The Frost Maiden's Kiss (3 page)

The older man’s lips tightened at the reminder. “But still, I would have forbidden the journey in my lord’s place.”

“My lady was not to be refused in this,” Catriona reminded him. “She wished so much to see her family.”

“And why not a year hence, when she can show them a healthy babe?” Ruari clicked his teeth and the two palfreys took that as encouragement to increase their pace. “There is no understanding the whim of a woman, that much is certain.”

Catriona bit her tongue, guessing readily why the lady would see her kin before she labored to bring her child to light. Daughter of a midwife, she had witnessed more than her share of sorry endings.

“Why is it only women who have whims?” asked Mairi. She was the eldest of the laird’s children and had seen ten summers. Astrid at eight summers, Catherine at five and William at three were all asleep, nestled around Catriona. Swaddled in Catriona’s arms was the infant Euphemia, even at a year of age as serene a babe as ever drew breath. Catriona wondered whether she would be able to bear the company of these sweet children after giving her own child away.

She dared not think of it, not now.

Mairi crawled forward, remaining low against the rocking rhythm of the cart, and seized Ruari’s knee. “You never speak of a man with a whim, Ruari.” This child could say whatsoever she willed to the gruff servant and never hear a sharp word in reply.

There was the truth of his measure. Children instinctively trusted those with no violence in them.

“Because it is not natural,” Ruari replied with rare patience. “Men have plans and schemes, while women have desires and whims.”

Mairi frowned. “Is that so, Catriona? I have plans!”

Ruari snorted at that.

“Indeed, I believe both men and women can have all of those things,” Catriona said. She liked this one’s curiosity well. Mairi was a pretty child and forthright in nature. Catriona suspected she would give some man a merry chase in coming years and ensure her father grew a clutch of silver hairs.

“But women show the mark of whim and desire,” Ruari insisted, sparing a glance for Catriona’s rounded belly.

Catriona held his gaze, unrepentant for what was not her fault. “Regardless of whose whim and desire it was that planted the seed.”

Ruari’s lips tightened before he turned back to the road, his gaze fixed upon the laird and lady riding ahead of them.

“What do you mean by that, Catriona?” Mairi asked.

Ruari was silent for once, doubtless glad to leave her to reply to this query. “A babe grows in a woman’s belly much as a sprout grows in the soil,” Catriona said, touching her belly. “We talk of both coming from a seed.”

“But it is God’s will to make a babe, just as He makes a seed.”

“And it is God’s will to make both sprout and child grow.”

Mairi sat back with a frown to consider this. Ruari gave Catriona an assessing look, one that she was not inclined to ignore. She knew well enough that men were quick to judge and had learned that the appearance of weakness only invited trouble.

She fixed a look upon him and let challenge fill her tone. “What is amiss, Ruari? Do you find my teachings incorrect? Perhaps you would care to answer Mairi’s question?”

“There is naught amiss with your reply,” he said gruffly, the back of his neck turning a ruddy hue. “I simply find myself amazed that you should be its source.”

“Why?” Mairi asked, ever curious.

“This is not a matter for children,” Ruari said sternly.

Mairi was untroubled by this. “Can I hold the reins?”

“Nay, that is not for children either.”

“But when shall we
be
there?” Mairi asked.

“Perhaps Ruari might grace us with a tale.” Catriona dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, one that the older man would surely hear. “Particularly if you ask it of him. I know he likes to grant your wishes.”

Ruari’s snort this time was one of amusement.

Mairi’s entreaty was enough to melt a heart of stone. “Ruari? Would you tell us a tale? Please?”

“Indeed, I would.” Ruari smiled at Mairi’s evident satisfaction. Contrary to his earlier refusal, he lifted her to sit before him. He let her hold the reins, her smaller hands covered by his callused ones. “It is a tale of your father and mother, and one I lived when first I traveled through these parts.”

“So you know it to be true.”

“Indeed. I witnessed it all. Your father came to Kinfairlie in search of a bride, for he had heard that the Laird of Kinfairlie sought to see his sisters wed.”

Catriona listened closely, for it would not be all bad to know more of her host and hostess at Kinfairlie, before asking them so great a favor.

