“I had no need. Mistress MacLean was only too happy to please the laird of the abbey.”
“Ah, well. You can always try a spell next time.” He led the way from the great hall, then moved along beside her as they made their way to the withdrawing room.
She felt the warmth of his body as they walked. Felt the press of his hand on the small of her back as he guided her through the doorway. Why had she never been aware of such things before? How was it that a simple kiss between them should change so many things?
When they stepped into the smaller room, they were greeted by a cozy fire burning on the hearth, and a table set with snowy linens and fine crystal.
The housekeeper looked up from a sideboard groaning under the weight of heavy silver trays. “I hope this meets with your approval, my laird.”
“It does indeed, Mistress MacLean. I must commend you. This is much more comfortable than the great hall.”
Pleased, the older woman filled two goblets and offered them to the lord and his lady before going off to fetch the servants.
Andrew touched his goblet to Gwenellen’s. “To you, my lady, for getting us out of that drafty hall and into this cozy room.”
“You might not thank me when you realize how far the servants must carry the food, my lord. It could well be cold by the time it gets here.”
“As long as I have you to look at, I’ll not mind the passage of time.” Now where had that come from? He’d vowed not to say or do anything that might lead to anything even remotely intimate. And here he was, in the first few moments with this woman, forgetting all his carefully-made plans.
There was just something about her that made it easy to forget the pain of the past, the uncertainty of the future.
He decided to keep their conversation businesslike. “The lads had their first lessons with a sword today.”
“How did they do?”
“Well enough. What they lacked in skill they more than made up in enthusiasm.”
“Enthusiasm?” She wrinkled her nose in that funny way she had, and he couldn’t seem to look away. In fact, he found himself enthralled by the tiny line of freckles that seemed to march across the bridge of her nose whenever she did that. “I can’t imagine looking forward to doing battle.”
“And I can’t imagine spending my days stirring stew in a kettle.”
That had Gwenellen laughing. “Nor I.”
“That’s right.” He met her smile with one of his own. “You’d rather practice your magic, wouldn’t you?”
“Aye. Speaking of magic, I went to the village today with Olnore.”
“Why? It isn’t market day.”
“I had messages to take to some of the villagers. I spoke with Shepard about his duty to his granddaughter. And to Roland the crofter who owes two lambs to Melvina’s son and his wife. And Charity’s niece…”
He held up his hand, halting her words. “You admitted to these villagers that you spoke with their dead relatives?”
“Aye.”
He bit back a smile. “How did they receive the news?”
“They were a bit…doubtful, at first. But when I relayed all that the dead had told me, especially personal things which only the dead could know, I believe they were convinced of my claim.”
“And now they know you to be a witch?”
She nodded. “I know this isn’t easy, my lord. For you or for them. But since this is my responsibility as well as my gift, I am bound to see it through.”
His tone softened. “That refreshing honesty is just one of the many things I find so appealing about you, Imp.”
The use of the unexpected nickname, spoken like an endearment in low, intimate tones, sent a shiver along her spine.
It took her a moment to find her voice. “Has the messenger returned yet from Edinburgh?”
His smile faded. “Nay. He’s long overdue. I fear he may have fallen victim to a barbarian’s sword.”
Sensing his tension, she lowered her voice. “What will you do if your warriors don’t return?”
“I’ll face Fergus Logan with an army of old men and lads.”
“Are you so certain your enemy will return?”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “He’ll return. If I don’t ride to his fortress first.”
“But your father…”
He held up a hand to silence her protest. “It is my father I am thinking of. As a warrior and his son, I owe it to his memory to demand justice. For now, I must bide my time and train the villagers to defend themselves. But know this. As soon as my warriors return, I intend to ride to the Logan fortress and face my enemy like a Highlander, instead of hiding behind the walls of an abbey like a coward.”
“And your father’s wishes mean nothing?”
“It’s time for me to accept the fact that my father is dead. I’m the laird of Ross Abbey now, however reluctant I may be. And the decision must be mine alone.”
“But there are things your father knows that are unknown to—”
At a commotion in the doorway they looked up as the housekeeper entered, following by a line of serving wenches.
Whatever Gwenellen had been about to say was swallowed back in disappointment. The opportunity to discuss this with any sense of calm or reason had vanished.
As Andrew began to lead her toward the table she shook her head. “Forgive me, my lord. But I am…feeling unwell. By your leave, I wish to be excused.”
His eyes narrowed as he stopped to look at her, seeing the disapproval she couldn’t hide. It was obvious that she had taken sides with his father against him in this matter. That only served to stiffen his resolve.
“By all means, my lady.” His voice was as cool, as casual as though he were addressing one of the servants. “I’m sure that Mistress MacLean will send a tray to your chambers.”
Gwenellen turned away, eager to escape.
When she was gone, he held out his goblet to a servant and drank, ignoring the little twinge of guilt. He’d be damned if he’d allow one annoying female to tell him what to do. Though she played a most convincing game, he was still only half persuaded that she was what she claimed to be. Only a fool would count on magic to decide the fate of an entire clan.
