The Firebrand (25 page)

“He hasn’t been back up here for two nights. The last time was when he carried the lad up to this room…and you know that as well as I do.”

“Aye, but he went after Auld Jean that first night. And Alan stopped by yesterday…in the evening, I think ‘twas…to check on us for Wyntoun.” Adrianne knew the exact length of the Highlander’s absence. Considering everything that had been said between them, though—remembering his appraisal of her failings—she could find no reason to blame him. “He knows that there is nothing he can do beyond what he’s already done. Certainly, he has more important things…”

Mara snorted in a very uncourtly fashion. “Adrianne, you are his newly wedded bride. He should have come to see you a dozen times, if not more.”

“He wished to come,” Adrianne lied. “But I sent word to him that he shouldn’t. I told him I didn’t want anyone disturbing Gillie’s rest. I told him that we shall have all the time in the world to see each other, after...after the lad is better.”

“Aye, you’ll have a lifetime together.”

Although Adrianne nodded her agreement, she was not fooled by the words. Mara’s tone was rife with mockery. The laird’s wife was not easily fooled.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. The young woman stared at the plastered wall above Gillie’s head, trying not to think of Mara’s steady gaze, fixed intently on her. There was a tiny hairline crack in the plaster. The recent whitewash of the plaster did not hide it. As she stared, she imagined the line growing, separating, a chasm forming that showed no light from the outside, only a darkness that threatened to swallow her up forever. She glanced quickly at Mara.

Please. Not now, she prayed silently. Please do not let Mara question me now about this false marriage to Wyntoun.

Adrianne wasn’t sure she had the strength right now to carry on with such a terrible lie.

Mara broke the silence. “I suppose there is nothing I can say or do that would make you follow my advice and get some real rest?”

She glanced gratefully at Mara and shook her head. “I am truly quite well.”

Another long moment passed before the older woman nodded resignedly and rose to her feet. She came around the bed and placed a pale hand on Gillie’s brow. “Still hot to the touch. Auld Jean tells me you are doing everything that can be done, Adrianne. But give him more of that barley water, and I’ll send Bege up with a tray of food for you. And more peat for that fire!”

“I am not hungry at this moment…”

“And I want you to eat it, child!” Mara ordered. “I may allow you to give up a good night’s sleep for one more day, but going without food or nourishment will
not
be tolerated.”

She stood over Adrianne. “Aye, I know that you’ve barely touched anything that I’ve had sent up to you. I am warning you, Adrianne. This time I will be checking the trays myself, so you’d better get something into you or you’ll truly see the extent of my wrath.”

“As you wish, Mara.”

“Bah! And if you think that I believe that...” She pulled her fur collar tighter around her neck and turned haughtily to go. By the doorway, though, she stopped and threw a glance at Adrianne. “By the way, I am having Bess repair the nightshift you wore on your wedding night.”

Adrianne smiled weakly, hoping Mara couldn’t see her blush of embarrassment.

“Some of the serving women are looking forward to the two of you spending more time together.”

Adrianne’s gaze lifted in confusion.

“Aye. Cleaning up your chambers after your wedding night was a source of unrivaled entertainment, I believe.” Mara opened the door but didn’t go through it. “Not all of the lassies share that sentiment, though. That blue-eyed, blond haired wench named Canny seems to have a few other ideas about your husband.”

“I am certain I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mara.”

“Nay? Well then, you might take time to have a few words with the hussy.” “Why?”

“Well, my dear, of all the clan’s women, I believe Canny claims to have seen more of the scars on Wyn’s body than anyone.” Mara stepped through the door. “You might just learn a thing or two from the wench.”

Adrianne turned and stared at the small fire burning in hearth. Suddenly, she felt quite ill.

***

The first golden rays of dawn appeared high on the tower room wall, filtering through wisps of smoke that continued to curl and dance amid the rafters. Nichola watched without joy as the light, shaped by the narrow form of the window, began to work its way downward along the far wall.

