The Enchantress (3 page)

Her eyes were fixed on his face, and when he glanced at them, he could see the anger blazing in their depths. She slapped his hand away from her face, and he sent a silent prayer of relief heavenward. He didn’t need to be touching that face right now.

Rising to his feet, the Highlander took a step back. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her slender back as she leaned over the water, washing her face and drinking from the icy brook.

A long moment passed. The woman was kneeling beside the water, tidying her hair with her back to him. Suddenly William realized she must be cold. Striding across the loose gravel, he was reaching down to pick up her cloak when another thought struck him. Despite being a captive for months and despite what he’d gone through to save her life, she was still no more than a pampered court lady. And an English one, even worse!

“Are you a madman?”

She was standing up and facing him, her hands on her hips and eyes flashing. He threw the cloak at her, and she caught it. Yanking it around her shoulders, she quickly fastened the ties at her throat. She looked like a warrior donning armor for battle.

“Mad? Nay, I am a Ross.”

The anger in her gaze flickered with uncertainty, a frown replacing the glare for just an instant before a very tantalizing half smile broke out on the corner of her lips. Shaking her head slightly, she turned away, using the corner of her cloak to dry her face. It took great willpower on his part not to close the distance between them and take over the task himself. If she was not who she was, he would easily give up a night’s sleep kissing away those droplets, drying each glistening bead with the soft touch of his mouth.

“I don’t know enough of the clans and the ways of you Highlanders. Am I to understand that being a madman and being a Ross are the same thing?”

“Mind your tongue.”

She carefully tucked a loose strand of hair into her braid and glanced at him, catching him staring. He scowled at her and looked over at his horse.

“Why did you take me from the village?”

“I--I did not
take
you. I rescued you.” He shook his head and cast a quick look at her, grumbling, “Most likely saved your life.”

She rolled her eyes in disbelief and pulled the heavy hood over her hair.

“Och,” William uttered under his breath. He was a fool to think she’d actually appreciate what he had done. “‘Twas not my choosing to come after you. And if you give me trouble, woman...”

“Do you intend to do me harm?”

The Highlander grunted an obscenity and, turning around, whistled for his horse. “So like the rest of them!”

“The rest of whom?”

“The rest of your type! Selfish! That’s the whole lot of you. ‘Tis bred into you and nurtured at every turn. And ungrateful, too. You’ll bite the hand that feeds you! Of that I’ve no doubt.”

“Ungrateful?”

He led his horse back to the brook. He could hear her approaching behind him. Ignoring her, he crouched down beside his horse and started rinsing off the steed’s shoulder and leg.

“I’m supposed to be grateful because you turned a peaceful market square into a battleground in a matter of moments? Because you took me, against my will, from the people who--?”

“I am finished talking to you, woman. The sooner I’m rid of you, the better.” He stood up beside the horse. “If you give your word to behave, I’ll let you ride behind me this time. Gilbert is no doubt thinking I--”

The blow to his head was sharp and heavy, and William stumbled forward against his horse. The flashes of a thousand suns exploded in front of his eyes, but the Highlander half turned in an attempt to see the woman behind him.

“Wh...yer...message...”

He tried to take a step toward her as she swung the rock again. He watched, unable to lift his arm and ward off the blow.

“Sis...ter.”

And then, suddenly, he was falling. The woman disappeared from his sight. The flashing suns disappeared. Even the gravel of the streambed disappeared, and an abyss opened beneath him, as black and silent as a grave.

“She may be the gentlest creature I’ve ever known.” The old nun pursed her wrinkled lips. “She is certainly the smartest and the most agreeable woman her age I’ve ever met.
Oui
, I tell you, Laura Percy was an angel sent from God above to help us in a time of greatest need.”

The wiry, squint-eyed monk motioned to the three burly Lowlanders to remain in the corridor as he followed the aging nun into the cold work room. Peering critically about the sparsely furnished room, the clergyman’s gaze came to rest on the tiny fire burning in the hearth.

The nun gestured toward a pair of low three-legged stools set by the hearth, and the monk wordlessly removed a small basket filled with spools of fine colored thread from one. The old woman sat on the other and picked up a stretcher of half-embroidered linen, waiting for the monk to continue.