Now that he was laird of the Ross Clan, he had an obligation to see that his people not only survived, but also thrived. They could only do so by eliminating their enemy.
He drained his goblet and took his place at the table, watching in silence as the housekeeper filled his plate.
She looked up. “The villagers have taken the lady’s advice, my laird.”
“Advice?”
She nodded. “Already the women are busy weaving warm blankets, and sewing additional sleeping pallets. From now on the herds will be brought closer to the abbey, and the larder kept well-stocked.”
“What is this, Mistress? What is this about?” Andrew’s brows drew together in a frown.
“The lady Gwenellen suggested that there is much we can do to prepare for an attack by our enemies, my laird. In truth, it gives us all a feeling of satisfaction to be working as diligently as our men.” She stepped back. “Would you care for anything else, my laird?”
“Nay, Mistress MacLean.” He lifted a hand and idly waved her aside. “You and the servants may leave now.”
“Leave? I don’t understand.”
“I have no further need of you, Mistress MacLean. You and the servants may retire to the refectory. And you may as well take these trays with you and eat while the food is still warm.”
“Aye, my laird.” Struck speechless, the poor woman managed to sputter a few words of command, as she ushered the servants from the room.
When he was alone Andrew shoved aside his plate and lifted his goblet, drinking deeply.
For a lifetime he’d known exactly who he was and what he was about. But in the past few months his life had taken so many strange turns. Sabrina. His father. And now this…witch.
He deeply resented her intrusion into his life. He didn’t
want to believe the things she claimed to do, because that would only complicate things further.
Still…
There was just something about her that he couldn’t entirely dismiss. Since dropping out of the sky and into his life, everything had begun to change. The villagers had drawn together to help him in his sorrow. The men and lads were working diligently to become warriors. And now, to learn that she’d even convinced the women to band together for the common good, had him feeling like a thoughtless, arrogant fool.
And try as he might, he found himself spending entirely too much time thinking about her. Trying not to vent his anger whenever she questioned his authority. Trying not to laugh at her clumsy attempts at spells. He clenched a hand at his side. And especially trying not to give in to the desperate desire to carry her off to his chambers and make wild, passionate love to her until his hunger was sated.
Chapter Eleven
Instead of going to her chambers, Gwenellen fled to the garden, to walk among the graves. At least here she could be assured of hearing the truth. Those who had crossed to the other side had no need to lie, or to cloak their words in half truths.
Not so the laird of Ross Abbey, it seemed. One minute he claimed to believe her when she told him about his father’s words, the next he was making plans to do exactly what he’d been warned against.
He was the most infuriating man. With but a single word, he could make her heart flutter. With one kiss she could forget every promise she’d ever made to herself about mortals. And then, in the blink of an eye, his smile would turn to a scowl, his manner become cold and distant, and her poor heart splintered.
She tossed her head. It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. She didn’t need the laird’s approval. Nor had she come here seeking his smiles. His kisses.
A figure shimmered before her. The woman named Melvina hovered above her gravesite.
“I thank ye, my lady, for setting things right with my cousin and the serving wench who was blamed for my sin.”
Gwenellen paused. “You’re most welcome. It wasn’t an easy thing to resolve. I’m not certain your cousin believed me at first.”
“But ye’ve a way about ye. She may not have wanted to listen, but I know she took it to heart, for I’m at peace.” The figure began to waver and blur. “Bless ye, my lady. I can go to my rest now, assured that my debt is paid and my time in eternity blissful.”
While Gwenellen watched, the figure disappeared.
Shaken, she strolled on, glancing up at the sliver of moon in the darkened sky until she heard the now-familiar voice.
“Good even, lass. I see ye were able to set the record straight with Duncan’s wife and the young servant who had been unfairly blamed for Melvina’s crime.”
“Aye, my lord.” Gwenellen paused beside the older man’s grave. It was always a jolt to see him looking so like the angry man who was now laird of Ross Abbey. “It does my heart good knowing Melvina is finally at peace and can at last enjoy her eternal rest.”
“There’ve been others as well, eh lass?”
She nodded. “So far I’ve managed to persuade three people of their messages from the grave.” Her voice lowered. “But I fear I’m failing you, my lord. Your son’s heart seems to be hardening against me.”
“There, now. Don’t you think that. Andrew believes, lass. At least in his heart. But he’s fighting it. It goes against everything he’s ever learned as a warrior.”
“Then why do you ask it of him? Why are you so insistent that he not lead an army against his enemy?”
“Because it’s exactly what Fergus Logan wants, lass. He’d hoped that Andrew and his warriors would return from Edinburgh and immediately ride to the Logan fortress in search of the hostage. They would have been met with an army bent on massacre. What Fergus Logan couldn’t have known was that Andrew would leave his warriors to guard the queen, and return home alone, thus needing time to train a new army.”
“You make it sound as though your son’s enemy knew everything about him.”
“And so he did. Or at least he thought he did. Never underestimate the enemy, lass. Fergus Logan had a spy in our fortress.”
