The Laird Page 6

  “Aye, woman, ye’re fair addled yerself. Ye think to blame a lame cow on the evil eye? Blame it instead on tha’ fool of a grandson of yours, for letting his cur nip the beastie’s hind leg too hard.”

  “Tam’s a good lad! D’ye think tha’ would sour her milk, too?” Maggie snorted derisively. “Ye willna see wha’ is right in front of ye, Fergal, and mark me, ye’ll regret it.”

  Irritation raked Fergal’s voice as he snapped, “How did she cast an evil eye, when she hasna been out of the tower?”

  Maggie turned, jabbed a finger toward the tower where the light still glowed in the narrow window. “She has an eye on the bailey and gate through yon arrow loop.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Fergal blew out a sigh of exasperation. “How will ye remedy it, then?”

  “Ashes of rowan wood need be scattered on the ledge, so she cannot cast her evil eye out of the chamber. ‘Close the north window and quickly close the south, and close the window towards the west, evil never came from the east,’ is the old saying, as ye maun know.” She shivered. “A black wind blows, Fergal, and brings evil wi’ it. Cast her out, I tell ye. Tell the laird. He canna know what disaster he ha’ brought into his keep.”

  “I would think he knows well enough. He’s lost seven of his sons,” Fergal said softly. “His heir is dead.”

  “Aye, but ’tis as I always told ye. Kenneth wa’ never meant to be laird of Lochawe. ’Tis Rob tha’ wore the caul when he was born, the only one out of all eight, a sign. He be the laird as the signs foretell.”

  Rob had heard of Auld Maggie’s prophecy before, and it amused him no more now than it had then. He straightened from his slouch against the doorframe and stepped into the faint light cast by torches in iron sconces.

  “Lochawe is still laird,” he said, and when Maggie’s head jerked toward him, he added, “The lady is not a witch. She is a hostage here, but she will be treated as an honored guest until she is ransomed.”

  Auld Maggie’s wrinkled face settled into deeper creases. Her mouth pursed into a knot of disbelief, but a glance at his face kept her silent. Only Fergal dared speak.

  “There be a rumbling in the hall about the woman tha’ has naught to do with witchcraft. The widows and bairnies of yer brothers willna regard her as a guest any more than does our timid Maggie.”

  “Timid!” Maggie burst out, glaring at him as she lifted a knotted fist to shake it in Fergal’s face. “Ye’ll be chewin’ yer own teeth in a trice if ye dare say tha’ agin!”

  Ignoring Maggie, Rob saw the truth in Fergal’s remark. He agreed with them and would not have said what he had if he hadn’t been irritated by Maggie’s repetition of her old prophecy. That prophecy had caused friction with Kenneth for years, though his older brother had never mentioned it to Rob. Why would he? He was firstborn. It was unlikely that the fourth-born son would ever be laird of Lochawe.

  Yet here he was, the only one left, the Red Devil’s heir after all.

  Rubbing his chin, Fergal asked, “Did Lochawe say the woman is to stay?”

  “No ransom comes. She will be with us a while. Unless one of you has a better suggestion?” He lifted a brow when Auld Maggie muttered an imprecation. “Speak up, Maggie, if you have something to say.”

  Fiercely, the old woman spat, “Test her! Put her in a sack, sew it up, and toss her in the loch. If she floats, she be a witch. Then ye can burn her.”

  “And if she doesn’t float, she drowns,” Rob said wryly. “Absolution by death, a difficult choice, to be certain. I’ll think it over. But for now, leave her be. And keep any accusations to yourself. If I hear them, I know where they came from, and I’ll be most displeased with you.”

  He pierced Maggie with a ruthless stare that made her take a step back. Her chin quivered slightly, and after a moment, she dropped her gaze and bobbed her head.

  “Aye, I’ll no’ be warnin’ t’ others, but neither will I go near enow to be struck down.”

  “Then stay away from her. That’s your choice. Since the bairn is to stay with us until old enough to wed Argyll’s son, she needs care. It might as well be the widow who tends her. I expect cooperation from everyone in this keep. She is to earn her own subsistence while with us.”

