The Knight and the Seer (6 page)

She nodded. “I will. And I’ll find a way to make him believe me.”

“That’s my lass.”
The old man patted her hand and she felt a cool, damp sheen to her flesh, as though brushed by a mist.

She looked over. “I know not your name.”

“Morgan Ross, lass. I was named for my great grandfather, who was said to come from the sea.”

“And I am Gwenellen Drummond.”

“Aye. I know ye’r father, lass. He was here to welcome me when I slipped over to the other side.”

“He was?” Her tone softened. “He passed before I was born, but we’ve had many fine visits.”

“Aye, lass. When I told him I couldna’ rest until I set my son on the right course, he told me not to worry, for he was sending me someone special. Ye mustn’a fail me, Gwenellen Drummond.”

“I’ll do my best, Morgan Ross.”

“What are you doing out here?” A voice, sharp with anger and suspicion, sounded directly behind Gwenellen, causing her to freeze.

A hand closed roughly on her shoulder. “Who the devil are you talking to?”

She turned to see the hilt of a knife glinting in Andrew’s hand, and the dark light of fury in his narrowed gaze.

“It’s as I suspected. You conspire with my enemies. Tell me quickly, woman, who you are meeting under cover of darkness.” He lifted his hand in a menacing gesture. “Before I cut out your lying heart.”

Chapter Five

G
wenellen shrank back, stung by his anger. “I would never betray you to your enemies.”

“You don’t deny that you were talking to someone when I walked up?”

“Aye. I was.” She nodded toward the vision seated on the boulder. “Your father.”

He followed her gaze, then swung back, anger and suspicion visible in his narrowed eyes. “Don’t make sport of me, woman. I’ve neither time nor patience for your foolishness.”

Remembering her promise to his father, she put aside her fear and lifted her head, returning his look. “Your father has a message for you, my lord. And because he can’t speak to you directly, he must speak through me.”

He gave a hiss of impatience and tightened his grasp on the handle of the knife. “Don’t call me by the title lord. I’ve no intention of accepting such an honor, for I was trained as a warrior, not a noble. After seeing the way the nobles behave at Court, I’ve no taste for such a life.”

Gwenellen took a deep breath. “Your father asks that you accept the will of your people. Further, he desires that you remain here, rather than going off to confront your enemies.”

“He does, does he? And what says he of his wife who is being held captive?”

“He claims she will not be harmed by your enemies.”

He fixed her with a fearsome look. “At least on that we can agree.” He studied her, his mouth a taut line of anger. “You will leave now, woman, and join those who go about their evil deeds. If you dare to show your face to me again, you’ll taste the justice of Andrew Ross.”

As he started away she spoke quickly, the words tumbling from her lips. “Your father told me his name is Morgan.”

Andrew turned back. “You’re a clever woman. I see you spent your time here in my castle well enough, learning all you could about my family.”

“I could have. Instead, I spent my time working alongside the others.” And had the fresh blisters to prove it, she thought bitterly. “I can’t make you believe me, my lord. Not when your heart is closed to the truth. But I gave your father my word that I would try. He asks but two things of you. That you accept the will of your people, and that you do not ride to the fortress of your enemy. You can heed his words from beyond this world, or you can deny them, as you deny me.” Gwenellen glanced over and saw his father’s face etched in sadness, beginning to blur and fade before it disappeared completely.

She had failed. Once again.

Awash in disappointment, she started to sweep past this man who had aroused an entirely new emotion inside her. Anger. It ran hot and swift through her veins. Never before had she known this feeling, and she didn’t much care for it.

“Where do you think you’re going, woman?”

“I’ll return to the village with the others, and leave you to your grief and misery, since you’ve made it abundantly clear that you have no use for me here.”

“A pity you tarried here so long. The villagers have all gone.”

“Gone?” Her eyes widened. “But how am I to return to the village tavern?”

His tone was mocking. “Perhaps one of those spells you boast of will carry you off.”

He strode past her and started toward the castle, leaving her staring after him.