The acrid odor of the fire still hung heavily in the room, sickening her. It was the sharp smell of failure. Even the charred floor served as ugly proof of her failed plan. Nichola turned wearily on top of the clean blanket and stared blankly at the dark ceiling.

It was cold. Very cold. But she did nothing to cover herself.

Learning what she had—finding out that her plans for the future of her daughters could be at serious risk—had washed all of the fight out of her. For the first time since her capture, she was feeling the bitter cold barbs of defeat.

A knot formed in her chest, and she lay an arm across her face. She could feel the dampness of her tears, forming and escaping from the corners of her eyes. They scorched her skin as they tracked downward across her temples.

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

How could she have felt that…whatever it was…that had passed between herself and Henry Exton?

She heard the sound of the door at the bottom of the ancient steps. The heavy creak of rusty hinges. More than likely, the mute old woman making her way up the winding steps. This time, though, Nichola didn’t have the energy to sit up. What was the point, she thought, of watching her prison door swing open? It might be the only means of communicating with the outside world, but what was the point?

Nichola had first been introduced to Sir Henry Exton when she herself had been but a young and blushing bride, only recently settled in Yorkshire with Edmund. Sir Henry and
his
newly wedded wife, Elizabeth, had been among the many visitors who had come in those first months. All she remembered now of that visit was the bright cheery face of the young and pregnant Elizabeth…and how attentive and protective she’d thought the handsome English knight had been toward his bride.

Aye, they had been an impressive pair, she remembered thinking. Beauty and strength bound together in a union that was sure to produce the most radiant of offspring.

How young they had all been then, Nichola thought. How curious that her own outlook on life had focused so singularly on the ability to produce heirs! How curious and foolish and young!

After that first visit, she did not see Sir Henry or Elizabeth for several years. Edmund, however, had kept her apprised of the sad events that seemed to batter their two friends unmercifully. Nichola had heard of Elizabeth’s various ailments, of the loss of two bairns—one at birth, the other before reaching the age of four.

As the proud mother of three healthy daughters herself, Nichola had been almost ashamed of her own happiness and good fortune when Elizabeth and Sir Henry had visited their manor house a few years after the loss of their second child.

Nichola’s recollections of this visit were far different from the first.

The loss of the children had proved extremely difficult for the two to bear. Sir Henry had aged—lines of grief, deep and hardened by his warrior’s life, had given him a sterner visage. Elizabeth, however, had simply withered away. Entertaining them for more than a fortnight, Nichola had been greatly distressed by the constant, oppressive melancholy that surrounded the woman. It was clear to see that the husband’s worries centered on his wife’s physical frailties, but from what Nichola could see, Elizabeth’s state of mind was the far more dangerous threat. There was little she could do, though, to cheer her guest.

They had stayed, and then they had gone. In autumn of that same year, Nichola heard of Elizabeth’s death. Neither she nor Edmund were greatly surprised.

Nichola saw much more of Sir Henry in the years following Elizabeth’s death. He visited many times, delighting in the company of her own daughters. The images came back to her even now—Catherine on his knee, listening as she talked. Henry, following Laura through the storage cellars of the manor house, his hands clasped behind his back, his face sternly attentive as she explained how the household’s grains and casks of ale and wine had been organized for the year’s use. Nichola smiled vaguely, thinking of him backed against the courtyard wall, Adrianne’s wooden sword pressed against his heart as he begged for mercy of the toddler.

Though still young, he had never chosen to marry again, and that had in itself impressed her. Instead, Sir Henry appeared to have focused his life on the matters with which her own husband was so involved. Matters of politics pertaining to the English court, covertly struggling against the tyranny of the Lord Chancellor Cardinal Wolsey, fighting valorously and sustaining terrible wounds at the Battle of Spurs, and later traveling to France again to participate in the meeting of kings at the Field of Cloth of Gold.

But that was not all. There were other matters. Clandestine affairs that pertained to the Knights of the Veil.

