Bride for a Knight (15 page)

His bride looked far too fetching in the soft glow cast by the well-doing dais fire and he couldn’t allow such a tempting distraction—not with the image of that dread wet plaid looming in his mind.

But he did wish to distract his father. Only so could he squeeze more than rants, splutters, and snorts out of the man.

So he took a seat, snitching a bit of cheese from a platter and tossing it to Cuillin. Then he got comfortable and launched his assault.

“Anyone who can afford blazing log fires in every hearth can also allow a bit of openhandedness when selling cattle to a long-time ally.”

Just as he’d expected, his father tightened his lips and frowned at him.

And said not a word.

“I hope, too,” Jamie went on, circling a finger around the rim of his ale cup, “that you’ve laid an equally fine fire in your bedchamber? It’s a chill night and I wouldn’t want you catching an ague.”

Munro gripped the table edge and leaned forward. “Since I willna be sleeping in that room again, there’s no danger of me taking ill there.”

Gesturing for Morag to replenish his ale, he sat back in his throne-like laird’s chair and treated Jamie to a rare smile.

A smug smile.

Tight-lipped and defiant.

“Indeed,” he continued, his self-pleased stare still riveted on Jamie, “I just decided I shall sleep in your chamber. You can have mine.”

Refusing to be baited, Jamie didn’t even blink. “As you will. Truth be told, I am much relieved as I’d heard you’d meant to make your bed in the hall and I would not have allowed that. Too many men spread their pallets here and I’d not see your night’s rest disturbed.”

Not when one amongst those men might wear two faces.

And a sopping wet plaid.

Sure of it, Jamie reached across the table, laid strong fingers atop his father’s age-spotted hand. “Tell me,” he said, speaking low, “when Neill came to you this last time, was he swathed in his burial shroud or wearing his plaid?”

“His plaid, you buffoon!” Munro snapped, yanking back his hand. “His drenched and dripping plaid.” He twisted around and shot a glare at Morag. “As everyone in this hall knows!”

“Then I shall offer him a new and dry one if he dares make a repeat visit,” Jamie declared, bracing himself for his da’s next outburst. “And you shall indeed quarter in my bedchamber. You and two trusted guardsman.”

“
‘Two trusted guardsmen’!
” Munro mimicked, glancing around. “There’s not a soul under the heavens can hold back a flood once the waters start rushing. I near drowned in my bed, and no muscle-armed, smirking guardsmen woulda been able to help me had the waters not receded when they did.”

“But such treacherous waters as the Garbh Uisge can be rendered harmless if one avoids them.” Lady Juliana picked up a platter of jam-filled wafers, setting it in front of Munro, but turning a sharp eye on Jamie. “There are many who would sleep with greater ease if you vowed to avoid the Rough Waters,” she said, something in her expression making Jamie tense.

“Trust me,” he said, “I’ve no wish to go there. If e’er an ill wind blew through these hills, that’s where it is. But I do mean to examine the damaged footbridge,” he added, feeling every eye at the high table upon him. “The bridge will have to be repaired.”

“That devil-damned monstrosity canna be repaired,” Munro grumbled, and bit into a wafer. “I’ve sent every last bit of it to the flames o’ hell where it belongs!”

“‘The flames o’ hell’?” Jamie exchanged glances with Aveline, but she looked equally perplexed.

“Och, aye. Straight to Lucifer himself,” Munro snipped, reaching for a second wafer.

“He means he’s burned it,” Beardie gibed, elbowing his way through the throng. “The whole footbridge. Every last piece.”

Burned it. Every last piece
.

The words circled in Jamie’s head, an unpleasant inkling taking seed as Beardie came closer and the red, pulsing glow from the dais fire edged his great, bumbling form.

Jamie looked from his cousin to his father and back again. “Dinna tell me the logs blazing on every hearth grate are bits of the footbridge?”

Munro sucked in his breath and spluttered something unintelligible. But the annoyance sparking in his eyes proved Jamie’s suspicions.

His tightfisted da hadn’t spent a coin laying in fuel for Baldreagan’s scores of fireplaces. The bright gleam Jamie had noticed lighting every tower window were the flames of his brothers’ death weapon.

