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.”
<
br /> “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.
Andrew filled two goblets with ale and handed one to her before tilting his head back and taking a long drink. Then he strode to the fireplace and rested his arm along the mantel, trying not to stare.
He’d had quite a jolt when he’d first seen Gwenellen in Sabrina’s regal clothing. This woman, however, was too much of an imp to look like anything that even faintly resembled royalty. Still, something about this simple female stirred him in a way he resented. Even her bare toes, peeking out from beneath the hem of her nightdress, held his gaze longer than he would have preferred.
“Now, my lady, tell me everything my father said to you.”
She sipped the ale and settled herself on the chaise. “There is little enough to tell. Your father first called out to me when you found him in the rubble, though at first I wasn’t certain what I was hearing.”
“Because you’d never before spoken to the dead?”
“I’ve spoken to my father for all my life.” Seeing the arch of his brow she explained. “My father died before I was born. But throughout my lifetime I’ve often seen him and spoken with him. Gram said it was one of my greatest gifts, but I never understood. You see, there were no others in the Mystical Kingdom who had passed to that other side.”
She’d managed to scrub away all the soot and ash and now looked, to his eye, as fresh and colorful as a rainbow. It was difficult to concentrate on her word when he was so affected by her looks, but he was determined. “So you heard my father calling to you.”
She nodded. “And the others.”
“Others?” His lips curved in a smile. He’d give her this much. She was a grand weaver of tales. “What others?”
“There was a woman named Melvina, who told me she was a niece to Mistress MacIntosh. She was sorry about helping herself to a kettle of stew, and then blaming it on one of the serving wenches, who lost her employment. And a man named Roland, who claims his brother Shepard is not taking care of a grandchild left behind. And a young scullery wench, Charity, who—”
“Hold.” Andrew lifted his hand to stop her, then took a moment to drain his tankard. Refilling it, he walked closer, his eyes narrowed on her. “Are these more tales you heard while working with the villagers?”
“It’s as I told you. I heard it from those who have passed to the other side. Before they can find peace, they must settle any debts they left behind.”
“Debts.” He blinked. “And they hope you will help them clear their debts?”
“Aye.” She seemed so honest. So direct. And, in truth, he’d heard of the servant who’d been dismissed from Duncan’s tavern for stealing a kettle of stew, though she’d protested her innocence. As for the others, they had all worked here in the castle. Could it be…?
“And my father?” He dropped to his knees before her, his eyes intent upon hers. “Tell me again everything my father said.”
She repeated everything she could recall from their conversation. When she finished, she found herself wondering if he believed her. It was impossible to tell from the look in those icy eyes, but at least he had listened in respectful silence.
“Oh.” She smiled, remembering. “Your father told me one other thing. He said he’d been named for his grandfather, who was said to come from the sea.”
Andrew scrambled to his feet, his hand fisted tightly around the tankard. “It was something my father was most proud of.” He seemed to be talking to himself. “He’d thought to name me after his grandfather, as well, but had been convinced by my mother to honor her father instead.”
Abruptly he looked over at her. “Go to sleep now, my lady.” He drained his ale and set the tankard on the side table, keeping his gaze averted. “I’ll think on all you’ve told me.”
It wasn’t what she’d hoped for, but at least the sarcasm was gone from his tone.
As he started from the room, he had a quick impression of the soot and ash littering the chambers down the hall. He turned, the merest hint of a smile in his eyes. “Before retiring I would ask a favor, my lady.”
“Aye.” She turned to him with a hopeful look.
“If you would, promise me you?
??ll attempt no spells until this night is over.”
Before she could respond he was gone, leaving her feeling oddly deflated. Not only did he not believe her, but he also didn’t trust her.
And why should he? she thought with a wave of revulsion. She couldn’t even trust herself to complete the simplest spell.
She stormed off to bed, eager to have this night behind her. She had done as his father had requested. She had conveyed his words from that other place.
On the morrow she would return to the Mystical Kingdom. And there she would remain, so that the rest of the world would never know of her shameful failure.
Chapter Six
Andrew paced in front of the fire in his chambers, playing back everything in his mind.
Was he a fool to even consider believing this woman? She spoke of the dead and their debts as though she were speaking of the logic of fish in the loch, birds in the sky. But he’d seen fish swim and birds fly. He’d never seen walking, talking dead, though he’d heard of such things, but always by wild-eyed crones speaking in whispers, as though afraid to be overheard by those who might call their bluff.
If his father had things to say, why did he speak to a stranger instead of to the son who loved him?
Perhaps because the son wouldn’t listen.
The thought startled him. But the more he chewed on it, the more he knew it to be true. Would he have listened to the whisperings of his heart? Or would he simply allow the pain of his grief to crowd out all other thoughts from his mind?
Wasn’t that what he’d been doing since returning home? Hadn’t his every thought been about avenging the death of his father? Not only because it was his duty, but because he felt responsible. If he hadn’t argued and left when he did, none of this would have happened. And now he could never take back the things he’d said in anger.
Still, what the woman claimed to have heard made no sense to him. He was a warrior. Why would his father want him to remain here, dwelling in comfort in a castle, while allowing his enemies to go unpunished? Especially since those same enemies were holding an innocent woman captive?