As close as Nichola and Edmund had been—in marriage and in life—when it came to the secrecy of his beloved group of knightly brothers, Nichola remained an outsider. There was never a time when she was invited or allowed into any of their meetings. There was never a word ever spoken to her about what took place in those gatherings. Loving Edmund as she did, and appreciative of his devotion and love as she was, Nichola had never complained or tried to find out more about these meetings. She knew that the Knights of the Veil were a force for good, and therefore never pressed her husband for more details.

She had held true to this belief for more than twenty years and would have remained that way for the rest of her life, but that was before the wolves came to her door. Everything changed when the king’s henchmen took Edmund from her. Now she had to ensure her daughters’ survival on her own.

But how could she explain away the steps she had taken to safeguard Catherine, Laura, and Adrianne after their father’s arrest? Edmund had been the Keeper of the Map, a position of sacred trust in the order of knights. How could she ever justify the splitting up and dispersing of the maps that told the location of the Treasure of Tiberius?

Nichola knew that the treasure did not belong to her. No matter what she said now—no matter how she tried to justify it—it was clear her actions must surely have been construed as treacherous by the Knights of the Veil.

And this must be the reason why she had been captured and held a prisoner here. But her girls. Catherine was settled now. But what about Laura and Adrianne? Would her plans for them bear fruit as successfully as it had for Catherine?

Nichola Erskine Percy was a Scot by birth and, although she had spent many years in England, her connections were still strong with her native land. And it was from these people that Nichola had chosen the potential husbands for her daughters.

For her dreamer Catherine, the oldest and most scholarly daughter, Nichola had chosen John Stewart, the earl of Athol and the cousin to the king. Athol was an educated man and one, she prayed, who was worldly enough not to be threatened by the learning of his wife.

For her enchantress Laura, Nichola had chosen William Ross, the master of Blackfearn Castle. William’s troubled soul and wayward lifestyle surely offered the perfect challenge for Laura’s problem solving ways.

For her firebrand Adrianne, Nichola had pinned her hopes on Sir Wyntoun MacLean, the Blade of Barra—knight and notorious pirate. It was only with a soul more adventurous than Adrianne’s own that Nichola believed her daughter could find happiness. That the Blade was a member of the Knights of the Veil was an added bounty, of course, and one that Nichola had also considered.

The hinges of the heavy chamber door creaked loudly, and Nichola, shaking herself free of her thoughts, turned her face to the wall.

She could not face her silent keeper right now—especially after what she’d done, endangering the life of the old servant as she had. What would have ever happened if the woman had fallen, or if her old skirts had caught fire? How could she have called for help if Nichola herself had been overcome by the smoke? Shame washed over Nichola. How could she had been so callous to the possible dangers? How could she have been so foolhardy?

She heard the door close, but unlike the past, no familiar shuffling steps passed across the floor. Silence engulfed the room.

Every nerve of her body came alive, but Nichola continued to lie there, staring at the stone wall of her tower prison, listening.

Somehow, she knew who it was, and an undefinable thrill of anticipation swept through her. Nichola pushed herself up, swinging her feet to the floor, and stared at the figure by the door. Her visitor filled the doorway, his burgundy velvet tunic and leggings looked almost black in the dim half-light of dawn.

Aye, she knew him. The relaxed, cat-like stance—balanced and sure, and yet ready to spring at any moment. He was a man who had spent a lifetime in control of his body. Powerful arms crossed a wide chest. She looked up and took in the strong and determined jaw. The weathered skin and the nose—broken who knew how many times—only managed to add character to his handsome face. She met the piercing blue eyes that were watching her with unveiled interest.

She scrambled to her feet and lifted a trembling hand to the neckline of her dress. “Sir Henry.”

“Too many years, Nichola,” the knight whispered, straightening from the door and starting toward her. “I’ve desired you for too many years to let an opportunity like this pass me by.”

***

Alexander MacLean paused at the doorway of his son’s chamber and watched as Wyntoun and Alan pored over the large chart spread out on the table. Listening to the hushed tones and watching them exchange their ideas, he could see the respect and trust that had always been so evident from the time they were lads.