The Laird Page 14

  He watched the contours of her face, the gentle slope of cheek and brow, the soft, parted lips, and the dark wings of her lashes against creamy skin. The knot inside him began to loosen, unravel, giving him ease.

  A drift of glossy hair escaped the braid, slipped onto her shoulder. He lifted it gently in his palm, tested it between his fingers, and fell asleep at last with it clasped in his hand.

  Chapter 14

  BRIGHT SUNLIGHT gleamed on the waters of Loch Tay, a glittering jewel set between creased slopes of Ben Lawers and Meall Greigh, towering crags that thrust proud peaks so high into the sky it seemed they nearly reached heaven. The air was clean and fresh, brisk as it blew over the loch, a promise of warmer days riding the current.

  Lifting her head, Judith let the plaide settle about her shoulders, its warmth not needed. The léine and brèid she had borrowed for a night were hers, a gift from Kyla, who had insisted she keep them. The generosity was unexpected and welcome. More welcome were the stockings and shoes on her feet, warm wool and boots to her ankles, most welcome indeed.

  Glenlyon had forsaken his trews, garbed now in only his short tunic and plaide, sunlight gleaming on his hair. He looked the very image of a Highland laird, with his proud bearing and noble profile. Her heart lurched oddly when he happened to turn and glance at her, a silvery flash of his eyes in her direction, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth before he looked away again.

  She had woken that morning with his hand tangled in her hair, his body so close to hers a broomstraw would not fit between them. And known at once the urges of his body, for they were not hidden. Immobile, not daring to move, she’d felt his breath against her neck, knew that he slept yet, while his body made known his dreams.

  The MacNeish’s salute the night before still echoed in her mind, and the thought of bearing children for Glenlyon left her unsettled. A hundred times she had wanted to ask his intent, for if she’d guessed his reason for taking her from Lochawe, she had no idea of his objective. There was no mention from him of marriage or even handfasting, yet there was no mention either of ransom. What did he intend?

  Uncertainty gnawed at her, a relentless malady. She ached with it at times—ached, too, with questions about the laird of Glenlyon. There was something intrinsically good in him, that much she’d seen.

  Robert Campbell had ignited flames of hope in her heart that day in the solar, as well as fires of need. She had been certain he felt more than just desire. But his silence now made her wonder if she was wrong. The barriers she’d erected had been breached, and now she tried to build them even higher. It was too much to risk.

  They rode along the banks of the loch, weaving in and out of trees, the hills rising thick and forested on one side of the track they followed. This night they would sleep in Glenlyon, he’d told her, a hard day’s ride. Six leagues or more away lay the lands he’d been granted by the king.

  It was easier now, the threat of pursuit faded with the passage of time and distance. Full pouches of oatcakes and salted fish hung from saddle loops, meals eaten on the hoof as they pressed on. Days were longer, dusk stretching into a purple haze that lingered with enough light to see the road.

  When they crossed the old Roman bridge that spanned the River Lyon at last, Glenlyon’s horse snorted eagerly, ears pricked forward in anticipation of rest and fodder.

  “He knows the way,” was the laughing observation, and Judith rode closer.

  It was still day, a misty glow that delved into shadow in places, but lent light enough to see the cluster of thatch-roofed huts and stone walls under construction as they rode down a hill into a vale of emerald green. It was not as rough as she had thought from his description; a peel was well under way, two upper stories, piles of stones lying in wait for workmen’s hands, scaffolds clinging to walls like ivy. Beyond, blue-green humps were clothed in mist.

  “Glenlyon,” he said, and turned to look at her. “It has not seen a woman’s hand, so do not expect overmuch.”

  Her heart lurched. “I expect only a warm fire and dry bed, no more.”

  “It has that, or did last time I slept here.”

  Their horses broke into a trot with the promise of the journey’s end, and the sound of hooves brought a man to the entrance of the tower, naked sword in one hand, then a wide smile when he recognized the front rider.

  “Glenlyon, alive still, by God!”

