Sue-Ellen Welfonder - MacKenzie 07 (25 page)

She couldn't rid herself of the chills still sweeping her.

Darroc glanced at Asa's window and frowned. He couldn't deny the deep shadows there. The wind howled bitterly on this side of the room and cold rain still pelted the tower walls. It was a gray bleak morning, and just since they'd spoken, the watery light faded from the east window, the sun having slipped behind the clouds.

Arabella's borrowed shirt had slipped, too. Come loose during their kissing, the neck opening dipped low, revealing her breasts in near naked glory. Once more, heat scorched her cheeks.

She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed.

He surely had, if his attempts not to look there were any indication.

"I have a friend, Olaf Big Nose." He smoothed a fold of his plaid, his words making no sense. "He makes camp on a nearby isle. I shall be visiting him soon.

He'll want to know of the Black Vikings that rammed the Merry Dancer. And" - he kept his gaze on the horizon, the dark clouds building there - "he will be eager to help me chase down the miscreants. As a peace-loving man, he'll see it in his interest to help banish them from our seas."

Arabella only half listened. It mattered more that she covered herself.

"... they will have clothes for you," Darroc was saying, now taking a brisk turn about the room.

She started. "Who will have clothes for me?"

He glanced at her, careful to keep his gaze above her shoulders. "Olaf's womenfolk. He has a whole slew of them living there on his isle. Some" - he colored a bit - "are of your size and shape. They are goodly women and will see well to you."

She lifted a brow. "What do you mean they will see to me?"

"Just that." He stopped pacing. "You can't remain clothed in table linens.

However well-stitched they are, such garments are unworthy of you. Olaf's women are well-accoutered. They will be glad to share."

"I understood that part." Arabella finished fumbling at her shirt laces. "But you speak as if you mean to take me there."

"I do."

"A sea journey?" The thought struck terror in her.

"It is a short journey of one night." He spoke as if everything was decided. "The birlinn can't offer you the comfort of the merchant cog, but I can promise she is seaworthy. Olaf must hear what happened to the Merry Dancer. He'll appreciate having the tale from you. And - "

He glanced at one of the room's four window arches. It was the one that held his neat rows of notches. Each mark bold and perfectly chiseled, one like the other.

His gaze remained fixed on them as if they held more meaning than simply marking days. "The journey will - "

Arabella shook her head. "I am not ready for such a - "

"You need to reacquaint yourself with sea travel." He went to stand at the notched window, lightly touching the deep scores in the stone. "We'll wait until the weather clears. Geordie Dhu is no' just a master cook, he is an unerring weather prophet. He can sniff out an approaching storm days before its coming just as he need only observe the color and quality of the sea to know danger is imminent.

"Even the feel of his fine wheaten bread dough tells him much, he says. How the seabirds fly and, believe it or not, the rising smoke from his cook fire." He glanced at her, his face hard-set. "No harm will come to you. I give you my solemn word on it."

"What of the Black Vikings?"

"My men and I will make forays beforehand to ensure they are no' about." He'd considered everything.

Arabella swallowed. "I still do not wish to go."

He came back to her then, once more taking her by the arms. But his touch was different this time. No longer caring and tender or searing with passion, the hands that held her so firmly felt cold.

It was as if their kiss had never happened.

"I will no' force you." His tone was colder than his touch. "But I hope you will deign to join me. I assure you that" - a slash of red swept across his cheekbones -

"I will no' touch you again."

So he hadn't forgotten.

But he regretted it.

"I am not worried." Arabella clasped her hands. "I understand that men are sometimes overcome with animal passions," she spoke primly, not wanting him to see her hurt. "As I also know that such urges mean nothing."

For a moment, he looked as if she'd struck him.

But he recovered swiftly. "We can make a side trip to the Seal Isles on the return journey. Then, after Olaf Big Nose and I have dealt with the Black Vikings and so long as there isn't word of the English plague having reached the mainland hills, I will see you escorted back to Kintail."

"I see." Arabella lifted her chin.