“So then, it must be at least three months that she’s been here.”

She nodded. “She arrived here at a most critical time. I had been bedridden with the flux for days. My own nuns were distraught at the thought of me dying and leaving them to fend for themselves. What with our little bit of planted ground ready for harvest, and the linens we’d completed needing to be taken to harvest markets-- ‘twas all too much for them, I’m afraid. And then...well, suffice it to say that we were in great, great need.”

The monk idly picked up a rough-cut block of peat from the floor beside the hearth and examined it. “I assume she arrived by boat?”

“
Oui
,” she said in response, her hands deftly working the intricate design with her needle. “I was far too ill to notice, but from what my nuns have told me, the same storm that flattened our flax field beside the storage shed brought her to us. ‘Twas a fierce storm, they tell me, and the ship bringing Laura north was forced to take shelter here at Loch Fleet rather than try to make the journey back into Fearnoch Firth. Of course, I did not learn of the details until I began to recover weeks later. By the grace of God, Laura simply took over, calming my nuns and managing to bring about order again. Why, the child even took charge of my care.”

The mother superior’s hands paused in their rapid movements, and her dark eyes focused on the monk.

“Some of my nuns believe that ‘twas their prayers that directed the storm’s winds--and that ship bearing Laura--to our little bit of coast.”

The monk stared at the woman a moment, and then threw the block of peat into the fire.

“Aye, no doubt,” he growled. “And you say you are expecting her back anytime now?”

“
Oui
.” The woman’s busy hands returned to their work. “Before dark, to be sure. But first, I must tell you as much as I can about all the good deeds that Laura Percy has done around here. Since you have the privilege of escorting her back to her mother, I want you to have all the details. You must compliment Lady...Lady...what was her name again?”

“Percy!” the monk grunted, tossing another block of peat on the fire.

“But wasn’t she a Scottish lass? From what Laura has said...”

“Aye, Nichola
Erskine
Percy. She is Scottish.”

“
Oui
! Lady Erskine!” The nun nodded agreeably, ignoring the growing note of irritation evident in the monk’s tone. “She has done a very fine job of raising her daughter.”

The monk came restlessly to his feet and walked to the small window that looked out over the road from Fearnoch. “I’ll tell Lady Nichola.”

“Laura has a gift, I believe, for managing things. All it takes her is one look at things and then--”

“How many went to Fearnoch with her this day?”

The nun paused, surprised at the monk’s question. “Ah! Well, you are correct in assuming that we don’t send her there all alone. With our little Convent of St. Agnes on the road from Rumster Castle, I could see no sense in risking her life. I simply asked a favor of Sir Walter, our benefactor, and he happily agreed to it.”

“What kind of favor?” The monk half turned toward the nun, rubbing his hand over his grizzled chin.

“The favor of an escort on market days, of course. Since Laura is half English...and a pretty thing, at that...” The nun’s hands paused again mid-stitch. “I thought it best for everyone involved. From what I hear, Sir Walter’s men have become quite protective of her over these months. With so many rogues traveling along these coasts, ‘tis quite important to protect a thing as precious as our Laura.”

The monk nodded and, frowning, turned his attention back to the window and the road beyond. The shadows were lengthening rapidly.

“The only complaints that I hear, every now and then, is that our Laura likes to take her time when she goes to Fearnoch. Did I tell you that she is really good at--”

“You did,” the monk interrupted bluntly and turned again toward the nun. “Did she arrive here with many possessions?”

“Possessions? Nay, not our Laura.”

“How much? A trunk?”

The nun paused suspiciously for a long moment before finally nodding with understanding. “Of course. In taking her back, you need to know of--”

“How much, woman?”

“So little,” the nun blurted, appalled. “Nothing that would require a trunk. She had only a small traveling bag.”

“And that contained what?”

“Personal items. Necessities. Nothing more.” The nun stopped abruptly and then glared in annoyance at the monk. “I don’t believe the contents of Mistress Laura's traveling bag are anyone’s--”

“Since she has been here, has she received anything from her mother?”