At the door he paused, then turned. “Despite my misgivings about you, it goes against everything I’ve been taught to leave you alone in the chill night air. I feel obliged to offer you the shelter of my home.”

Relieved, she stepped toward him.

As she moved past him he put a hand to her arm. His voice was low with feeling. “But only for the night. On the morrow I’ll see you returned to the village, and from there to your kingdom. And this time, you’ll not defy me as you did today.”

“Defy you? You speak as though you were laird of the land.”

He shot her an angry look. “If I choose the title, you’d best fear my wrath, woman, for here in the Highlands, the laird’s word is law. If I command my men to kill you, it will be done without question.”

Gwenellen stiffened her spine and followed him up the stairs, all the while considering his words, for she knew they were true.

Andrew opened a set of doors and led the way into one of the sleeping chambers. He had deliberately chosen the one farthest from his own.

Seeing that the fire had burned low he turned away. “I’ll fetch enough wood to get you through the night, and some fresh water.”

When he was gone Gwenellen looked around. The village women had done a thorough job. In the sleeping chamber a pallet had been covered with fresh linens and fur throws. On a night stand stood a basin and pitcher, as well as several linen towels.

Shivering, Gwenellen wondered how long it would take Andrew to fetch logs from the great hall below. How much simpler it would be to work a spell.

What was the harm in trying?

She walked closer and extended her arms. Closing her eyes she began to chant the ancient words.

Still simmering with anger, Andrew welcomed the chance to do something physical. He lifted an armful of logs that would stagger most men and started up the stairs.

This annoying little female had spoiled whatever momentary happiness lingered from the feast with the villagers. Such good people. They had spent the day laboring on his behalf, and had seemed genuinely sorry for his loss. And why not? Though he and his father had argued bitterly, Morgan Ross had been a good and fair man, sharing his bounty with his friends and neighbors, and all who were in need. He’d raised his only son to do the same. The two had been inseparable until Sabrina. Then everything between father and son had changed.

Sabrina. The very thought of his father’s wife had temper flaring. Perhaps she was one more reason why he’d refused the title of laird of his people. Being laird separated a man from his people. Set him apart, and above. No man should be above another. Especially a father over his son.

Andrew stepped into the sitting parlor and paused on the threshold. From within the sleeping chamber came the sound of Gwenellen’s chanting. Though the words were unknown to him, he couldn’t help but be touched by the sound of that soft, breathy voice. It had an other-world quality that never failed to touch some chord deep inside him.

The firewood was forgotten as he crossed the room and paused in the doorway. He was riveted to the spot at the sight of her, arms extended, eyes closed, that glorious spill of golden curls tumbling below her waist.

Suddenly the chanting ceased, and he heard her words clearly.

“Hear me, lest you taste my ire. I call to this hearth a breath of fire.”

There was a sound, as though of a great wind, that set her skirts fluttering around her ankles and lifted her hair, sending it dancing madly around her shoulders.

In the doorway Andrew watched in stunned fascination. His first thought was that he’d greatly misjudged this woman, for only a true witch could command the elements in such a manner.

With a deafening roar a great gust of wind came rushing down the chimney, swirling soot and ash in its path. Seeing it rolling over the room in a huge black wave, Andrew fell to the floor and waited for it to pass overhead.

Gwenellen wasn’t as fortunate. Still standing, arms extended, she was battered and buffeted by the wave. By the time it passed, she was bent double, coughing and retching.

Andrew tossed aside the firewood and rushed to her side. He caught her by the arms and helped her to her feet. “My lady. Speak to me. Are you harmed?”

When she lifted her face, she could hardly speak over the dust in her throat.

Andrew struggled not to laugh at the sight of her. Her face and arms, her hair, her gown, were all coated with soot and ash. The only thing left to see were the whites of her eyes. And those were flashing in outrage and growing temper.

“I’m unharmed. Leave me.”

Instead of doing as she asked he walked to the night table and filled the basin with water. Moistening a linen square he turned and began to wipe the soot from her face.