He looked relieved. "Seal Isles is no great journey. But by the time we return here, you'll have lost your fear and will no longer dread the long voyage home."

Arabella's heart sank.

He wanted to be rid of her.

She broke free of his grasp and turned to the window, taking care to keep her back straight and her head high. The morning had worsened and sheets of rain blew past the tower on the rising wind. Below, the sea crashed loudly over the rocks. She welcomed the pounding roar, hoping the noise covered the disappointed hammering of her heart.

She took a deep breath of the chill, damp air and then summoned all her practiced poise. "I will think on accompanying you."

It was the most she was willing to say.

"I am glad to hear it." His voice was almost stern, as chiefly as her father's. "Now, Lady Arabella, I believe it is best if I leave you alone to consider. But I'll return shortly. I'll no' have you descending these old steps on your own." Then he nodded and strode from the room before she had a chance to argue.

Not that she would have.

She'd already made up her mind. She'd go wherever he desired to take her. And she'd put a pleasant face to it.

Her pride gave her no other option.

But when his footfalls faded and she turned back to the window to stare down at the foaming sea, one thing surprised her. Much as she loved her family, she didn't want to return home to Kintail.

She wanted to stay here.

And she wanted Darroc to love her.

Across the room, at the north-facing window arch, Asa Long-Legs dashed a glittery tear from her cheek. It was a strange sensation as she hadn't cried in so long. There'd been so many tears in the beginning, when she first learned she was trapped here. She'd wept rivers of tears then. Both in her true life and in the one she led now. Then the day came when there were no more left to shed.

These days she only wanted happiness.

And she'd felt such joy at Castle Bane since the arrival of the raven-haired beauty.

She knew the young chief wanted her. And when he'd kissed the maid - with true passion and not the brazen conquest of her own Mac-Conacher - she'd shimmered so brightly with the thrill of it that Lady Arabella had seen her.

Under different circumstances, she'd be filled with delight that it was so. She wanted so much for them to know of her. To be aware that she wished them all goodness.

But Arabella had screamed.

And her cry shattered their magic.

Asa swept away another sparkling tear as she watched Arabella staring out the window. The sadness on her face hurt her. Yet she was sure Darroc was only running scared. Soon he'd be kissing the lass again, and with even more heat. As an accomplished flirt in her own day, back at her father's court and before Rhun snatched her away, she knew how to read men.

Darroc loved Arabella.

Soon all would be well with them.

Just not for her.

And that was another reason for her tears. She knew he didn't mean to hurt her, but she wished the young chief hadn't mentioned her father and Scalloway. He'd been right. Her longing for both was why she'd chosen the north window to make her marks.

And unlike the young couple she knew would soon find such bliss, she could never return to Shetland.

Not even if she knew how to do so.

Her father would shun her if she did.

And that broke her heart.

Castle Bane was absolutely quiet when Arabella awoke on the morning of Geordie Dhu's final day of sea prophesying. For nearly a sennight, the magnificent-bearded cook and self-proclaimed storm wizard had sought and studied a variety of weather omens. Now, on this bitter cold morn, he'd vowed to make his final assessment as to whether the morrow would prove a propitious day for a sea journey to Olaf Big Nose's neighboring isle.

An air of excitement had been building all week and now, seized by the sense of festive anticipation, everyone had risen early to hasten down to the boat strand to hear Geordie Dhu's prediction.

Everyone, that is, except Arabella.

Her blood, too, raced with exhilaration. But it wasn't Geordie Dhu's ability to read the sea that saw her in such high spirits.

It was the castle's stillness.

She'd been waiting for such a moment and now that it was here, she just hoped that nothing would happen to spoil it for her. Half fearing something would, she kept one ear trained on the silence as she rushed through her morning ablutions.

Moraig had kindly given her a generous supply of her special gillyflower soap and Arabella now dipped her fingers in the round little jar and hurried to finish washing before ice formed on the water in her basin.

She hadn't felt such cold since arriving at Castle Bane.