Gwenellen sank down into the grass beside the grave. “Of course. Andrew wondered how his enemy knew when to attack. Is the spy here in the village?”
Morgan Ross shook his head. “Evil prefers to remain with evil. The spy is now in the fortress of our enemy. But that is why Andrew must not go there. He needs to—”
“I thought I’d find you here.” Andrew’s voice cut through the darkness.
Gwenellen looked up to see him looming over her. When she turned back, the figure of his father had faded from sight.
“Chatting with the spirits, are you?”
“With your father, as you well know.” She got to her feet, smoothing down her skirts as she did. “You were right about the timing of the attack, my lord. Fergus Logan had a spy in your midst. He knew when your father would be most vulnerable.”
“A spy.” He studied her through narrowed eyes. “Did my father give you a name?”
“Nay. I believe he was about to, but you came along and…” She drew in a breath. “I know you don’t want to hear this, my lord, but your father warns again that you mustn’t go to the fortress of Fergus Logan, for that is what Logan wants. Your enemy expected you to ride there immediately, not knowing that you returned without your warriors. For every day you hesitate, he will grow more uneasy. And that is to your advantage.”
“Do you pretend to know battle strategy now, witch?”
Witch. What had happened to the endearment he’d whispered earlier? She felt a quick, sharp pain around her heart and wondered that this cold, distant man could have such an effect on her.
“I know nothing of war. I know only what your father has told me.”
“So you say.” He continued to study her. “I wish I could believe. But it isn’t easy to turn my back on everything I’ve always known. I was taught that once the dead were gone, all that remained were the memories.”
“Memories are fine, for they remain with us and warm us all through our lives. But what of the soul, my lord? The spirit that burns so brightly in each of us, and sets us apart from every other creature? Can that spirit be so easily extinguished? Or is it like those stars up there, shining upon us even in the light of day, when they’re no longer visible to the eye?”
“What a strange one you are.” He glanced beyond her to his father’s grave, then took her arm. “Walk with me.”
As they moved along the grassy path she could feel the warmth of his touch through her sleeve and wondered that, even now, knowing he doubted her, she could be so moved by the mere touch of him.
Andrew found himself looking up at the heavens, and noting the winking of millions of stars. “I’ve spent all day with the villagers.” His voice was hushed. Perhaps it was the darkness. Or perhaps it was that glint of silvery light overhead. Whatever the reason, he wanted to prolong their time here, away from the watchful eyes of those inside the abbey. “I hope you don’t object to walking here with me.”
Gwenellen’s smile was back. “I’ve seen more people in the few days I’ve been here at Ross Abbey than in my entire life, my lord. There are times when I find my head spinning from all the people talking at once. Not just the living, but those who have passed over as well. They speak to me in a chorus of voices. At times I crave the silence of this place.”
That brought a chuckle. “We’re alike, you and I, Imp. There are times when I want nothing more than to ride my steed up into the hills, so that the only thing I’ll hear is the babbling of a Highland brook or the cry of a falcon.” He looked around at the peaceful setting. “After hearing your tales of your kingdom, I find myself wondering what it would be like to climb aboard a winged horse and lose myself among the clouds.”
Her smile bloomed. Was it his easy use of that name? Or was it the mere fact that he had sought her out for company?
“Oh, it’s like no ot
her feeling. To soar on a current of air, and then to find yourself hurtling toward the ground, only to pull up short and land ever-so-gently in a field of heather.”
He loved the way her eyes went all dreamy whenever she spoke about her home.
He paused and covered her hand with his. “You make it sound so…normal.”
“It is, in the Mystical Kingdom.” She felt the warmth of his touch all the way to her toes, and wondered that they didn’t curl inside her boots. “I suppose normal is whatever we’ve grown accustomed to.”
“I could grow accustomed to this.” He allowed his hand to linger a moment longer, before turning to walk beside her once more.
She could feel the return of his restlessness. The sense that there were things he needed to do, other than a quiet walk in the garden.
“What troubles you, my lord?”
He shrugged. “A better question might be, what doesn’t trouble me? As if my enemy is not enough, there is the safety of the villagers if he should attack. And then there is my father’s wife.” He looked over. “Did he…speak of her?”
Again she heard the hint of something in his tone. Something that caused a little tremor of disquiet, though she knew not why.
“He did not.” She shook her head and saw the way his frown returned. “But if you’d like, I could seek him out on the morrow and ask.”
“Nay.” He seemed distinctly uneasy, and just as quickly changed the subject. “Mistress MacLean tells me you are helping the village women prepare for a possible attack.”
“I hope you don’t mind, my lord.”
“Now how could I mind? Your suggestions were excellent. Especially about stocking the larder.” He arched a brow. “You’d best beware or I’ll start to believe there’s a clever mind hidden behind that pixie smile.”
“I wish I were clever.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “It seems to be what mortals admire.”
He thought about that a moment. “I suppose we do. But I’m beginning to think there are other things to admire as well.”
“What things, my lord?”
He turned to stare at her. In the moonlight she caught a glint of something dark and dangerous in his eyes.