  “Did you really doubt me, Simon?”

  “Aye, as well you know,” came the quick retort, and hazel eyes shifted to Judith. Sandy hair fringed his face, a handsome man, with an open regard as he surveyed her. “Will you give a name to such a bonny lady, Glenlyon?”

  “Lady Lindsay of Caddel Castle.” Glenlyon dismounted, came to where she still sat her horse, reached up to put his hands around her waist. “Late of Lochawe. This rogue is Simon MacCallum, my lady, reiver and kin.”

  Over his shoulder as he swung her down, Judith saw the speculation in Simon’s eyes and understood it. He must wonder about her place here, though not as much as she did.

  Cramped from the long day atop a horse, her legs gave way suddenly, and she sagged. Glenlyon caught her, a smooth curve of his arm scooping her against his side.

  “Clear the way, Simon,” he said, “before the lady swoons.”

  “I’m not swooning,” she protested, but he ignored her, gave a whistle that brought a man running toward them to take the horses. His arm around her tightened as he walked her toward the tower.

  Against a far wall that looked nearly finished, stables had been built, roofed in thatch, with the smell of new wood and rushes rife in the air. Stacks of unhewn logs lay near.

  “There is no roof of turf,” Judith said, and his laugh stirred loose hair over her ear and made her shiver.

  “The sheep must have eaten it. Can you walk?”

  “Of course.” She paused. “Though I am grateful for your arm.”

  Inside the tower, Judith was greeted with the sharp scent of a peat fire, burning brightly on the hearthstones. It was not a large hall but comfortable enough, with flagged stones bare of rushes and a new table dominating one side. Long benches leaned against a wall. Light seeped in through high windows, and beams of new oak spanned the ceiling.

  “Simon is my builder,” Glenlyon said, “and slow at it, from what I see—or don’t see.”

  “Och, to be so maligned,” Simon sighed. Humor curved his mouth. Hazel eyes danced in the gaze he turned to Judith, and she couldn’t help an answering smile. “You are well come to the family, Lady Lindsay.”

  “The lady,” said Glenlyon with a dark glance in Simon’s direction, “is a visitor.”

  His distinction was plain, and Simon’s sandy brows rose even higher. “Is she now? Not a bride but a guest? Good news for me, cousin.”

  Glenlyon turned abruptly from inspecting wall beams, and the threat in his gaze was obvious even to Judith.

  “Leave off your play at gallantry, Simon.”

  Amusement flickered on MacCallum’s face as, unabashed, he shrugged away the warning. “Och, your glower can frighten wee bairns and sheep, but I’m made of hardier stuff.”

  Judith wanted to laugh at the expression on Glenlyon’s face but didn’t dare.

  “She is Argyll’s hostage,” he said then, and she heard the interest sharpen in Simon MacCallum’s tone.

  “Even better. I’ve always wanted to tweak that old bastard’s nose. Grant pardon, lady, for my bold speech. So you are important to Argyll, are you? Interesting.”

  “At the moment, Simon,” said Glenlyon, “she is more important to me. What chambers are serviceable?”

  “A dour lad . . . the hall is complete, the first floor near done, the second floor has the sky for a roof. Wet when it rains, but other than that, quite serviceable. There is straw for beds.”

  “Daft rogue. You
have made more progress than I thought possible. How did you manage it?”

  “Bribed the stonemasons and got the carpenters drunk.” A smile belied his words. “And paid them double wages.”

  “Devil take you! You didn’t.”

  “Of course not.” Simon slid his gaze back to Judith, who listened with fascination. “Double of nothing is still nothing. Do you cook, perchance, my lady?”

  “I have been known to be a fair hand at it.” Despite his obviously roguish ways, she found herself liking Simon MacCallum.

  “Ah, lovely. I fancy something other than oats, though God knows, ’tis better than what I’ve eaten lately.”

  “A Scot who doesn’t like oats?” She tilted her head, a smile widening.

  “I’ve had my share these thirty-six years past. I fancy beef these days.”