“But my father had a wife, for she was my mother.”

“Nay, your mother, Beatrice, had died, or so your father believed.”

Catriona blinked at this, but Ruari hastened on. She would not have imagined that the Laird of Blackleith was one to see only his own advantage, but she had heard that he had killed his own brother. Were all men so violent in ensuring their desires met?

Ruari continued. “And though your father had you and Astrid to grace his days, he desired a son, as well. He wished to secure his holding of Blackleith, and a man has need of a son for that.”

Mairi made a face at that. “I cannot see why.”

“Because it is so.”

“So, he came to Uncle Alexander because he wished to wed my mother, the lady Vivienne.”

Ruari made a choking sound then and fell silent. Catriona’s curiosity was piqued. That would have been a feat for a man who already had a wife.

Mairi continued with the tale as she saw it must be. “And so Uncle Alexander agreed, and they were wed, and then came Catherine and William and Euphemia.”

“That is one way to tell of it,” Ruari acknowledged, his voice tight. Catriona wondered at his discomfiture. Was it possible his own lord fell short of Ruari’s moral measure?

She had no opportunity to prod him for details, for Lady Vivienne gave a cry of delight that carried even to the cart.

“Look!” that lady shouted and pointed to the coast on their left.

Smoke rose from what looked to be a new structure, and Catriona could see tents both inside and outside what might have been a protective hedge. She eased to the front of the cart to see better. The tall and square tower was on a point of land that jutted into the sea, and beyond it, the water sparkled as if it were spread with jewels.

Though it was a fine keep, Catriona did not see the reason for her lady’s joy.

“It cannot be,” Laird Erik said, slowing his steed.

Ruari, for his part, had paled.

“It is! It
must
be!” Lady Vivienne replied with enthusiasm. “This can only mean that Malcolm is home!” She did not wait for any reply but gave her steed her spurs. Her black stallion leapt forward, the massive beast leaving the path to charge toward the distant keep.

Who was Malcolm that his return created such a different response between lady and laird? And how could one know at a glance that he was returned?

The land was uneven where the lady set her course, and if there was a road toward this new structure, Catriona could not see it. The laird swore more thoroughly than Catriona had ever heard him speak and gave chase, his own black destrier racing after the first. The horses leapt over the uneven ground, seeming to revel in the opportunity to gallop freely. “Vivienne!” the laird roared, but his lady only laughed and raced onward.

Ruari swore in his turn, urging the palfreys to leave the road. “Whim and desire,” he fairly spat, then lifted Mairi from his lap. Catriona took the girl and urged her to sit beside her. “Women are cursed with it, that much is clear.” He shook his head with evident disgust and visibly gritted his teeth.

The cart lurched from side to side as it rolled onto barren fields. How could the land not been cultivated in recent years if the keep was so fine? Indeed, the fields were not tilled even now and it was nigh midsummer. From whence came the laird’s income? Catriona’s curiosity multiplied, even as she held all of the children close. William began to cry, and no wonder, for he awakened suddenly to find the cart being pitched back and forth. Astrid was also awake and clutched Catriona’s skirts, and even good-natured Euphemia gave a wail of protest. Despite the terrain, Ruari was trying to keep pace with their laird and lady, a choice which terrified the children.

Catriona felt her stomach churn. “Ruari, I beg of you! Please slow the horses! The land is too rough!”

The older man spared a glance at the dismayed children and reluctantly did as she requested. “Ravensmuir,” he muttered. “I would willingly follow my laird to any corner of this earth, save Ravensmuir, yet this is the second time I am headed to that foul place, and worse, we must hasten toward it. I suppose it is no great price to me to slow our arrival to that cursed holding.”

“Why is it foul?” Mairi asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“And cursed besides?” Astrid asked.

“Because it is a place of great wickedness,” Ruari replied with resolve. “A haven for sorcerers and a keep of ill-repute besides. That is why it lies in ruins, and the hall itself crashed into the sea.”

“But it is not ruined,” Catriona felt compelled to observe. She could see the crenellated roof now and wondered if any watched their approach from that vantage point. “Indeed it looks most fine.”

“Then the keep has been rebuilt with witchery,” Ruari replied darkly. “Upon that you can rely.”

