The Knight and the Seer (9 page)

Minutes later she heard the sound of his horse’s hoof beats in the courtyard. And then silence closed in around her.

She pressed a hand to her heart, wondering at the way it thundered. She could still taste him on her lips.

How was it that such a simple thing as two mouths touching could create such a storm inside her?

She dragged in several deep breaths, wondering at the sudden feeling of light-headedness. She felt as she often did when one of her spells went wrong.

Squaring her shoulders, she decided that what she needed was to be busy. She would use this time alone to have a long visit with those who lay in the garden under their fresh mounds of earth. Perhaps it would be best if she began chronicling their requests, so as not to forget any. After all, this was so new to her, she was certain there would be plenty of mistakes made along the way. Especially in light of her history of missteps.

Now if only she could keep her mind on her work, and away from a certain dark, dangerous warrior.

“I was the cook at Ross Abbey for two score years, my lady.”

Though the woman standing in the garden atop her grave appeared no more than ten and eight, Gwenellen wasn’t surprised. After visiting with the newly-buried for several hours, she was gradually adjusting to the fact that most of them had assumed the image of a time in their lives when they’d been young and vital.

“What is it you’d like me to attend to?”

The woman pursed her lips.
“There is a crofter in the village who owes me a debt of two lambs from his flock. My son and his wife could use those lambs, but since they know nothing of the debt, I fear it will go unpaid.”

“Would you prefer that I speak with your son, or the crofter?”

“The crofter.”
The woman gave a cackling laugh that rang in the still air.
“And I’d like to see his eyes when he hears that ye’ve talked with me.”

Gwenellen joined the woman’s laughter. “Give me his name, and I’ll see that it’s done.”

The woman patted her hand.
“Ye’re a fine lass. It’s glad I am that the young laird has ye on his side, my lady.”

“You think well of the lord?”

“Oh, aye. He was a good lad, and has grown into a fine man. Not that I’m surprised. His father and mother were kind and generous with all who met them.”

Gwenellen looked up at a clatter in the courtyard and watched as several wagons and carts came to a halt.

She turned to bid goodbye to the cook and found her image already fading from sight.

By the time she walked to the courtyard, Andrew was instructing a score of men and women, lads and lasses in their duties.

When he spotted her he stepped forward and placed a hand beneath her elbow, leading her toward the others.

“The lady Gwenellen of the clan Drummond will be staying at Ross Abbey. Her comfort is to be your primary concern.”

She felt her cheeks flame at the looks that ranged from speculative to disapproving.

Andrew seemed to take no notice. “My lady, this is Mistress MacLean. She is wed to my most trusted warrior, Drymen MacLean, and is cousin to Duncan. She helped cook at the tavern, and has agreed to serve as housekeeper.”

The woman was nearly as tall as Andrew, with jet-black hair pulled into a severe knot at her nape. Her gown was clean and crisp, her hands workworn. The look she gave Gwenellen was one of disapproval.

She gave a stiff nod of her head. “My lady.”

Gwenellen managed a smile. “Mistress MacLean.”

The new housekeeper pinched the arm of a shy, dark-haired lass and gave her a shove forward. “This is Olnore, who will be your maidservant.”

“Olnore.” Taking pity on the sweet child, Gwenellen deliberately kept her tone gentle. “I look forward to your help.”

The girl’s gaze darted to the housekeeper, who had everyone quaking in fear, then back to this exotic woman who had everyone in the village abuzz with speculation. Where had she come from? And why was the lord so concerned for her comfort?

Andrew beckoned to a giant, who stepped away from the others. “This is Lloyd, who will see to the stables and horses.”

“Lloyd.” Gwenellen had to tip back her head to see the man’s ruddy face, framed by a thatch of russet hair.

“And his son, Paine, who will help around the castle.”

“Paine.” Gwenellen could see the resemblance between father and son. Both stood head and shoulders above the others in the courtyard. Both had pale blue eyes and cheeks as red as their hair.

Andrew turned to her. “There will be others. Mistress MacLean has agreed to find enough servants to see to all the needs of the household.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mistress.”

