Plaid to the Bone (2 page)

His smile went suddenly brittle. “Ah.” The sound was more a forceful exhalation than a word. “We didna expect ye so soon.”

Only royalty used “we” when they meant “I.” The man’s presumption knew no bounds. “We? Have ye a mouse in your pocket, milord?”

The crowd around them tittered at this, but he silenced them with a scowl.

The more off-balance she could make the man, the better.

“I, then,” he amended. “
I
didna expect ye yet.”

Cait realized now why her father had chosen to send her overland. A river was the course most often taken by gossip as well as travelers. Word of her approach would have preceded her. It was best she catch the laird of Bonniebroch unprepared.

Unguarded.

He sketched a belated bow. When she extended her hand, he took it and bussed his lips correctly over her knuckles. For the flicker of an eyelash, Cait wished her fingertips smelled of rosewater instead of warm horse.

“Shaw,” Lord Bonniebroch bellowed to his steward. “See to Mistress Grant’s comfort.” Then he turned back to Cait. “This was a rough welcome, milady. We shall endeavor to do better hereafter.”

“‘We’ again. Ye and the wee mousie, ye mean?” There was another small ripple of laughter from the crowd. “Nevertheless,
I
thank ye, my Lord Bonniebroch,” she said as she dipped in a shallow curtsey before she turned to follow Mr. Shaw.

The baron deserved that small courtesy. After all, she was supposed to marry the man.

And then she was supposed to murder him.

The entire bailey buzzed with the news that their laird’s betrothed was marching across the courtyard toward the Great Hall. She was an object of curiosity, assuredly, but since she was attired in such rough clothing, they could hardly credit their ears. Besides, the fair still beckoned. They could puzzle about the future lady of Bonniebroch later. Before Cait Grant reached the tall double doors, the crowd had dispersed to the booths and other entertainments, muttering over the fact that the pillory was now empty and wasn’t likely to be refilled soon. Their current laird wasn’t as keen on public shame as a method of punishment as his father had been before him.

The wee man, whose ear was still bleeding like a stuck pig, continued to stare after Cait Grant as if he couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight. “That,” he said with admiration in his tone, “is a singular young woman.”

Adam Cameron, Laird of Bonniebroch, narrowed his eyes at Cait Grant’s retreating back. He couldn’t tell much about her figure under that shapeless cloak, but her features were pretty enough, if a bit travel-stained. He’d thought about luring her into his bed for a spirited tussle until he learned who she was. Now, he’d have to wait till the priest had his say before he bedded the lady.

“If by singular ye mean ’tis a good thing there’s only one of her, I’m forced to agree with ye.”

“No, no,” the man said. “I mean she’s unique. Brave and—”

“Foolish,” Adam finished for him. Even with her two aging guards, what woman would stand up to a mob for the sake of a miscreant she didn’t even know?

Cait Grant, evidently. A lass with that much grit bore close watching. Especially since she was so closely related to a man who, until recently, had been Adam’s determined foe.

“And yet, I’m exceedingly grateful to her. And to you, milord, for interrupting my punishment. Permit me to introduce myself.” The little fellow bobbed a repetitive bow that reminded Adam of a wren bathing itself in a puddle. “I am Callum Farquhar, traveler, philosopher—”

“And all around scalawag, I’d wager.”

Farquhar smiled and gave a self-deprecating shrug, hands spread before him in a gesture that would have been more at home in an Egyptian bazaar than a Scottish castle. “Aye, milord, I expect ye’ve the right of it. And now that ye’ve the wind of me, how might I serve ye?”

“By leaving before I think better of intervening in your sentence and order your other ear nailed.” Adam strode away toward the Great Hall.

Mr. Farquhar skittered after him, taking two steps to Adam’s one. “But I came to Bonniebroch specifically to offer ye my services. T’was only bad luck ye were no’ in residence when I first arrived.”

“So you decided to while away the time until I returned by stealing from my people?”

“Nae, milord. Never think it. I wasna stealing. Weel, no’ exactly.” Farquhar had the grace to blush. “I rather think ’tis a bit like the old tale of the emperor’s new clothes. By bilking a few of your folk of their coin, I’ve merely identified for you those who are fools. Surely, a man in your position needs to ken the general intellectual capacity of those who serve him.”

“Dinna fret on that score.” Adam lengthened his stride. He was going to have to have a long talk with Mr. Shaw. The man had served as steward when Adam’s father was laird, but he hadn’t quite realized yet that Adam was not his father. “I’ve marked the fools already.”

