Amanda Scott (18 page)

Black Duncan certainly had changed. The man who had just bade her good-night could not be the same man who had ordered Ian to stay away from her, or the one who had once angrily accused her of bewitching innocents. She tried to imagine any of those men married to Serena, found herself suddenly chuckling, and took herself off to her bedchamber, where she found Pinkie curled up on the high bed in a tight little ball, sound asleep.

Shutting the door quietly, Mary put a log on the fire. She poked at it until the flames began leaping merrily, then drew the coverlet gently over Pinkie, and sat down at the dressing table to let down her hair.

Fortunately and despite her tight stays, she could undress herself, and she did so at once, hanging the lovely dress in the wardrobe. Performing her ablutions hastily, she snuffed the few candles that lit the room and climbed into bed in her chemise, taking care not to waken the sleeping child.

Darkness surrounded her like heavy, suffocating black water. When she tried to move her hands and arms, they felt heavy, clumsy, almost as if someone else directed their movement. She could not see them. Moving her hand before her face seemed to take forever, and it did no good. She could not see it at all.

She touched a finger to her nose. She could feel it, but still she could see nothing. It was growing harder to breathe. Her chest felt tight, her lungs constricted.

She was leaning against solid rock, rough rock, damp and slimy rock. When she realized she had been leaning against it, that the slime had touched her hair and the back of her gown, she felt sick.

She was in some sort of cave or cavern, then, but what was she wearing? She could not tell, and she tried to remember what she had put on earlier, but she had no memory of an earlier time. It, like the hand before her face, was a total blank.

The fear increased slowly but steadily, till it threatened to swallow her. She could feel the blackness, the total lack of light. Added to that dread was the sense of being caged, closed in, and unable to break free. She did not need to stand up or step forward to know that the rock wall surrounded her, that it offered no way out.

She knew more. Someone was with her, someone she did not want to touch or to speak to. If she stayed quite still, he would not know she was there. He could not hurt her.

The wall moved, pressing against her. Involuntarily, she tried to cry out, but no sound emerged.

Fear blossomed to terror. She wanted to shriek for help, just to hear herself scream, but although she moved her lips, her throat tightened till she could not seem to breathe, and she could speak not a word, not a sound.

An inhuman screech sounded right in front of her, making her fling her head back against the wall, and suddenly light glowed as a threadlike gold line opposite her formed a rectangle in the thick blackness. Briefly, she saw Duncan’s image in what looked like the bed of a wheelbarrow. Then Allan’s long, narrow face flashed close to hers, pressing her back against the rocks again, blotting out the other image.

Rocks began falling all around her, and above her shrieks of terror, she heard whimpering and the cries of a child. It sounded like Pinkie’s voice, coming from above, but Pinkie was not there. A translucent shape appeared against the blackness, oval, green, shimmering, and Pinkie’s cries grew louder, nearly as loud as her own.

“M
ARY, MARY!” PINKIE’S VOICE
seemed closer than before, but at the same time, the pitiful whimpering grew clearer.

Small hands tugged at her sleeve. Little fingers pinched and pulled at her arm and shoulder. “Mary, Mary, stop! Oh, please stop!”

Feeling much as she imagined one might feel at being dragged from the depths of the sea, but mercifully aware that the horrid sounds in the cavern had begun to fade behind her, Mary relaxed and allowed the voice to draw her upward.

In that moment of release, as the horror rapidly receded, only the whimpering remained.

“Oh, wake up! Wake up, Mary!”

The whimpers ceased.

Blinking, starting a little at seeing Pinkie’s anxious face so close to hers, she felt confused and disoriented, unable to remember where she was or why Pinkie was there. Had the whimpers come from the child or from herself?

Muttering disconnectedly, she tried to sit up, but every muscle felt weak and useless. The dream that had seemed so real that it had drained all her strength faded and disappeared.

“Mary, are ye awake, then?” Pinkie’s small hands gave her another shake.

Drawing a deep breath to steady her agitated nerves, Mary said, “I’m awake, Pinkie. You can stop shaking me.”

Pinkie burst into tears, flinging herself atop Mary, holding her tightly, her thin arms convulsing as she sobbed.

The child’s distress put every other thought out of Mary’s head. Summoning strength and resolution that she had thought beyond her reach just then, she sat up, holding the little girl and murmuring reassuringly.