The woman fixed Gwenellen with a stare. “The old laird was good to us. We’ll do no less for his son, the new laird.” She waved an arm at those standing around. “Inside with you now. The day is fleeting.”

That was all it took to send the servants scrambling.

When they were alone in the courtyard, Andrew turned to Gwenellen. “Did you have another visit with my father while I was gone?”

She shook her head. “Nay. But there were others.” She told him about the cook and the debt owed to her family.

The mention of her had Andrew smiling. “After my mother died, Cook used to bake my favorite biscuits. She’d drizzle them with honey, or top them with clotted cream and berries. Whenever I walked into the refectory, there would be a treat awaiting me. I thought of her as my special friend here at Ross Abbey. Looking back, I can see how much her kindness meant to a lonely lad who’d lost his mother to sudden death.”

“Now I’m doubly glad to see to her request.” Gwenellen studied the man beside her. “How old were you when your mother died?”

“Nine. She took a fever, and within days was gone from us.” He thought a minute before adding, “I don’t know who missed her more. My father was inconsolable. As for me, within the year I was sent off to apprentice as a warrior, and I managed to bury my grief in fighting.”

That had Gwenellen shaking her head in wonder. “Is this how all in your world deal with grief?”

He chuckled. “I doubt the women would take to the life of a warrior. But there is something to be said for hard, demanding challenges to take the mind off heartache.” He glanced at her. “How do you deal with it in your world?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never suffered grief, or as you refer to it, heartache.”

“Never?”

She felt an odd little tingling at the way he was watching her. “I felt sadness when my sisters left me.”

“Why did they leave?”

“To live with the Highland lords who claimed their hearts.”

He seemed suddenly alert. “They are wed to mortals?”

“Aye.” She wrinkled her nose. “They speak about their lives now the way they once spoke about life in our kingdom. As though it were some grand adventure.”

“Perhaps it is. It sounds as though they are truly in love with their husbands.”

“Love.” She turned away. “I know nothing of such things. I know only that life is different in my kingdom since they left.”

“Different? In what way?”

“The days seem longer. My pleasures…less intense, now that I can no longer share them.”

“Ah.” He nodded in understanding. “You miss them.”

“Perhaps.” She didn’t like talking about such things. It always caused an unpleasant sting around her heart. “I believe I’ll see if Mistress MacLean could use my help.”

As she flounced into the castle, he followed more slowly. It would seem that even witches could feel loneliness and sorrow. And best of all, love.

Even toward mortals.

He had no idea why that idea should please him so. But please him it did. Not that he had any intention of losing his heart again. A wise man learned from his mistakes. Still, it was pleasant to think that witches and mortals could love.

He returned to his labors with a lighter heart.

Chapter Eight

“Y
ou must hurry and dress for dinner, my lady.” Breathless, Olnore hurried into Gwenellen’s chambers.

Gwenellen turned from the balcony, where she’d been watching the flight of a falcon. How grand it would be to stretch out her arms and fly. She sighed, missing her winged horse, and the many flights she took in the company of Jeremy. But at least she could be content in the knowledge that her family wouldn’t be worried about her.

“Why must I dress for dinner, Olnore? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

The little servant wrinkled her nose. “Mistress MacLean said that when the old laird was alive, dinner in the great hall was always a grand occasion. Now that Lord Andrew is laird, it is important that custom be followed.”

Gwenellen looked down at the wrinkled skirt of her gown. “This is all I have, Olnore.”

“Nay, my lady.” The servant pointed to the array of garments hanging on hooks along the wall. “Lord Andrew said you are to make use of all of these. Whatever is in these chambers now belongs to you.”

Gwenellen cast a dubious glance at the gowns in rich hues of crimson and sapphire and emerald. “I don’t feel right wearing the clothes of a woman being held hostage. What if she should return and take offense?”

Olnore lifted a gown of soft burnished gold from a hook and held it up for her inspection. “I would much prefer the wrath of Lady Sabrina later, to that of Mistress MacLean this night.”