“Assuredly, ye have, canny man that ye are.”

“If ye know me by reputation at all, ye know I’m no’ one to be turned by flattery.”

“Nae, I can see ye are not. But I did hear as ye are a supporter of the Duke of Albany,” Callum Farquhar said. “If ye believe he’s the one to serve as regent to young King James, it means ye’re a man of sense in my estimation.”

That stopped Adam in his tracks. Feuding over which noble house should have influence over the ten-year-old king had reached a fever pitch. Wallace Grant was pushing himself forward as a possible regent and receiving plenty of support in the north. When Adam wouldn’t throw his weight, and the three hundred fighting men who were at his beck and call, behind Grant, he expected to have to meet the stiff-necked chieftain and his men on a misty meadow to settle the matter on the field of battle. The only trouble with that was it meant a flock of corbies got the final say, no matter which side won.

Instead, in an astounding turnabout, Grant had finally sent a message of capitulation that read something on the order of, “If ye’ll no’ ally yerself with me in this cause, the least ye might do is take a daughter off me hands.”

Or words to that effect.

Adam had reluctantly agreed. He wasn’t looking for a wife, but if taking one would buy another season of peace for his people, he’d accept a bride. Grant wasn’t likely to attack his own son-in-law or let any of his confederates do so, no matter how heated the argument over the regency became. And Adam could count on continued support from those who were already in Albany’s camp.

Adam gave Callum Farquhar a reassessing look. If he agreed with Adam’s position on the question of who should tend Scotland’s under-aged king, there might be more to the diminutive fellow than met the eye. “What do you know about the dispute over the regency?”

“I know ’tis a wise laird who avoids taking the field if he can,” Farquhar said. “No’ that ye fear battle, mind. There’s none as thinks that. But no one is served by land that lies fallow for lack of hands to till it. No estate can thrive if there are more widows and orphans than married ladies with husbands to provide for them and their broods. Fighting between clans never helps anyone,” Farquhar finished with that same shrug. “Except maybe the English.”

Adam had rarely heard so much sense in so few words. He slowed his pace so the little man didn’t become breathless trying to keep up with him. “What’s your background?”

“Born in Edinburgh, educated at Oxford and aye, I know ’tis in England, but there are no Scottish universities, are there? More’s the pity.” Farquhar smiled slightly. “And lest ye think I ought to have gone to a monastery for me learning, I must confess I’m no’ suited to be a monk.”

Adam laughed. Mr. Farquhar might be small of stature, but he was fairly presentable, even if his nose was a bit outsized for the rest of him. His hair was streaked with gray and had receded far enough to give him a noble brow. Adam judged him to be on the downward slope of fifty winters. Still, some women would likely have welcomed Farquhar’s attention over the years.

“Is there a Mrs. Farquhar?” he asked.

“No, I never stayed in one place long enough to acquire one. Gather no moss, that’s my motto,” Farquhar said. “I’ve been to Rome and Greece and even sailed up the Nile, but I’ll tell ye the main thing all my travels taught me.”

“What’s that?”

“There are only two kinds of people everywhere ye go—those who take and those who give.”

“And which are you, Mr. Farquhar?”

“I try to divide my time evenly betwixt the two extremes, moderation being the key to all things, ye ken,” the man said, laying a finger alongside his nose. Then a smile split his face. “Save perhaps in the matters of wine and women.”

Adam laughed again. “Weel, whatever else ye are, ye’re entertaining, Mr. Farquhar. I’ll give ye that. Bide with us a while then. At least until I can figure out what sort of position I might offer ye.”

Farquhar executed his little dipping bow again. “I thank ye, milord. Since I pledged my life to your lady, your offer makes that promise easier to keep.”

“She’s no’ my lady,” Adam said, casting a glance up to the chamber that boasted a small, green-glassed window. “At least, no’ yet.”

 

Cait sank into the copper hip bath up to her chin and began to revise her initial assessment of Bonniebroch Castle as a cheerless, ugly place. The keep was tended by a round-cheeked housekeeper named Mrs. Fletcher, who reminded Cait of a broody hen, broad-breasted and constantly shooing others out of the way and back to their work. While the exterior of Bonniebroch was still forbidding, its interior was surprisingly warm and inviting. The walls were bedecked with tapestries and the chambers appointed with sturdy, dark oak furnishings that gleamed with fresh oiling.

Mrs. Fletcher was quick to marshal her forces. Not only were Cait’s needs seen to promptly, but Grizel was whisked away to her own tidy new chamber. Once she was recovered enough from their travels, she’d resume her duties as Cait’s companion.

