The Laird Page 5

  Lady Lindsay stood still for a moment, shock written on her fine features. Light through the arrow loop shifted, caught in her hair, a hazy glow. She looked like the church’s depictions of the Madonna, with hands still clasped upon her breast, a halo of light above her head, the perfect symmetry of her face—until he recognized the unholy light that sprang into her eyes, the almost feral gleam. For an instant, he thought he’d erred in his evaluation of the lady and the circumstance.

  Then she tossed back her head, the glossy spill of her hair sliding over one shoulder as she stepped away from him. This was the expected reaction, this retreat from an offer she had obviously made out of desperation. He accepted it, though his body still throbbed with aroused need. Jesu, but he was glad of the long tunic over his trews.

  But then the lady’s hands moved to the laces of her bliaut, fingers tugging at the fine linen while her gaze held his in cool contempt. A faint, elusive smile touched the corners of her mouth, a mysterious curve that betrayed them both.

  Heat swamped him, renewed reaction a rapid surge to his groin, an inevitable response to her silent suggestion. He stood with narrowed eyes and clenched jaw, his body raw and throbbing as she untied her laces.

  The cloth fell away, pale drifts against skin of creamy white, a shadowed cleft separating twin globes barely visible beneath the linen garment. Rents in her green kirtle rendered it nearly unwearable, frayed threads barely holding it together over what had once been fine white linen of her bliaut. Gilt embroidery was unraveled, gold threads sparse on bodice and sleeves, reflecting light in tiny splinters.

  A challenge answered, surrender hovered, yet not even the fierce urges of his body could ignore the contempt in those cool green eyes that swept over him.

  “Is this what you desire, sir?”

  Chapter 5

  WITH HER TREMBLING fingertips still grazing the untied laces, Judith waited for his reply, tensing as he stared at her with hot lights dancing in his eyes. Oh, pray God that she had not misjudged him!

  It would not be the first time she had mistaken decency in a man, but that had been a long time ago, before she had years of bitter experience to her credit. Now she listened to that innate sense of recognition that warned her which man she could trust and which she could not.

  Bars of light weaving through the narrow window fell across him. Black hair framed features that were a fusion of strength and softness. His strong, square jawline was a stubborn angle, his nose straight and sculpted. A jagged scar was palely visible in dark stubble along the left side of his jaw, a badge of some battle, no doubt. But his eyes held a hint of humanity, smoke-colored beneath thick black lashes, sober and piercing. He looked both fierce and noble, a contradiction she dared not explore at the moment as she waited to see what he would do.

  Time hovered, a breathless eternity, an agonized delay as Judith’s lungs expanded with pent-up air, and doubts flew at her like bats in the night. Should she continue and hope for a reprieve? Refuse to go on? Oh he looked so . . . so savage standing there, that dark slash of his brow crowding eyes gone cold and narrow, and there was no hint of what to do, no sign that he would not take what she had so recklessly offered to give. A monumental blunder.

  Indeed, she recognized the evidence of a man’s desire in him, in the quick flash of light that had sparked in his eyes, in the way his gaze clung to the skin exposed by her open bliaut. Tension vibrated in the tall, lean body that was as finely honed as a steel blade.

  She had seen him in the bailey the day before, stripped to the waist and only in his trews, slashing viciously at a straw-filled sack with his sword. It had been an exercise of some sort, for he turned with precise motions, hampered some by his injured leg, but still oddly graceful. A dance of war, she’d thought then, as if he fought enemies only he could see. A warrior, beautiful and deadly.

  Fully clad now, in trews and a belted linen shirt open at the throat, he seemed no less intimidating.

  His eyes flickered, moved upward to her face, a probing gaze that held her captive and immobile.

  “Do not shame yourself, woman,” he said in a grating voice that seared her to the bone.

  Relief made her knees weak. “Am I to understand that you do not require submission from me, sir?”

  “Not that kind.”

  His gray eyes were like Scotch mist, she thought, just as fluid. They shifted from pale silver to nearly black, from light-tricked to midnight velvet. Now they were dark and thunderous beneath jet-black lashes.