Shivering, she dried as quickly as she could. She combed and braided her hair even faster. Satisfied, she grabbed one of her newly sewn table linen gowns and practically leapt into it. For good measure, she swirled Darroc's plaid around her shoulders, securing its voluminous folds with Moraig's borrowed silver brooch.

Then she stood still and listened.

Nothing stirred.

Outside, a weak sun was just rising, while a sharp wind heralded more cold yet to come. At some point before daybreak, someone had crept into the room and lit two of the hanging crusie lamps. These flickered softly, filling the air with a tinge of smoky fish oil. Several new bricks of peat smoldered in the grate, that earthy sweet smell much more pleasing than the slightly rank odor of fish oil.

Arabella angled her head, straining to catch any other noises. She heard only the rustle of the floor rushes when she shifted her feet. Except for the hiss of the crusies and the occasional popping of a peat brick, all was quiet.

Most importantly, none of the usual morning commotion rose up from the hall.

Nor were there any footsteps outside her door or in the stair tower.

It was time.

Heart thumping, she flashed one last glance around the room just to be sure she hadn't missed anyone's silent presence. Then she went purposely to the bed and slid questing fingers beneath the mattress, quickly withdrawing two neatly stitched drawstring pouches.

Her knees could have jellied as soon as she clutched them in her hands. It wasn't every day, after all, that she sewed things meant to hold pilfered goods. But she steeled herself against any twinges of guilt and shoved the pouches into a fold of her borrowed plaid.

Then she took a deep breath and slipped from the room.

She reached Castle Bane's kitchens without incident and with great speed, considering. But she hesitated on the threshold to Geordie Dhu's sacred domain.

She'd never stolen anything in her life and she prayed her reasons justified doing so now.

She needed grain and honey for the Seal Isles' Giving Stone.

Hopefully she'd be able to procure a skin of the required fresh milk from one of the women at Olaf Big Nose's settlement.

For now...

She eased the two linen pouches out of her plaid and stepped into the huge vaulted kitchens. The smell of wood smoke lay heavy on the chill air, as did lingering traces of last night's roasted meats. Her mouth watered and her empty stomach gurgled loudly, but she couldn't allow time to look for a spare morsel to eat.

With Geordie Dhu down on the boat strand, the kitchens lay in deep shadow.

Across the vast space, two double-arched fireplaces took up nearly one entire wall. Wood embers glowed there, the cook fires smoored but not yet burning. And no one had bothered to light any of the wall torches.

Even squinting, she could hardly see in the gloom.

She pushed her braids over her shoulders, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

The last thing she needed was to collide with some massive oaken table or whatnot and hurt her still recovering leg. Such would be a fitting penance for dipping into Geordie Dhu's precious stores.

So she moved forward carefully, taking light steps on the kitchen's cold stone-flagged floor. She managed only a few paces before almost bumping into an iron-bound strongbox. The chest, secured with a heavy lock, surely held Geordie Dhu's spices or perhaps the keep's supply of beeswax and tapers. Ignoring the chest, she skirted several wicker creels brimming with onions and dried wild carrots, the pungent smell making her nose wrinkle.

She didn't care about vegetables.

What she wanted was to find the larders.

If Geordie Dhu's kitchens were anything like those at Eilean Creag, there'd be a walk-through somewhere. A corridor flanked with storerooms and butteries that linked the work areas with the great hall.

She bit her lip and looked around, straining to see in the dimness.

Thanks to her mother's insistence that she learn every nuance of running a large household - including the toil of the kitchens - she quickly found the narrow stone-walled passage she needed.

She paused at its entrance to glance over her shoulder, then tried the first door on her right. It opened easily, so she nipped inside, wishing she'd dared to carry a hand torch as the icy cold larder proved darker than pitch. But as soon as she took a deep breath, she could have wept with relief. For once, the gods were kind.

The sweet, rich scent of heather honey flooded the tiny room.

Shivering with cold and nerves, she felt along the chilly stone wall until her fingers reached the edge of shelving. Rows and rows of shelves lined with earthenware jars in every imaginable size.