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed on him. “Wha’ does the laird ha’ to say aboot it?”

  “As you’ve just said so freely,” Rob replied coolly, “I am the next laird of Lochawe. Keep that in mind.”

  Auld Maggie’s lips pressed tightly together, and she fell silent.

  Rob turned on his heel and stalked away, his temper raw from the reminder of what lay ahead. Angus wouldn’t live forever, for if he continued as he was, he may not live out another year. Since the raid on Caddel Castle, he’d lapsed into days and nights of drunken stupor, save for the brief hours of courtesy when visitors arrived.

  While he understood, Rob still resented his father’s lapse. Angus Campbell was laird here. He should have done more to save his sons, should have refused Argyll, should not behave now as if it was Rob’s fault they’d died.

  God knew, if he could have prevented it, he would. It was a grim thought, the facing of the widow, knowing that if not for her and the child, his brothers would still live. But he had made his stand, and he would stay by it. That did not mean he had to ally with Lady Lindsay, however.

  She was a constant reminder of all that he had lost.

  Chapter 7

  JUDITH MADE HER way cautiously down the winding stone steps to the great hall. Liberty was a fragile thing, welcome and yet feared in Lochawe. While not free to leave the keep, she passed the time more easily now, even carding wool and mending garments. She cared for Mairi and tidied the new chamber they’d been given in the east tower. It was no larger but more comfortable, with a double bed instead of the narrow cot and a hearth large enough for a decent fire instead of the small, smoking peat fire of the north-side chamber.

  Glenlyon took pains to avoid her, she noticed, slipping out one door when she came in another, his tall, lean frame easily recognizable. It was a relief. And an irritation.

  Why should he avoid her? It wasn’t her fault she was held here, nor was it her fault his brothers were dead. For that blame, he need only look to his father. It was galling that he considered her the cause.

  But it was frightening that the old laird lay the blame at her door. She’d seen a ferocity in his eyes that made her draw Mairi close both times she accidentally encountered him in the hall. The smell of whisky was strong on him, the look on his face malevolent and ugly.

  The Campbell never spoke directly to her. He didn’t have to. His feelings were obvious and frightening.

  It was a relief when she now passed through the hall without encountering the auld laird. Nearing the kitchens, Judith hoped she would not see him today. Mairi was napping in their chamber, and she had come down to scrounge up some kind of meal other than boiled mutton and turnips. Surely, even in April, there should be something other than such meager fare to eat.

  Hitching up the trailing tail of the léine that dragged the floor, she adjusted the brèid that flowed over her shoulders, the dull-colored garment bulky but warm. It was a poor replacement for her own gown, but for the sake of modesty, she’d been forced to discard her kirtle. The rough journey had rendered it nearly to rags, and she’d been given these castoffs to wear, a miserable exchange for the soft green wool gown.

  She disliked the garments these Scots wore and had clung to her English clothing during all her years in Scotland. It was a comfort and a reminder to her of who she really was, someone who couldn’t be obliterated or subjugated. Now, here, in this dismal, dank, and dirty keep, she began to lose that sense of home that had kept her from despair.

  ’Tis God’s grace, she thought, that I have Mairi to keep me from going mad.

  The kitchens were dark, lit by cooking fi
res and only a single tattered torch, and they needed a good scrubbing. Soot-blackened pots with crusted food lay scattered on a long table scarred from years of use. Utensils were carelessly strewn on table and hearth. A few shriveled turnips had tumbled out of a frayed basket, lying on the stone floor beside a pile of spilled oats.

  A slatternly scullery wench dozed in a corner, draped upon sacks of grain with her short léine flung up almost to her waist, exposing pale thighs to the world. Her mouth hung open, soft snores the only sound in the kitchen.

  Accustomed to the scrupulous order in the kitchens of her childhood and the tidy state of the Caddel kitchens, Judith could only stand for a moment in horror. Then anger replaced disgust as the scullery wench snored even louder.