  Bowing her head, Judith clasped her hands in front of her piously, though she could not bring herself to pretend a humility she did not feel. It was risk enough to tempt this Highland laird and escape unscathed, and there was no sense in ruining it now.

  “You do not deceive me, milady.”

  His soft voice brought her head up, and her stomach twisted into a knot at the harsh expression on his face.

  “Pray, sir, explain what you mean.”

  “You know well enough what I mean. This”—he reached out to lift a dangling lace in his hand—“is only a ploy. You betrayed yourself with your eagerness to retreat. Do not seek to deceive me like some callow youth.”

  Her chin lifted defiantly. “Some men prefer deceit.”

  “I am not some men. I am Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, and I will not tolerate trickery. Cover yourself, before I decide to take what you only pretended to give.”

  Heat scalded her cheeks, but she did not delay in retying the laces, albeit a little clumsily. His gaze on her was keen, piercing, and she felt suddenly stripped to the bone, not so much of garments but of pretensions, and yea, even hopes. This man was not one who would be lightly played as a minstrel’s lute.

  “I have but few weapons left to me, sir,” she said flatly to cover her embarrassment, “and if I must use female trickery, then I will do so.”

  “So I have seen.”

  “I much prefer honesty, but you did not listen to that.”

  “I listened. My answer was as honest as I could make it, and as plain. A letter, or your mark if you cannot write, is required of you. Ransom is all that will see you quit of Lochawe.”

  She smoothed the stained sleeves of her bliaut, then ran her hands down the sides of her kirtle. “And my answer was as plain as yours. I will not willingly leave Mairi. I will not write a letter, nor will I put my signature to any of your letters.”

  “An impasse.”

  She looked up to meet his eyes. “Yea, so it seems.”

  “What are your terms?”

  Blinking, she stared at him, saw the corners of his mouth tuck slightly inward, as if repressing a smile.

  “I have no terms.”

  “We are in negotiations, are we not? A truce, a temporary cease of hostilities in order to reach agreement. What are your terms?”

  Anger formed a tight knot in her throat, and she said stiffly, “My terms are as before: Send Mairi with me back to Caddel Castle, and I will write a letter. I do not leave her here alone.”

  “You will change your mind soon enough.” He cocked a dark brow at her. “Make no mistake on that.”

  He was gone as abruptly as he’d come, the slamming of the door reverberating in the cold tower room like an oath. The taste of peat smoke and apprehension stung the back of her throat, and Judith sought the table’s edge for support.

  Leaning on it, she took a deep breath. A narrow escape. What madness had prompted her to provoke him thusly? She found it difficult to decide if he was dangerous to her. A cipher, indeed, for he had seemed very dangerous the day of her arrival, his tone and mood savage. Today, he had seemed even more ruthless, save that he had not taken what she had offered.

  In truth, it had not been so great a risk for her to take. If he meant to have her, nothing she said or did would stay him. She was a hostage with few rights, a woman alone
in a foreign land, for all that she had spent nearly seven years in Scotland. It wasn’t home. Not her home.

  There were times she yearned for the sweet hills of England, for her father’s estate where she’d been born and spent her childhood with a sister and four brothers. Gillian gone now, married to a Welsh baron, and two brothers dead in the struggle between Robert Bruce and King Edward. The same war that had taken her brothers had given her father power, more lands, another title. It was during the brief truce signed in December 1319 that she had been wed to Kenneth Lindsay, a ploy engineered by barons to gain enemy lands, for her dower was a manor house and lands near York, her bride’s gift a Scottish estate in the Marches.

  There had been peace in Scotland since 1323, though the negotiations at York in 1324 had ended in the usual impasse, but there had been no resumption of hostilities. It was a peace Judith had hoped would see her returned to England since Kenneth’s death. That, too, had been a disappointment. Her father flatly refused to give up even a hide of land to have his daughter returned, and so she had been locked in a no-man’s-land between two countries, belonging to neither, an outsider and transient. Bitter truth, that she found herself wanted by none except the little heiress.

