The Firebrand (12 page)

“Perhaps ‘twould be best if Makyn here showed you to the antechamber of his own apartments, mistress.” Bege nodded to the same serving lass who had helped her to dress earlier. “He uses it as a work room of sorts.”

Adrianne nodded. “That would be very helpful.”

Bege lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Sir Wyntoun even has books that he keeps there.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

At Adrianne’s request not to pass through the Great Hall, the serving woman led her silently down the spiral staircase through a maze of corridors, past locked storerooms and stalls filled with great casks. Finally, they climbed another spiral staircase into a newer building.

Adrianne knew they must be in the wing that extended past the Great Hall. This east wing, obviously newer than the Great Hall, appeared to be a mirror image of the section of the keep where the laird’s apartments were located—and where she had been given a room herself.

As she peered down the torchlit corridors, Adrianne could see great attention had been paid to maintain a sense of symmetry and complement the original design of the keep.

“Makyn, what is located on the floor above?”

“Two bedchambers, mistress. Same as the west wing.”

Adrianne hesitated by the stairwell.

“Sir Wyntoun’s apartments are this way, mistress.”

Adrianne nodded and followed the other woman. As Makyn opened the door into the anteroom, though, the two women were both surprised to find the laird’s son standing by the small fireplace. Makyn curtsied and departed, closing the door behind her.

“You are...already here.”

“Aye.” His eyes flashed in the light of fire and candle. His handsome face, chiseled as an ancient statue, showed no emotion. No one man had a right to be this handsome, she thought, fighting her own jittery response to Wyntoun MacLean. She tore her gaze away from his face, staring instead at the ornate brooch that held the tartan at his shoulder. She glanced from the brooch to the painted shield hanging above the hearth and then back again at the colored gemstones on the intricately jeweled brooch.

Both depicted a red fist clutching a blue cross.

A blue cloth fringed with gold hung behind the shield above the hearth. Something clicked in her memory. Something from her childhood.

“‘Tis the same design…my brooch and the shield.” He spoke quietly, drawing her gaze. “You sent word that you wished to see me.”

Adrianne rubbed her damp palms on the wool of her skirt and nodded curtly before looking away. She thought back on Lady Mara’s words.

This wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be. Walk in, say what she had to say, and be done with it. That had been her plan...such as it was. Granted, she had always been known more for her impulsiveness than her planning, but she needed to clear this situation up as quickly as possible. Or, at least, before he secured her an escort to the Highlands.

Now, feeling his piercing gaze on her face, she was struggling even to find her voice, never mind remember exactly how she’d wanted to word this.

This was his fault, damn him! It had been so much easier dealing with Wyntoun MacLean when she’d thought he was just another thieving villain.

“I assume you’ve found your quarters comfortable.”

She gave a small nod, realizing that he was trying to help her. Small talk. That’s it. Start slow. She turned away and sat in a nearby chair and placed her hands demurely in her lap. She let her gaze wander about the anteroom. She looked at the furnishings, the tapestries on the wall. Even the books. Every detail, large and small, received her attention.

She looked at everything but him.

“This chamber is quite beautiful. The entire wing is a very pleasing addition to the rest of Duart Castle. Lady Mara mentioned that you oversaw the building of this section yourself.”

“What do you want, Adrianne?”

The devil take him. He was
not
helping her. She snapped her gaze back to him and found him leaning one broad shoulder against the hearth. Muscular arms crossed over his chest.

“This cannot be a friendly visit?”

He shook his head. “I do not believe so.”

“How can you be so certain? You know so little about me.”

The hint of a smile actually broke out on his lips, and suddenly she thought ‘handsome’ was no longer a sufficient word to describe the man.

“I know much more about you than you are aware of.”

She let out a groan and rose to her feet. “I forgot. My sister Laura. You spent some time with her.”

“The letters that I had sent up to you earlier said as much, did they not?”

This time she was the one who smiled. It had been so wonderful to read them.

She looked up to find Wyntoun gazing at her with a somewhat different expression. The intensity in those green eyes fired up that strange heat in her body, and she quickly looked away.