“Her mother?” she asked, surprised, before shaking her head. “Nay. I believe that she does get lonely every now and th--”

“So she hasn’t heard anything from the mother.”

The monk’s sharp tone again caused the nun to pause in mid-stitch. “That is correct. She has not. You are the first to bring any news of her from the Borders.”

“Or from her sisters? Has she received anything from them?” He stepped into the middle of the room. “A message? Or perhaps...a package?”

“A package?” The nun’s eyes narrowed in concern. In an abrupt motion she rose to her feet, dropping her work into the basket on the floor. “I don’t believe I care for these questions. In fact, I think I’ve already revealed more than I should. I certainly have no wish to confide anything Laura would want to tell you herself.”

“Was there a package?”

“Laura will be here soon enough herself. If she wishes, she can answer any other questions that you have. For now, you may remain here where ‘tis comfortable and warm. I, however, must go to see to it that there is enough to feed you all.”

The monk stepped between the aging nun and the doorway, blocking her exit.

“
Was
there a package?” The cleric’s face was dark and threatening. “If you will not answer, I am certain I could call in one of your other nuns and get the answers I seek.”

The woman set her jaw obstinately. “I am in charge of this convent. Now, I don’t know what kind of behavior is acceptable in the Borders--or wherever ‘tis you come from--but here you have no right to speak this way.”

“Remember that I have been sent by--”

The nun held up her hand sharply, silencing the surprised monk as her eyes continued to blaze.

“For someone put in a position of trust by this young woman’s kin, you certainly disappoint me. Now, sit back down by that fire...and compose yourself. I’ll send Laura to you as soon as she returns from Fearnoch.”

With a curt nod of dismissal, the mother superior of the Convent St. Agnes stepped nimbly around the monk and swept out of the room.

****

“What about my sister?” Dropping the rock into the sand and gravel, Laura knelt beside the sprawling body of the unconscious Highlander and poked his shoulder with one finger. Getting no response, she shook him. “What were you trying to say about my sister? Which sister?”

There was no answer. Perhaps she hit him too hard, she thought. Moving quickly around to the other side, she peered carefully at the face speckled with sand and pebbles. Laura carefully brushed away some sand that was clinging to the man’s long eyelashes. Cautiously, she pressed her hand against the side of the warrior’s throat. She could feel the blood pulsing beneath the taut skin, but his face had taken on an ashen hue. He looked none too healthy.

Feeling through the thick waves of dark chestnut-colored hair for a lump--or two--she drew back involuntarily when her fingers encountered the warm wetness of blood on his scalp. Parting the hair, Laura bit her lip at the size of the gash that she’d given him.

Drawing from her sleeve the finely embroidered kerchief that the mother superior had given her as a token of gratitude, Laura dabbed the gash gently. In a moment the snow white linen was crimson with his blood.

Looking about her at the surrounding groves of pine as she rinsed out the kerchief in the icy stream, Laura considered her next move.

She’d delivered the blow, certain that the man must be in the service of vile Sir Arthur Courtney...or another of the English king’s deputy lieutenants. Certainly, the Tudor coin he had been tossing around when he first dragged her out of the market square had hinted as much.

But now, looking at the insensible creature lying beside her--vulnerable and injured--Laura began to have misgivings about her earlier assumptions.

What had he said? she thought. He had somehow been under the impression that she needed to be rescued. But rescued from whom, she wondered? And then, his final words before...well, before passing out. Laura was sure he’d said the words "message" and "sister"!

It
was
conceivable that Catherine or even Adrianne had indeed hired this man to bring her a message. It was also conceivable that, seeing her in the company of those Sinclair warriors, the man thought that she needed help. Suddenly, Laura began to feel a bit queasy.

He’d said he was a Ross. Looking at the red and black weave of his tartan, she’d learned enough about the Sinclairs’ rival clan to recognize it. The Ross clan controlled huge tracts of land to the south and west of Fearnoch. And from what she’d gathered from the Sinclairs, the two clans had been feuding over the lands to the north of Fearnoch Firth since the dark days of the Viking marauders. Quickly, she untied the scabbard of his sword from his belt and laid it aside with the man’s dirk.