  Judith glanced toward the cot where Mairi lay sleeping. Another child to be used as a pawn, to be bartered and haggled over like wool or hides, just as she had been. There was a sense of betrayal in being used thus by family.

  There was nothing she could do to stop it, but if at all possible, she would ease Mairi’s adjustment to what was certain to be a struggle between two powerful clans. The girl she had once been would have given anything to know the comfort of a loving touch in times of strife and uncertainty, and she meant to give what she could to Mairi. It wasn’t the child’s fault she’d been born into a world of chaos.

  Moving to the narrow window, Judith crossed her arms over her chest and gazed down into the bailey below. Life here was much as it was in Caddel Castle, even England. All had tasks to tend, beasts to care for, duties to perform for laird as well as family.

  It must be true that idle hands were the devil’s tools, for with nothing to do save amuse little Mairi, Judith found herself plotting strategies that would see them well and away from Lochawe. It was a crude, mean keep with little comfort about it, only mud and gray clouds to recommend it that she’d seen, and the people were brutal.

  The woman who brought their meals was sullen, with small, squinty eyes and a short temper, contempt written on a face as wrinkled as wet wool stockings. Yet beneath that contempt lay fear that at first Judith hadn’t understood. It was only when she’d made a leftwise circle in her pacing and had seen the woman’s swift sign of the cross over her sunken chest that she’d realized why she was regarded as if she was dangerous.

  Superstition was everywhere, even in England, but in the people of Scotland she had seen conviction in the belief that lives were ruled—and ruined—by witches. It was a risk. Any association with witchcraft could see her in true danger, but it was also a form of protection. It kept the old woman at bay, her insults few now. She left food and drink and departed swiftly, the amulet around her wrist worn openly to ward off evil.

  Staring out the window, Judith saw an instrument for negotiation at hand, if only she had the wit and courage to use it well.

  Chapter 6

  MURKY LIGHT CAST fitful shadows in the great hall. Long trestle tables were set up for the evening meal, benches set around the scarred oaken tables for visiting tenants and the inhabitants of the keep. There was no ceremony here, not as in the great halls of noblemen and kings. Food was brought from the kitchens, a communal pot with trenchers set out for the diners to dish their own meal.

  Angus sat nearest the fire, his back to it, shoulders hunched forward, his face set in an expression of guarded courtesy as the visitor to his right carried on a trivial discussion about hunting wild boar. It was almost painful to watch.

  At the far end of the table, Rob stared at his still full wooden trencher of meat and boiled turnips. Not even oatcakes could tempt him. His appetite waned. Conversation flowed around him, an ebb and flow of mostly petty remarks that barely penetrated his apathy. Then a comment caught his attention, and his head came up, eyes narrowed slightly on the speaker.

  “Now that the Red Earl is dead in Ulster, the king intends to put the English to flight in Ireland. With his father-in-law’s death putting Ireland into chaos, the Bruce is taking advantage of the disorder.” Sir David smacked his lips as if tasting a comfit and grinned. “Mark me, he means to roust Mandeville from Ireland.”

  Angus nodded agreement. “It seems likely. D’ye join the fight?”

  “Not in Ireland.” Sir David glanced at Rob. “Rumor has it that the queen and Mortimer have begun to mobilize an army, for all that the truce has been prolonged. If Queen Isabella has her way, every mercenary in Europe will fight under the regent’s banner.”

  Sir David addressed his comments to Angus, but his gaze also included Rob. His voice had been lifted to carry down the length of the table, and other conversation stilled. Rob did not reply, jabbing at his meat with the point of his dirk as he studiously ignored them.

  Yet he had grasped the meaning at once, as no doubt did all those there. Queen Isabella meant to flout the truce, her lover Roger Mortimer goading her on as they acted in the interests of the young king. While Bruce was officially acclaimed king of Scotland, they still tested his will to hold the country. They would find his mettle strong, Rob reflected, despite the years of warfare and the promise of lasting peace that dangled so enticingly.