“They did. Thank you for sending the letters up to me.”

He moved away from the hearth and walked to a desk where a candle gleamed on an inkhorn, a goose quill, an assortment of other tools of a scribe, and a number of sheets of vellum.

“You do understand that your sister Catherine’s letter did not reach you earlier because no ships generally brave the winter seas to go to Barra. After being asked to come after you by Laura and William Ross, I came across one of the earl of Athol’s messengers. The poor fellow might have had to wait until spring to find a boat going to Barra.”

“I understand.” She watched him move behind his desk, putting as much distance as possible in between them.

“I have already arranged for a group to depart by the end of the week for Balvenie Castle.”

Damn, he was efficient. Say it, she urged herself. Say it! But different words spewed out. “Considering we only arrived this morning, that is quite... expeditious.”

One eyebrow arched momentarily, but he quickly seated himself behind the desk and glanced down at the sheet of vellum. “I could have arranged for you to leave sooner, but I assumed that you would need some time to recover from the journey from Barra...”

She squared her shoulders, stepping forward until she stood directly across the desk from him. He was clearly losing interest in this discussion. Her time was running out.

“Now, if that is all you wanted to see me about--”

Adrianne leaned forward and planted her palms on his desk. Wyntoun’s gaze snapped up from his correspondence, fixing on her face.

“What is it?” he asked, his expression showing his surprise.

“I need you to marry me.”

***

The wooden pitcher hit the floor with a loud thud and bounced several times before rolling to its side and coming to rest.

“You cannot hear!” Nichola’s blue eyes flashed with understanding. To confirm her insight, she picked up the pitcher and again threw it with all her force against the floor. But again there was no sign of awareness in the old woman who continued to tend the small peat fire in the corner of the chamber.

“Deaf!” Nichola whispered to herself. Crossing the room, she clapped her hands loudly behind the woman’s head. Not so much as a twitch. “Stone deaf.”

Her mind racing as to how she could use this newfound knowledge, Nichola stood silently as the old woman finished her work with the fire and got slowly to her feet.

Nichola put a hand on the servant’s arm. Startled, the woman hesitated, but the bowed back never straightened. Inquisitive eyes never peered out from the shadows of the hood of her cloak.

“You cannot hear me, can you?”

Again, she received no response from the servant except a gentle pull to free herself from Nichola’s grip. She gently reached over and pushed back the servant’s hood.

Nichola forced herself not to recoil at the sight of the woman’s face. Age and disease had both left their mark, though disease clearly had left the deeper scars.

The servant’s gaze never lifted from the floor as Nichola gently drew the hood back in place.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered softly.

Before the woman could move, however, Nichola gestured for her to wait. Taking an intricately carved wooden cross from around her neck, she looped it quickly over the old servant’s head.

Nichola crouched down to pick up the pitcher, and the old woman shuffled to the door. But as the door opened a little to let the servant out, she could have sworn that the ancient creature was clasping the cross to her heart.

She was as predictable as the rising sun.

It was difficult to refrain from smiling as she looked down at him, her violet blue eyes so full of hope. The only surprise was how damned near impossible it was not to drag her across that desk and onto his lap. The act of kissing that mouth of hers properly would not be conducive to letting her argue him into consenting.

And that’s what he knew he had to do. Let her think she was convincing him.

“Would you care to say that again?”

“I need you to marry me.” She said it this time with a little more hesitation, with a note of questioning in her tone.

“And what is the reason for this...this somewhat surprising request?”

Adrianne started to straighten up, but he leaned forward and grasped one of her wrists. She froze in place.

“I...I had a talk with Mara earlier.” She casually tried to pull her hand free, but he continued to hold her. “She...mentioned that your father is hoping...that...‘twould be convenient...that I should become wife to the next MacLean.”

“You must have made a better first impression on them than you did on me.”

“Well, I didn’t hold a dagger to anyone’s throat, if that’s what you mean. Let go of me.”