  “Christ above, whose beef?” Glenlyon didn’t hide his amusement. “Have you been lifting MacGregor cattle?”

  “You grieve me, cousin. Would I go reiving my own kin? No, these beasts were gifts from John MacDougall.”

  Glenlyon snorted disbelief. “It would interest me to hear if MacDougall knows that. Never mind that now. The lady looks ready to collapse. I’ll show her to a chamber, and we can discuss accounts later.”

  How had he known? Thoughts of a straw pallet held more allure for her at this moment than anything else. Her legs threatened to fold, and she feared she would crumple to the bare stone floor at any moment.

  A curved staircase led upward to the first floor, lit by a single torch but with niches where lamps would go. The smell of new wood mingled with that of fresh mortar. Glenlyon’s arm was warm, his step sure. She cast about for an ordinary topic, decided to choose the obvious.

  “How large do you intend to build?”

  “For now, this is as large as I can afford.” He guided her up the steps to a corridor on the first floor. “Not so large, as you can see, but ’twill withstand storms of nature and of men, I think.”

  “Do you expect storms of men?”

  “Always.”

  Long shadows lay thick in the corridor, and he bade her wait while he fetched a lamp. His steps echoed loudly in the empty hallway and on the stairs. Light from the torch below flowed across the floor in a faint square. It was silent in the shadows, and as she stood there alone, she thought how it would be to belong here in this keep of new wood and stone, built of dreams and determination.

  It awoke a fierce yearning in her.

  Light grew stronger, chasing shadows to far corners, and she turned as Glenlyon breached the top step. He held a small lamp in one hand, and it cast a rosy glow over his face.

  “There is no bed, but I’ll have one of the workmen find one for you on the morrow,” he said, and he led the way to the only chamber with a door already hung. It swung open in mute efficiency, solid oak with huge brass hinges.

  She wanted to ask if he intended to ransom her. Did he? Had he already written her father to demand payment for her return? And what would he say, she wondered, if she told him she would rather stay here?

  “Simon is fetching a servant to lay a fire and bring up more straw and a plaide for your bed,” he said as he crossed to set the lamp down near the hearth, “and a girl will bring you food. Simon was telling the truth about the beef. One of the carpenter’s wives sees to the cooking.”

  “Where will you sleep?” she asked, a question weighted with implications. She wanted to ask what lay ahead for her, if she was to be set aside yet again.

  He turned to look at her. “In the hall.”

  Judith walked to the narrow bed of straw against the far wall. A jug sat near it, empty now but with the residue of wine a faint fragrance still. A length of wool lay atop the straw. The window was wider than most, with a deep ledge around it and odd-looking strips of iron set into the stone instead of wood shutters.

  “Window glazing,” he said, coming up behind her where she stood at the window. “The glazier will set it soon. He cost me more than a week’s work for the master mason, but I remember my mother always wanted a window of glass.”

  “Did she ever get one?” She leaned against the ledge, watching him as he gazed out the window. A light breeze pushed his hair back, lifted it slightly where it lay against his neck in dark shadow.

  “You’ve seen Lochawe. It was not important to my father to have a glass window. ‘Wasteful,’ he said, and he’s right about that. It is a waste, when there are so many other necessary supplies to buy, carpenters to pay, smiths and woodcutters, the carters—” He paused, pressed knuckles to his brow, and said with a rueful smile, “I begin to think I should have been content with the turf and wattle hut.”

  “When it’s done, you’ll be glad.”

  “Aye, and penniless, unless the Whitsun rents are paid.” He scraped a hand over his jaw, shrugged, and slid her another faint smile. “I’ll not bore you longer with the accounts. Sleep well, lady, and the morrow will be easier.”

  It was difficult not to tell him that sleep would be much easier if she knew her fate. Still, when he had gone and she was alone, she reasoned that if he meant to ransom her, he would have said so. As yet, he treated her with only courtesy and regard, even with swift intervention of another man’s interest. What else could she think but that he would keep her here?

  That, she learned shortly, was a misconception.