  “Argyll has cast his lot with the Earl of Ross,” Sir David continued, “as have others of the Highlands. Will the Red Devil of Lochawe be among them?”

  “I owe fealty to Argyll and honor to Bruce. I will do as I am bid.” It was the expected reply, given readily.

  Silence fell, thick with tension. Rob stared down at his trencher. Grease congealed around the mutton, and the turnips were colorless and unappetizing. Trouble brewed in the kitchens again, apparently. No decent cook would serve such food to guests or even to the laird without expecting a harsh rebuke. He’d have Fergal settle the kitchen problem, since Angus obviously cared less than usual.

  Aware that his name was being repeated, he looked up to see his father scowling at him fiercely and Sir David looking a little bemused.

  “Sir David asks about Glenlyon,” Angus said again, his voice near a snarl. “Will ye fight?”

  “Not with Argyll.” Rob met his father’s gaze steadily. “If Black Douglas calls me, I will fight under his banner.”

  It was as near an insult without being direct that he could make and keep the peace, and he saw that Sir David understood immediately. The man’s brow rose, his mouth went thin, and he gave a short jerk of his chin in recognition of Glenlyon’s reply.

  Without waiting for more discussion, Rob rose from the table and gave a polite excuse for leaving.

  A chill wind greeted him outside the hall, the bailey fair quiet for the night. The usual sentries manned their posts on the barnekin walls, horses in the roofed stables stomped hooves, and chickens clucked sleepily. Sir David’s train was camped on solid ground beyond the marsh, save for a few men inside. He traveled heavily for a man supposedly on an idle journey to visit old friends.

  Rob suspected he’d been sent to ferret out information, to learn who would fight on what side. Not all Scots were loyal to the Bruce. Some still held close ties to England through blood and marriage.

  As the lady in the tower.

  Lady Lindsay’s father was the Earl of Wakefield, a powerful English baron with a foot in both camps. It was said he straddled countries as he straddled loyalties, and there was little reason to trust him. Or to believe that he would ransom his daughter. Perhaps she would get her desire after all, for it seemed that she would be in Lochawe for a long time unless s
he convinced her father to pay the ransom.

  Another slight possibility.

  The wet wind smelled of horse and sheep, and he turned to go back into the keep. Drawn by thoughts of the widow, an upward glance found the narrow window of her tower chamber. A sliver of light indicated the shutter was open; through the small opening, he could pick out vague shadows and knew she was awake yet.

  Did she pace, wondering what to do, or was she plotting a new strategy? Sweet Mary, but she had almost won out with her last ploy, for he had wavered dangerously close to following the urges of his body instead of the warnings that rang loudly in his head. It had been cursed plain that Lady Lindsay’s reaction to his kiss was decidedly different than his reaction, an inescapable fact. She had remained coolly calculating, while he’d been ready to tumble her on the floor.

  It had effectively dampened his ardor, he thought wryly, and it left him feeling like a fool.

  Voices drew his attention from the window, and he heard Auld Maggie and Fergal quarreling just inside the arched door that led to the granary. Another heated argument about the hostage, from the sound of it. Maggie’s voice was lifted to near a screech, while Fergal’s tone was a muted growl. Unabashed at eavesdropping, Rob moved closer to hear.

  “I tell ye,” Maggie was fair shouting, “she be a witch! ’Tis obvious to a dolt, so ye should see it well enough.”

  “She’s Sassenach. All know they’re a daft lot, given to odd habits. Witches are evil looking, no’ fair as the lady in the tower.”

  Rob leaned against the stone wall beside the open door, half amused, half pondering, as he listened.

  “Och, ye’re addled if ye think she doesna know well the black arts, Fergal of Kenshire, for I tell ye tha’ she was walking widdershins—an’ when she passed by the shield hung on the wall, there was narry a hint of her to be seen in it. Is that the way of a Sassenach? Even Longshanks himself cast a reflection, by all the saints!”