Reaching behind to shift her pillows so that she could lean against them, she said, “Pinkie, hush, you are quite safe. Hush now.”

The little body jerked again, and more sobs poured forth.

Mary smoothed the child’s hair, saying softly, “Very well then, lovey, have your cry right out.”

The sobs diminished soon after that to an occasional gasp or sniff, which did not surprise Mary, since in her experience, the moment someone told her it was perfectly all right to cry her eyes out, the impulse to do so disappeared.

She said quietly, “What is it, lovey? Why were you crying?”

“Ye were screaming in your sleep!”

Memory of her dream flashed, then faded. “I was screaming?”

“Aye, and cryin’,” Pinkie said, shuddering. “I never heard a grown woman scream like that afore. Why did ye, Mary?”

“Is that why you were frightened?”

Pinkie nodded vigorously against Mary’s bosom. “Ye were shriekin’ and cryin’ like ye was beset by devils. D’ ye no remember, Mary?”

Mary tried to catch the last, lingering vague threads of her dream, but they were wisps now, eluding her. She remembered only that the cavern had seemed terribly real at the time, not at all like something in a normal dream.

“I must have had a nightmare,” she said. “It was certainly frightening, Pinkie, but I cannot even recall what it was about now. That is the way of such dreams, you know. It was dark,” she added, frowning as a last wisp of memory flitted through her mind like a mischievous ghost, taunting her to catch it.

“Aye, it was dark,” Pinkie said, snuggling against her, “but it’s growing lighter the noo. Chuff will be up and working, I think. Must I go doon tae the kitchen, Mary? I mean, Mistress Mary,” she added quickly, guiltily, as if she had just remembered her place in the order of things.

Mary smiled. Then, realizing that she had not thought much about what the children would do at Balcardane, and remembering what Chuff had said about kitchen duties, she added, “Do you like the kitchen, Pinkie?”

“Aye, I like it fine. It smells good.”

“Does it?” Wrinkling her nose, Mary became aware that the little girl did not smell good. “Pinkie, have you ever had a bath?”

“A bath?”

“Have you ever sat in a tub of water to clean yourself or let someone else clean you,” Mary explained. “With soap.”

There was enough light now to see the child’s frown. “Nay, then, no in a tub, I never, and never wi’ soap neither. Me and Chuff, we played in the burn near Flaming Janet’s cottage in the summer, but we’d catch our deaths did we do any such daftie thing now!”

“Aye, you would,” Mary agreed. “I think we will both get up now and go down to the kitchen.”

“Ooh, mistress, will ye work there, too, then?”

“No,” Mary said, “but I want to see this place that smells so good, and I want to meet the cook.”

“Ah, she’s a fine woman, is Cook,” Pinkie said, scrambling out of bed. She had not taken off her clothes, so she had only to pull on her ragged shoes to announce herself ready for the day.

Mary took longer, but having only the three outfits she had brought with her and the pink gown she had worn to dinner, she had no great decision to make about what to wear. Dressed in a plain stuff gown with a gathered skirt and a modest bodice, and shivering in the frosty air, she sat down to brush her hair, twisting it deftly into its usual knot and pinning it firmly in place.

Pinkie watched her curiously, and Mary felt tempted to tackle the little girl’s hair, but she resisted the temptation. She had grander plans for Pinkie.

“Come along, lassie,” she said, taking the child by the hand. “Show me this fine kitchen of yours.”

Pinkie giggled. “It’s no my kitchen, miss. Belongs tae Himself, Chuff says.”

Realizing that both children thought the castle belonged to Black Duncan, Mary wondered if she should try to explain but decided not to make the attempt. They would understand their surroundings in time, and the strong possibility existed that they would not remain at Balcardane long enough for it to matter whether they comprehended the difference between the earl’s powers and those of his son.

Pinkie remembered the location of a service stair, and they found the kitchen easily. The child was right, Mary thought as they entered. It did smell good.

The kitchen was much larger than its equivalent at Maclean House, with a well-swept stone floor and a big central table. A huge fire roared at the oven end of the great fireplace, warming the whole room, and heating the huge black kettle on the iron swey above it.