Although the clouds seemed to have gathered over this new hall, and the dark sky did give it the appearance of a sorcerer’s den, it clearly had been built by men’s hands. Catriona eyed the large camp of workmen, their tents spilling from inside the encircling hedge to spread into the fields to the north. Dust rose from the new hall and she could hear hammering as well as men shouting to each other as they worked.

“It looks to have been built with hard labor and likely at considerable expense,” she could not help but observe.

“And whence came that coin?” Ruari demanded, giving voice to her own question. “Conjured out of naught, no doubt, like the fortunes left by the Fae.” He snapped his fingers. “These workers shall return home to find their purses filled with dried leaves.”

His notion was so unlikely that Catriona could not keep from laughing. “You are fanciful, Ruari! The Fae are but the stuff of children’s tales.”

“Not here.” He granted her a grim look. “I have been to Ravensmuir before, as you have not. Mark my words, Catriona. No good can come of this place, I swear it to you, and less good from Malcolm returned.”

The older man was so convinced that a shiver slid down Catriona’s spine.

Who
was
this Malcolm?

* * *

Faster, faster, ever faster.

Ravensmuir’s new hall was being constructed at amazing speed. In just two days, whatsoever was undone would be left undone. Midsummer’s Eve was six days away and Malcolm would ensure that no other souls were in peril when his was collected. He would pay the masons on Saturday and see them on their way. The more of Ravensmuir that was built by Saturday, the greater the legacy he could leave.

If Ravensmuir stood tall again, he would leave a legacy of merit.

Before Midsummer’s Eve, after the masons were gone, Malcolm would go to Kinfairlie and choose an heir from the ranks of his nephews, just as Tynan had done before him. When he was gone, all would be in order for Ravensmuir to thrive again.

Malcolm only wished he might have lived to see the holding fully restored.

But that Midwinter Night with the Fae had changed all.

During the winter, knowing that speed was of import, he had sent missives south and contracted with masons, far and wide. They had arrived even before the first breath of spring, their chisels and shovels at the ready, their wagons burdened with apprentices and supplies. They had pitched tents on the fields of Ravensmuir and started to dig the foundations of the new keep. Apprentices had foraged stones from the fallen keep, when they could do so without peril, and repositioned them further inland where the ground was stable. Masons had sent for more stones and timber besides, all of it arriving steadily at the site. The masons and their apprentices had been accompanied by smiths and ironmongers, woodworkers and laborers.

Alexander had been the first to see the smoke rising from the mens’ fires. He had arrived quickly, saying that he had feared brigands had taken up residence in the ruins.

He did not smile when Malcolm said his conclusion was not far wrong.

The brothers’ reunion had neither been warm nor of prolonged duration. Although Alexander expressed his relief to see Malcolm hale, still Malcolm knew his older brother disapproved of his decision to become a mercenary. Alexander had eyed Rafael with uncertainty, a telling reminder that Malcolm’s older brother had never left England’s shores, much less met a warrior born in Spain who had fought Saracens.

Rafael, predictably, had done little to improve the exchange. He called Malcolm by his nickname, Hellhound, which sent Alexander promptly back to Kinfairlie.

Within a day of Alexander’s visit, Malcolm had Ravensmuir’s seal and signet ring again, the marks of his legacy that he had entrusted to Alexander’s care.

He had not seen his brother or family since.

Alexander, however, had not been Malcolm’s sole visitor, though he preferred to not think about the demands of the Earl of Douglas.

Malcolm had contracted with the brewster and the baker in Kinfairlie to have ale and bread delivered at intervals for the men as the work continued. By May, the walls had been rising on the great hall, with the dungeons complete beneath. By June, the solar on the floor above the great hall had been roofed, and the treasury secured. Malcolm had breathed relief when he had turned the key in that lock. Work then had begun on the wing to the north that would contain the kitchens with additional sleeping chambers above. The portcullis salvaged from the ruins of old Ravensmuir had been installed anew this past week, and a gatehouse was being finished to close the sole gap in the great thorned hedge. The sky hung dark with clouds yet again on this day, threatening rain that had yet to fall. The air was close and humid, the wind hot.