“I can do that for myself.” Humiliation stung her cheeks and roughened her tone as she snatched the cloth from his hand.

He watched as she scrubbed her face with more force than necessary.

All the while he peered at her closely. “You were attempting to light a fire on the hearth with one of your spells?”

She held her silence.

Taking pity on her he relented. “Perhaps I misjudged you, my lady. It would appear that you do fancy yourself a witch.”

“Fancy myself? I’m not a witch. I’m a fool.” She turned away, unable to bear his studied looks and forced kindness. “If either of my sisters had attempted that spell, these chambers would be warm and cozy. Instead…” She looked around, horrified at the soot and ash that covered the floor, the pallet, the walls. “Instead, I’ve ruined everything the village women worked so hard to achieve this day.”

He touched a hand to her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, my lady.”

“But it does.” She pulled free of his touch and forced herself to meet his eyes. “Don’t you see? I can’t do any of the things the rest of my family can do with ease. And the one thing I can do is of no importance to anyone, because nobody would ever believe that I can actually speak with the dead.”

“Is it so important that others believe?”

She clutched the linen square in her fist. “How can I convey the messages from the other side if no one believes in the messenger?”

He thought about that before nodding. “I suppose that would be a problem. Very well.” He bent and picked up the logs, then turned toward the doorway. “You will tell me again what my father said.”

Her head came up sharply. “You’ll listen?”

“Aye. But first I must find you another chamber, and something to wear until your clothes have been cleaned.”

Confused, Gwenellen danced along behind him, struggling to keep up with his hurried footsteps. “You mean I’m welcome to stay the night? You’re not just tolerating me out of a sense of duty?”

He bit back the grin that was curling the corners of his mouth. If she knew how she looked, her hair and face and garments blackened with soot, she’d be even more embarrassed than she was by her failed spell.

He led her down the hallway toward the chambers beside his, consoling himself that it was only for a few more hours. How much could go wrong in a single night?

“Here you are, my lady.” He dropped several logs on the fire in the sitting parlor, then carried the rest to the sleeping chambers beyond.

Gwenellen looked around and realized that this suite of rooms was even more elegant than the first. The chaise positioned in front of the fireplace had been draped with furs for comfort. On a side table was a decanter of ale and several goblets. Judging by the freshly-washed garments hanging on pegs along one wall, this had once belonged to the old laird’s wife, the mistress of Ross Abbey.

When the fire was blazing, Andrew stood and wiped his hands on his tunic before turning to her. “I’ll give you time to refresh yourself. You may choose whatever garments suit you. Then, if you’d like, I’ll return and you can tell me again about your…visit with my father.”

“Thank you.” Subdued, Gwenellen waited until he’d taken his leave before stripping off her clothes and filling a basin with water. After scrubbing herself clean, she carefully washed her hair and then her gown and undergarments, hanging them on pegs to dry.

She chose a simple white nightshirt with low, rounded neckline and long tapered sleeves, and over that a robe of cut velvet the color of claret. From the way they fit her, it was obvious that the old laird’s wife had been reed-slender. A great deal of care had gone into the weaving of the garments, revealing a woman of obvious wealth and taste.

After dressing, Gwenellen twisted her damp hair into one fat braid which spilled over her breast.

After the exhausting day she’d put in, she ought to be tired. But the thought of relaying the truth to Andrew about his father had her twitching with excitement. Perhaps, finally, she would be able to use her gift for some good.

The knock on her door had her hurrying to the sitting parlor.

“Enter, my lord.”

Andrew moved past her. He had removed his tunic and hose and wore only the plaid, which he’d tossed over one bare shoulder.

She remembered the first time she’d seen a Highland laird dressed in such a fashion. It was when her sister Allegra had returned to the Mystical Kingdom with her beloved abductor, Merrick. At first sight he’d seemed a giant and a barbarian. But beneath that stern facade her sister had uncovered a tender, loving heart.

Gwenellen doubted there would be either tenderness or love in this stern warrior. Not that she cared. All she wanted to do was carry out her mission for those in that other world, so that she could return with pride to her own.