That had Gwenellen laughing. She found the little servant’s sense of humor delightful. Still smiling, she removed her gown and allowed herself to be dressed. A short time later she arrived at the great hall, where Andrew stood alone in front of a blazing fire.

Seeing her, it seemed to take him a moment to pull himself back from the bleak thoughts that darkened his gaze. “Will you have some ale, my lady?”

“Aye, thank you.”

He filled a tumbler from a decanter. When he handed it to her their fingers brushed and he absorbed the warmth that always seemed to accompany her touch. Though he sensed that it was due to her witchcraft, it didn’t make it any easier to ignore.

She glanced around. “I thought there would be guests for dinner.”

He frowned. “You mean, because of Mistress MacLean’s insistence upon the proper order of things?”

“Aye.”

He nodded. “She’s a bit pompous. But she’s right, I suppose. As laird, I must abide by rules that often annoyed me when I was simply the laird’s heir. But I’m not yet ready to entertain guests.”

She couldn’t fault him for that. It was too soon since the death of all the people he’d known and loved. She struggled for ways to keep his mind off his sorrow. “Did you find it difficult being the son of a laird?”

“At times. In the company of rough and tumble friends from the village, I demanded to be treated like one of them. But I knew that, while they returned to humble cottages, my home was a castle where there was always enough to eat. Where there were servants to do my bidding. As the only child, I never had to fight for my father’s attention. I was fortunate that, growing up, we rarely had a disagreement. At least not until…” He frowned and turned away.

Gwenellen wondered at the sudden look in his eyes, in that moment before he’d turned from her. When he turned back, he was composed.

“Forgive me, my lady. Why don’t you sit here by the fire?”

She settled herself on the chaise and was dismayed when he sat beside her. The mere brush of his thigh against hers, and the touch of his shoulder to hers, had warmth spreading through her veins.

“The fire is very warm, isn’t it?” She sipped her ale and wished with all her might that someone would join them. Someone who might distract her from her disquieting thoughts.

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” But he’d noticed the way her breasts strained the bodice of her gown. And the way the color complemented her eyes, turning them to liquid gold.

Not that she tried to be noticed. On the contrary, he had the impression that she would much prefer to be invisible. It was as though she were uncomfortable in his company, though he hadn’t yet figured out why. He’d never before had quite that effect on a woman. But then, she wasn’t like other women. At least none he’d ever known.

They both looked up when the housekeeper entered, followed by a column of servants.

Mistress MacLean stood like a warrior about to do battle. “Dinner is served, my laird.”

With a sigh Andrew stood and offered his arm. Gwenellen placed her hand on his sleeve and together they crossed the room to the enormous table which seemed even bigger when set for two.

Andrew held her chair, then settled himself beside her.

The servants circled the table, offering food from gleaming silver trays.

Gwenellen accepted a serving of fish and one of fowl. Andrew did the same, then waved the servants away. At a signal from the housekeeper they disappeared, leaving the lord and his lady alone.

“What do you eat in your kingdom, my lady?”

“Much the same as you eat here. Fish from the Enchanted Loch. Fowl. Deer. Fresh vegetables from our garden. And our wonderful roseberries.”

“I’m not familiar with roseberries.”

“I’m told they grow only in our kingdom.” She looked down. “I confess I have a weakness for them. As does Jeremy.”

“Is that so?” He leaned back, his feast forgotten. There was something about the sound of her voice. It was soft as a sigh, with a slightly breathless quality that did strange things to him. He wanted to keep her talking, so he could indulge himself. “Do you have any other weaknesses I ought to know about?”

“I have a sweet tooth. I love anything sweet. Scones, tarts and Bessie’s wonderful currant cake, topped with clotted cream and berries.”

“Could you teach our cook to bake them?”

She shook her head, sending honey curls dancing. “Bessie says I’m hopeless in the kitchen. Mum says the same about my sewing and weaving. I remember the time I was given the task of mending a gown I’d torn while climbing trees.”

“Climbing trees? I thought all lasses did was play in the meadow and make daisy chains.”

She wrinkled her nose. “How dull. I much prefer playing high in the trees with the fairies, or flying on Starlight’s back among the clouds.”