Over coals at the other end, a joint turned on a clockwork bottle jack, and the aroma of sizzling juices filled the air, accounting for some, at least, of the pleasant odors that had so impressed the little girl.

A tall, lanky woman strode briskly across the room to meet them. She had a gypsy look about her, with a hawk nose, beetling black brows, and a firm thin-lipped mouth. Her black hair, streaked with grey, had been combed back into a tight bun beneath a plain, neat cap. Wearing a simple blue dress with a voluminous white apron over it, she bore an air of confidence, even of command.

“What’s this? Has Master Duncan decided I’m to have another drudge?”

Mary said with quiet dignity, “Are you his lordship’s cook?”

The woman’s expression altered swiftly. She nodded, saying respectfully, “Aye, miss, and I can see now that ye must be the young lass Sarah told me aboot. I should ha’ known when I saw ye wi’ the wee lassie.”

“I wanted to meet you,” Mary said, glancing around for any sign of Chuff and seeing none. “Pinkie has spoken kindly of you. Have you a moment? I know it is Sunday morning and you want to be off to the kirk when the morning chores here are finished, but I would like to request a favor.”

Nodding, the woman looked over her shoulder and called out, “Jessie, slice up the rest o’ that ham now, and get a move on. They’ll be down to eat it in a wink.” Turning back to Mary, she said, “I like the bairns, miss. That Chuff’s a treat, and though this ’un’s wee yet, she’s willing.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Mary said, giving Pinkie’s thin shoulder an approving squeeze. “Do you think perhaps someone could bathe them?”

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “The lassie’s hair needs a good combing, I’ll grant ye, miss, but a bath? This time o’ the year?”

“Yes, please, and some clean clothing if there is any at hand,” Mary added. “Both of them are very ragged, Cook.”

“I’m Martha to the family, miss.”

“Thank you, Martha, though I am not family, you know.”

“The mistress likes ye fine, and that’s good enough for me. I’ll see they get bathed then, and I’ll scare up something for them to wear.” She glanced toward Jessie and the ham. “Will that be all, miss?”

“Just keep them warm, Martha,” Mary said, smiling at her.

“Aye, I’ll do that. Not that I ken where that Chuff has got to. I set the lad to watch the joint, I did, but he up and vanished soon after. One o’ the stable lads came in about then, though, so I dinna doubt but what the wee rascal’s run off with him. You come along with me,” she added to Pinkie, “and I’ll give you a bowl of porridge and a jammy piece before you help Jessie with her work.”

Bidding Martha good-day, certain now that the children were in good hands, Mary returned to her bedchamber, where she found a lively fire burning in the fireplace, and the bed already made. The ewer on the washstand contained warm water, and a fresh towel hung on the hook. As she moved to wash her face, the door opened again behind her and Sarah entered with some dresses draped over one arm.

“Och, there ye are, miss. The lass that lighted your fire was that surprised to find ye gone from the room.”

“Good morning, Sarah. I woke early and went down to the kitchen with Pinkie, who is one of the two children who came to Balcardane with me. I wanted to thank the cook for looking after them, and see about getting them some clothing.”

“They dinna be gentlemen’s bairns, miss,” Sarah said, frowning.

“No, but I feel responsible for them, you see, and their clothes are sadly shabby. I spoke to Martha about it. Since you clearly know about the children, I collect that you and she are friends.”

“Aye, miss, we’ve kent one another since we was lassies. If Martha Loudon is looking after them bairns, ye’ve naught to fret about, I promise ye.”

“Thank you, Sarah, and thank you, too, if you came here expecting to help me dress. As you see, I am accustomed to waiting on myself, so there is no need.”

“Och now, Miss Mary, if I may call ye so, the mistress did send me with these frocks for ye to try. She said she kent ye wouldna want to go to the kirk this morning with the Lady Serena, looking like a dowdy, and if that dress is all ye’ve got to wear, she is in the right of it, I’m thinking. So let’s have that auld thing off ye, and see which of these dresses will suit. The mistress says ye’re to tak’ all ye want, since none o’ them will fit her anymore and she ha’ tired o’ the fabrics.”

Having not the least inclination to argue, Mary let the woman help her take off the old stuff gown.

“Hoots, then, but I ha’ near forgot,” Sarah exclaimed, pulling a folded piece of paper from her sleeve. “Someone’s sent ye this wee message, miss.”