Wyntoun covered his amusement with a frown. “My father has been trying to get me to marry since the day I turned sixteen. In the years since then, it has become a favorite pastime of his.” He could feel the blood pulsing beneath the soft skin of her wrist. “But when I am ready to choose a wife, my father will have no voice in the selection.”

Temper raised a pretty blush in her face and Adrienne tried to pull away, but he continued to hold her captive.

“I appreciate your candor. Now release me.”

“What is wrong, Adrianne? Did you leave your fire on Barra?”

She raised her other hand, her fingers clenched in a fist, but he caught that one, too, as it shot toward his face. Her eyes were flashing as she glared at him across the desk.

“And where is that lively tongue of yours? Don’t disappoint me and tell me you left that behind, as well?”

“You are a bully and a boor to bait me like this while I am a guest at Duart Castle.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “Your father and Lady Mara are decent people. You, clackdish, must have been a foundling...no doubt left behind by the devil, himself, for that tyrant aunt of yours to raise!”

“Mild! Far too mild. You are clearly not yet recovered enough to travel.” He came to his feet and leaned toward her. He saw her swallow hard. “But getting back to your proposal of marriage, what in the world makes you believe that you’re good enough to be wife to a MacLean clan chief?”

“The offer is withdrawn,” she snapped. “I’d forgotten that
you
don’t qualify to be a husband to a Percy!”

Still holding her wrists tightly, he moved around the desk—careful not to come too close to her. Never mind the fact that the woman was quick and cunning—he still had a cut on his throat as proof of that—Wyntoun was too aware of his own aroused condition whenever she was near him.

“Sit!” He pushed her down on the chair and let go of her hands. “Start again...from the beginning.”

“I am finished speaking.”

He abruptly placed both hands on the carved arms of her chair and leaned forward until his mouth was a breath away from hers. Her blue eyes widened in surprise. “From the beginning, Adrianne.”

Time hung suspended between them for a long torturous moment. Wyntoun could almost feel the texture of her lips beneath his own. The taste. He wondered if the inside of her mouth was as soft as the outside. Then, as abruptly as he had approached, he pulled himself away, seating himself on the corner of his desk.

Her chest was rising and falling, and when she spoke, her voice was husky. “But I...I already have your answer...so there is no reason--”

“Talk, Adrianne. You have suggested marriage without giving me your reasons for asking.” He let his eyes travel down her body. “And right now my thoughts are running wild with why you might possibly desire--”

“‘Tis a combination of things! Many things,” she blurted quickly. “The idea of asking you to marry me, that is. What I learned of your background from your father. Then my talk with Mara. And before that...reading those letters from my sisters. I know I am not much of a planner, but everything somehow comes together to recommend it. I truly believe it could work. At least, ‘tis worth trying.”

“Worth trying? Marriage? You would do better to go slowly in explaining yourself, Adrianne.”

She stared down at her hands, two restless creatures that seemed to have a life of their own.

“My sisters,” she started again. “Both are married. From what I’ve read in their letters, they have kept nothing from their husbands. This John Stewart...and William Ross...they apparently know everything of the Percy’s secrets. They seem to know everything about the maps and the Treasure of Tiberius. Even you know more than you should!”

He crossed his arms as she rose to her feet. He watched her pace across the room and knew that this restlessness was so characteristic of her. Aye, restless and impulsive.

“So I thought...for me to go north to Balvenie could take weeks, if not months, considering the winter and the mountains and all. ‘Tis too long and a wasted trip. Taking the time to go there would jeopardize our chances of rescuing my mother.” She pushed back a stray lock of hair that had escaped the thick braid. “And I have another reason for not wanting to go to my sisters right now.”

“And that is...?”

“Once I reach Balvenie Castle, and we have the three maps together, the chance of my sisters and their husbands allowing me to go along with them to get Tiberius and then attempt a rescue of our mother is slight.” She stopped her pacing and met his eyes. “I have to be there. I must be part of it. And that is why when I learned you were...well, the Blade of Barra, it just made sense.”