  A tray of beef and the eternal porridge was brought to the chamber a short time after Glenlyon left, the woman who carried it cheerful and talkative.

  “’Tis no’ so very hot, m’lady,” she said, “but ’twill fill yer belly for the while. There’s new ale in the jug. Is there aught else I can bring ye?”

  “No—yes, if you will. I thought tomorrow I would lend my hand to setting all a’right in the kitchens. I’ll need a kerchief for my hair. Those who are used to the cooking and cleaning will meet me before first light.”

  Hesitating, the older woman bobbed her head, then said, “As ye please, m’lady.”

  “What is your position and your name?”

  “Me husband is Simkin, the tinker, and I am called Morag.”

  “Well, Morag, we shall deal well enough, I think, and set the laird’s household to good running order.”

  “Aye, m’lady, as ye say. But—” She paused again, then said in a rush, “But what shall I say should the laird take me tae task?”

  “Why should he, if we are efficient in our work?”

  “Grant pardon, lady, if I offend ye, but I was told tha’ ye are hostage, first tae the Red De’il, and naow the De’il’s Cub. Is’t naught o’ it true, then?”

  A cold bleakness gripped her, but Judith managed to ask her, “Did the laird tell you that?”

  “Nay, m’lady, he didna.”

  “Then until he does, I shall see to his household.”

  When Morag had gone, Judith sat quietly on the cot. The trencher of beef and porridge slowly congealed into a cold, unappetizing mess as time crawled by. Uncertainty was worse than certitude of disaster.

  After a while, as the lamp burned low and shadows crept from corners to claim more territory, she straightened, grim determination replacing her indecision.

  Tomorrow. By all that was holy, tomorrow Robert Campbell would tell her yea or nay. . . .

  Chapter 15

  DAYLIGHT PICKED out details in the construction that evening shadows had hidden. Rob went over the accounts with Simon, then supervised the workmen’s labor, watching as the masons carefully placed stones on the second floor. Ramps and scaffolds clung to the sides of the tower, and the steady tap of carpenters’ hammers on joists and floorboards sang a melody of progress.

  “Much of the materials are local,” Simon said as he squinted up at the workmen on the scaffolds, “and that has saved you money. The master mason costs you four shillings a
week, while the cheapest worker still costs sixpence.”

  “What of the barnekin walls?” Rob said. “Will they be finished by summer’s end?”

  “Och, aye, with only a little more to go.” Simon shot him a frowning glance. “Do you expect trouble?”

  “When has there not been?”

  “Peace these four years past—what do you know?”

  “The Red Earl of Ulster is dead, and the king is in Ireland. Trouble is afoot, and men are gathering.”

  “The regents stir up war.”

  “Aye, and hired mercenaries are converging in York. If Edward moves north, the Bruce will meet him.”

  “What of you?” Simon asked.

  “Word will come when I’m needed.”

  “And the lady?”

  Turning to face him, Rob said, “She will remain here until I decide.”

  “Will you return her to Argyll?”

  He had wondered that himself. Loath as he was to admit it, he knew that to relinquish the lady to a cruel fate was impossible. He would never do it willingly. Argyll would have to come to his gates with an army to recover his hostage, and he didn’t think him fool enough for that. There was the matter of treason that hung in the balance. . . .

  “Or to her family?” Simon asked when Rob did not reply at once. “You could ask a hefty ransom of Wakefield.”

  He swore softly.

  “Christ, Simon, you have more questions than an oak has leaves.”

  “And you are in a devil of a temper.” Simon leaned on a carpenter’s frame, eyeing his cousin. “You never told me why there is such bad blood between you and Argyll. Oh, I know of his treachery that saw you arrested by the English, but there is more to it, I think, than you have told.”

  “Aye, so there is.” It was a thing he’d not told anyone, for to reveal too much would be to share the danger. Argyll was ruthless and wouldn’t hesitate to use any means to find the proof of his treason. But that was hidden well, where no man could find it until he was ready. The time would come. He had only to wait.