  Judith strode forward and nudged her with the sole of her shoe. “Rise,” she commanded, “and clean this unholy mess you’ve left lying about! Do you mean to serve your lord meals cooked in yesterday’s filth? Get up, I say!”

  Snorting awake, the scullery wench sat up, knuckling sleep from her eyes with one hand. She blinked sleepily and said in Gaelic, “Ye’re no one to be ordering me about.”

  “It’s plain you need someone to give you orders, for the place is worse than any sty. Where is your mistress?”

  The girl’s eyes widened slightly in belated recognition of Judith. “Gone,” was her sulky reply, given after a brief hesitation and swift crossing of her chest as if to ward off evil.

  Judith’s lips compressed. It was obvious that silly old woman had spread her vicious rumors of witchcraft. While vexing, it could be useful.

  She stepped forward, lowered her voice, and crooned in a soft mixture of English and French that she was certain this girl would not understand, “Slovenly bit, if I could lay a curse upon your head, I would.” The dark eyes widened with fear, and the serving girl scrabbled backward on the bags of grain, arms and legs flailing as she struggled to her feet.

  Her efforts dislodged a pewter pot on a shelf over her head, and it tipped, spilling foul-smelling contents over the girl’s head. Her sputtering wail was loud, cut short by Judith’s uplifted hand.

  “Do as I tell you, or it will go badly with you,” Judith warned in native Scots, and she knew from the quick bob of the girl’s head that she’d succeeded in gaining her cooperation as well as some measure of respect for powers she didn’t possess. The accidentally tilted pot had ensured success.

  “Clean yourself,” she ordered. “Then heat water in yon cauldron to clean these utensils. There is scrubbing sand, I see, and some stiff brushes. Use them. Then sweep this floor until you can see the stones beneath all this muck and grime.”

  While the girl set about with an energy Judith would not have suspected, she began to prowl through the stores to find edible supplies. Surely there would be something else to eat beyond the eternal porridge, oatcakes, and turnips.

  “What are you doing, milady?” a deep male voice said right behind her when she was bent over inspecting a crock of dried lentils, and she gave a yelp of surprise as she stood up, cracking her head against a heavy wooden shelf.

  Glenlyon regarded her with a lifted brow, something close to amusement in his gaze.

  Flushing, Judith massaged the back of her head and said with as much dignity as she could manage, “I’m searching for edible food.”

  “Our table is too meager for you?”

  “Your table is too inedible for me. Look at this—” She swept out a hand to indicate the dirty tables and kettles. “The kitchen looks as if you keep swine in it.”

  To prove her point, there was the audible snuffling of a pig just outside the open doorway, then a high-pitched squeal followed by the excited barking of a dog.

  “Ah no,” he said calmly, “Caesar keeps the swine well trained and out of the kitchens.”

  “Caesar?”

  “My old hound. ’Tis all he can manage these days, and it keeps him content, so I allow it. Once, he was the finest alaunt in Scotland. Now he’s reduced to herding swine.”

  “Is there a lesson for me in that allegory?” she asked sharply, and a faint smile pressed at the corners of his mouth.

  “If you find one, milady.”

  A bit nonplussed, Judith just stared at him for a long moment. The sadness still etched his face, easily visible in his eyes, but it had lessened. Acceptance had settled in, a weary resignation that weighed on him like a heavy cloak. He was not as impenetrable as he’d like to believe, she thought then, for the face he presented to the world was too easy to read.

  “I see you now wear our native garb, milady,” he said, and she realized she’d been staring at him.

  “Yea, though not without regret. I find the bulk a bit daunting.” She plucked at the thick folds of brèid, the rectangular piece of woven wool thrown around the body and fastened on her breast with a brooch. This one was too long for her, dragging the ground along with the léine, the long shirt of unbleached linen decorated with what once had been a pretty design at the neck, but the embroidered red threads were now frayed and the design obscure.

  “At least you have two shoes now,” he said with a lift of his brow and a pointed glance at her feet.