“Reckon she’ll be your lady-in-waiting now instead of your maid,” Mrs. Fletcher said.

Cait refrained from explaining that only queens had ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps she was the closest thing to royalty the folk of Bonniebroch would ever see. And the elevation in station would please Grizel out of all knowing.

In the meantime, a pair of lady’s maids was assigned to tend to Cait. Answering to the names of Jane and Janet almost interchangeably, they were obviously twins. Not only did they resemble each other closely enough to be a matching set of andirons, but they finished each other’s sentences and spoke in a sort of code at times, a language of shortcuts known only to the two of them.

When they bobbed their final curtsey to leave her in peace for a bit, Cait sighed in relief. The girls were pleasant, but she wasn’t used to feminine chattiness. She had no sisters. Her mother had died before Cait had seen twelve summers. And Grizel was, if not taciturn, at least comfortable with silence.

Cait laid her head back against the bath and let the warm water leech the travel stiffness from her limbs. She wouldn’t think about why she was there. She’d only close her eyes, enjoy the bath, and revel in the eternal “now.”

But her purpose for being at Bonniebroch rose up to swirl around her brain like the bubbles swirling on the surface of the bathwater.

Men died all the time. How hard could it be to make an intentional death look like an accident? Her father had schooled her on multiple methods of hastening a man’s end, leaving it to her to decide which she’d use.

“The one choice he left to me,” she muttered as she took up the alabaster jar that held an aromatic mixture of olive oil-based soap. Cait recalculated her estimate of Lord Bonniebroch’s wealth upward. Folk in her father’s household made do with a conglomeration of tallow and ashes. Wallace Grant was a thrifty man. Fragrance was a waste of coin, a luxury only for those rich enough not to count the cost.

Still, Cait revered her father. And his cause was just. There was no doubt he’d be a better regent for young King James than the Duke of Albany, who couldn’t even be bothered to stay in Scotland these last few years.

Cait picked up her washcloth and scrubbed the back of her neck and arms till her skin smarted.

Why couldn’t men agree on matters without resorting to bloodshed? If Lord Bonniebroch hadn’t been so stiff-necked, she wouldn’t be here now plotting his untimely demise.

The worst of it was that she had to wait. It was no good unless they were properly married and she’d been acclaimed by one and all to be the Lady of Bonniebroch. Then, upon her husband’s death, she’d be able to command the fighting men who were pledged to the estate. Her father reckoned that the three hundred sword arms that came with the Bonniebroch barony and the castle’s strategic location would be enough to tip the balance in his favor should the question of the regency come to outright war.

But if she became a widow too soon after her nuptials, tongues might wag, even if the death appeared the accident she intended it should.

A month would do, her father had advised.

A whole month of acting the adoring bride. Cait wondered if that kind of subterfuge was in her. With each passing day, it might become harder to fulfill her purpose. She’d decided not to like her bridegroom a bit even before she left her father’s stronghold. And not to spend any more time with him than was strictly necessary.

It didn’t help matters that Lord Bonniebroch was a braw young man who’d been quick to back her in showing mercy to that fellow in the pillory. Her job would have been ever so much easier if he were a doddering, paunchy tyrant.

Either way, she wondered if she’d be able to kill him. When the time came . . . was it in her to end a man?

Cait fumed over her ill-chance as she ducked beneath the surface of the water. The sounds of the fair-goers in the bailey, the clanking of men-at-arms sparring in some room in the castle set aside for that practice, the footfalls of servants—everything went muffled and hazy as she held her breath and let the warm liquid seep into every pore. She counted to ten, then pushed herself back up, sloshing water over the sides of the bath.

“Mrs. Fletcher will no’ appreciate ye spilling all over her clean floor,” a masculine voice rumbled.

Cait’s eyes popped open but some soap had worked its way under her eyelids and now stung. She knuckled her eyes, but before she squeezed them shut, an image of Lord Bonniebroch leaning back in one of the dark oak chairs, an ankle hooked over one knee, was burned on her vision.

“What,” she sputtered as she forced her eyes open again, “are ye doing here?”

“I came to see ye privily, mistress. Our meeting was most public, and I thought there might be some matters to discuss just between we two.” He ran his gaze over her so slowly she could almost feel the heat of it licking at her exposed skin. “In truth, I thought ye’d be dressed by now, but this suits me just as well.”

“It doesna suit me.” She crossed her arms over her chest, realizing the layer of bubbles was getting thinner by the moment.