of a warrior born. Seeing the bloodstained wool, Ranald was sorely tempted to reply that the fighting was ended forever.

Mayhap Enya was right when she had told him yester morn, "Don
’t you see, Ranald? Surrender doesn’t bring the inability to survive but always the birth of something new."

He had just committed that small surrender, that giving of himself, of his seed. That moment when man is at his most vulnerable. And yet, she had held him to her, caressed him and crooned softly to him in her lyrical Scots Braid. And he had bee
n renewed. In a sense, resurrected. If not spiritually, then, at least, physically. The sight and feel of her heavy breast in his palm was enough to accomplish that feat.

"Your thoughts are not of battle," Jamie said, bringing him out of his reverie.

His answering laughter felt liberating. “Nae. They were of a battle of sorts. With the Lady Enya."

In his thoughts was the image of her yester eve, sitting by the fireplace and teaching the village maid Annie to read. From his own Bible, no less.

Had the Lowland lass no limits?

She was not sweet-tempered as Ruthven had been. Tall, taut, and trying instead of small and soft and submissive, like his intended. But he was not afraid of crushing either the breath or the spirit out of Enya. Her body fit his well, and
she challenged his perspective.

Fragile Ruthven. Redheaded Ruthven.

"Let her go, Ranald," Jamie urged.

"There ye go for a damned cowardly Italian," he joked, mimicking his sister.

" Tis not Simon Murdock I’m concerned about. Tis the Lady Enya.”

His lighthe
arted mood vanished. "Has the vixen witched ye, also?”

He recalled too easily Jamie
’s earlier declaration of what an entrancing conversationalist she was: "Spirited, she is, Ranald, with a mix of wit and wisdom.”

And he knew how big and awkward he was. Awk
ward both of body and words, especially when it came to women.

"You know better than that,”
Jamie said. “You must put the past behind you and trust again.”

Ranald pretended to scan the fields, where oats for the cattle were rotated with potatoes, turnips,
and rye. Privately, he wondered if this redhead who presently occupied his bed could be trusted, as she claimed. There were mornings when he half expected her to try to bury his dirk in his heart while he slept.

Or, at least, she thought he slept. Experien
ce had made a light sleeper of him.

Remarkably, most mornings she had been content to sit quietly and puff on one of his pipes. He knew she waited for an avenue of escape to present itself for her and her retinue.

Truly, he was going to be sorry to make the Lowland lass hate him.

Kathryn was sitting up, more than she could do a fortnight ago. December’s wan light filtered through her room’s high, narrow window and yellowed her skin.

"I feel old,”
she told her daughter. "When someone has to spoon-feed you, you might as well be buried."

Enya held another spoonful of the watery gruel for her to swallow. "Ridiculous, Mother. Bairns are spoon fed, also.”

"But the we’ans have a lifetime to look forward to. Mine is over.”

"I hardly think so,”
said Arch from her doorway. He stood so tall, the lintel concealed the top of his head.

Neither Enya nor she had heard him open the door. He was the same age as she. How did he manage to look so full of energy and strength? "C
ome in and talk to us. Enya is regaling me with castle gossip while she feeds me."

“
I’ll take over,” he said, "though I doubt the village gossip I have been sorting through is more entertaining.”

Enya passed the wooden bowl and spoon to him, and he took he
r chair beside the bed. “Anything about any accomplice we might find here in the castle?" Enya inquired.

He shook his head, and his thick red hair fell across his brow. "Not a thing. If anyone is disloyal to
Cean Mdr
—"

"To whom?" Kathryn said.

“
Cean Mdr
. That’s Celtic for what the villagers call Ranald—Great Chief. And none of them are about to betray him. At least, not to me."

"I wonder why the fierce loyalty when he isna from Lochaber?”
Enya mused.

He shrugged those yard-wide shoulders. “
Have you learned anything?"

Enya shook her head. "I haven
’t been able to find even a scrap of paper with writing on it. I went through some books in Jamie’s room. I couldn’t even find his name on a flyleaf.”

"If you could get him to write something for you,”
Arch suggested.

"Which might prove nothing," Kathryn said. "The person who wrote that missive might have deliberately disguised his handwriting."

“Open your mouth," Arch told her. Obediently, she did as he commanded and swallowed the gruel. "Tell Elspeth even her potions taste better than this,” she said to Enya.

After her daughter departed she asked, “
How do you keep your passion for life, Arch? I tire so easily.”

"You are my passion."

Her heart fluttered. "Don’t talk that way.”

"Why not?”
He set the bowl and spoon on the floor and leaned over her. "If you are determined to languish away, then I shall speak my mind.”

"You already did," she said, and held up a forestalling hand. "Well speak no more about this!"

"Aye, my love. The time for words is past." He gathered her in his arms. She was too weak to push him away. He cradled her to him, his smoothly shorn jaw resting against her temple. "You are me one true love. As I am yours."

"No,”
she protested. "Do not say these things."

"If not in this lifetime, then in the next y
ou will be mine." He lowered his head even farther. “If I can do no more than kiss you now, then in the next lifetime I will make you mine and give myself to you in return."

His breath warmed her, fanned inside her the embers of life she thought had died.
Her heart took flame as his lips kissed hers. Her body, aglow, responded as it had all those many years ago. If only for this one wondrous moment, she was young again.

“
Mother!”

With a gasp, she yanked away from Arch to behold he
r daughter in the doorway. Enya’s expression was aghast. “Enya, you don’t understand—”

Arch drew her back within his encircling arm. “
Come in, Enya. Tis time you knew the truth."

Her daughter
’s gaze of astonishment darted from him to her. Slowly, Enya closed the door and rested her back against it. Her expression was one of incomprehension.

“
I love your mother, Enya."

"Obviously," she said dryly. "What about your priesthood vows?”

“I have yet to take them. I am only a brother.

Surprise stunned Enya momentar
ily. Then her daughter looked at her. “What about my father?”

She was grateful for Arch's strong supporting arm. She drew a deep, steadying breath. "Arch is your father, Enya."

Their daughter’s eyes widened. "You betrayed your vows then, Mother. Your vows of marriage.”

At the anger in her voice, Arch said harshly, "Do not judge, Enya. That is the worst of sins. The only sin, mayhap.”

Her words were a mere whisper. "How could this happen?"

A measure of strength restored, she drew away from Arch. "Does it mat
ter? We were young. Unwise. Inexperienced. The important thing is that we dinna want to hurt anyone, least of all Malcolm. We still don’t. What you saw was a moment of weakness on my part.”

"No," Arch declared, "it was a moment of love on my part! It will
not happen again, but I will not let even you make something ugly or evil of what was—’’

"Did you know this?”
Enya asked. "That I was your daughter?”

"I suspected the truth a long time ago.”

Enya sank into a hidebound chair.

"I never told him
—or Malcolm,” Kathryn said, "that he was your father."

“
I think I always knew," he said, releasing her. “But I thought it best for everyone to leave the matter be.” He rose to his feet. “As far as I am concerned, Enya, things don’t have to change. Malcolm need never know. Tis up to you."

Enya bit her lip, glanced down at her knotted hands, raised her eyes, and smiled. "I
’d like to know you better. As more than an old friend."

Arch grinned. "Clearly, we
’ve nothing better to do for the winter.”