  Curling her toes inside the thin footwear, she glared at him. “’Twas hardly my fault my shoe was lost. If not for the rude manner in which I was brought here, I would yet be well-shod and garbed, sir.”

  “Would you? If Clan Caddel cares so little for your return, I had not thought they would go to the trouble of seeing you properly clothed.”

  It was a scalding reminder of her situation. Judith drew in a sharp breath.

  As if he had not noticed her anger, he continued, “Why are you down here terrifying Catriona?”

  “Someone should terrify her. She’s lazy. I found her asleep instead of cleaning, and it’s obvious this kitchen needs a good scrub. I shudder to think of the food I’ve eaten being prepared in such squalor. Where is your mistress or chatelaine?”

  Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he leaned back against the massive table slowly being cleared by Catriona and surveyed the kitchen for a long moment. Then he turned his attention back to Judith. Heavy-lidded eyes regarded her silently, an appraisal that made her wonder if there was dirt on her face or a bird snared in her hair, and she grew uneasy. A faint explosion of light glinted in his eyes, then faded, and the hard line of his mouth curved into the barest of smiles.

  “This humble keep is hardly large enough to merit someone as grand as a chatelaine, milady. No doubt, you are used to such at Caddel Castle. No? Well, certainly the earl your father employed such, and you are familiar with the duties. If you find our lodgings so lacking, perhaps you should take up the tasks that Maggie and Catriona failed to complete to your satisfaction. You may be a hostage here, but that’s no reason why you should not use your—talents—to good effect. I give you leave to see to the kitchens and other such tasks that need a woman’s touch. Perhaps you may earn your freedom since no one sees the necessity of relieving you of our company.”

  “Is it your place to make such an offer? I had thought your father to be the laird, sir.”

  “So he is. He does not concern himself with such small matters as the business of women, however.”

  Judith’s cheeks burned with anger at his dismissive tone and gesture. Bending, she scooped up one of the turnips from the floor and thrust it close to his face, taking a small measure of satisfaction at how quickly his head jerked back from the fetid odor.

  “The business of women? Do you truly enjoy rancid turnips for your dinner? If so, there are those aplenty here, and ’tis most like what we have all grown accustomed to eating if yon slattern is in charge of preparing our meals. I prefer decent food and have lived in Scotland long enough to know it is plentiful, if one takes time and pride enough to use what God provides. Your larders are near barren, sir, when they should be w
ell-stocked with provender more palatable than oats and spoiled turnips.”

  They had been speaking in English, and Judith saw from one corner of her eye that Catriona had paused to listen, her mouth slightly agape and eyes wide. Their raised voices had summoned other spectators, and she saw that Rob was now aware of it as well.

  Black brows snapped down over his eyes, and his mouth flattened into a straight, fierce line.

  “If you seek to embarrass me in front of my own, I advise against it, milady.”

  It was said softly, but the menace in his tone warned her not to provoke him further.

  Just as softly, she said, “Grant pardon, sir, if I have offended you with the truth.”

  There was a long pause, and she knew she had gone too far. Her belly clenched, and chill oozed through her veins as he stared down at her. What had possessed her to speak out so? She may well have endangered Mairi with her blunt speech, and she should have curbed her wicked tongue.

  To her surprise, he laughed, a short burst of sound that seemed to startle him as much as it did her. Wary, she did not move as some of the tension eased, and he shook his head.

  “Milady, you dare much,” he said wryly, “but I cannot disagree. It has been on my mind to set the kitchens aright, and now you shall have the task. Do it well, and we will all benefit.”

  Judith stared after him as he left the kitchens, his gait clumsy with the staff he carried to prop his injured leg as he walked. Glenlyon was more complex than she had first thought. This was not the first time he’d surprised her, and she had an inescapable feeling it would not be the last. He was unpredictable, swerving between ruthless and kind at an alarming rate.

  The Red Devil’s Cub was definitely a contradiction to all she had heard of him.

  Chapter 8