Beardie’s beard-shaking nod confirmed it.

Looking pleased to be the bearer of as-yet-unknown tidings, he drew up behind Gelis, his tarnished Viking helmet clutched in his hand.

“Where do you think we’ve been these last days?” He cocked a bushy brow, indicating a few other kinsmen milling about in the shadows.

Death lurked in those shadows
, Jamie would’ve sworn someone whispered. Someone close behind him, their voice pitched low and full of warning. But when he twisted around and glanced over his shoulder, no one stood near enough to have flustered the words.

Hughie Mac held court on the far side of the hall, playing his fiddle with gusto and flourish. And one of Jamie’s cousins had drawn a fulsome kitchen lass into the semi-privacy of a nearby window embrasure, the flickering torchlight revealing the white gleam of her naked breasts and that his cousin’s hand was groping deep beneath the lassie’s skirts. Other cousins occupied themselves shouting encouragement to two MacKenzie guardsmen enjoying a vigorous round of arm-wrestling at one of the long tables.

And Morag hovered close by the dais steps, her sharp gaze on Beardie’s older lads as they chased a few of the more playful castle dogs around the oaken partition that made up the hall’s screens passage.

Everything appeared as it should.

Yet he’d swear he could feel malignant eyes watching him.

“Those were dark hours, down at the Garbh Uisge,” Beardie was saying, and a few listening kinsmen nodded in shuddery agreement. “Tearing apart what remained o’ the bridge and fishing the rest from the water. I wouldn’t want to do the like again.”

Jamie tipped back his head and stared up at the smoke-blackened ceiling, blew out a frustrated breath.

Wouldn’t want to do the like again,
Beardie had quipped. A muscle in Jamie’s jaw twitched.

Would that it hadn’t been done at all.

Wishing that were so, he put back his shoulders and straightened his spine against the chill creeping over him. Ever since discovering the wet plaid, he’d wanted to examine the fallen bridge.

Scour each and every inch of splintered, shattered wood for hints of foul play.

But now the best he could do would be sweeping the bridge’s ashes from Baldreagan’s hearth grates.

And making certain that the misbegotten sod who was staring such angry holes into him was kept well away from his lady and his da.

Well prepared for a clash of wills with the latter, he reached across the table and slid the platter of jam-filled wafers away from his father’s grasp.

“Whose idea was it to burn the bridge’s remains?”

“The bogles,” Beardie answered him, claiming a seat beside Gelis. “Neill was furious with your da because o’ what happened and warned he wanted no reminder left o’ the tragedy.”

“The idea was my own,” Munro insisted, fisting his hands on the table. “Mine, and Alan Mor’s. I’m paying for a new bridge to be built and he’s seeing to the sculpting of my sons’ effigies and tombs.”

He glanced at Jamie. “’Tis part of our agreement. A way to appease the bogles.”

Jamie frowned and bit his tongue.

Beardie looked doubtful. “But you said they’re wroth—”

“And so they are!” Munro shot back, glaring down the table. “Though why they dinna plague Alan Mor as well is beyond me. He bears equal blame for letting the footbridge fall into disrepair. God kens we both made use o’ the thing!”

“And did anyone examine the bridge before you turned it into firewood?” Jamie asked, his persistence reaping another of his da’s dark frowns.

When nothing but the scowl answered him, he pushed to his feet.

“I’ll see Lady Aveline to Kendrick’s old chamber,” he said, already moving to help her rise. “It’s closest to yours, and since I’d relish a visit from Neill or whoe’er else might wish to call, I’ll gladly accept your offer that we exchange rooms.”

Munro grunted and reached for his ale cup. “You’ll be sorry you’re jesting about your brothers’ ghosts,” he warned, tossing down a swig. “They
are
afoot and they willna be pleased with your mockery.”

Jamie shrugged. “And I willna be pleased if I visit the Garbh Uisge and uncover one sign of fiddling—and I dinna mean yon Hughie Mac and his music!”

Sliding his arm around Aveline’s waist, he drew her against him, feeling a need to shield her. “Whether the bridge is gone or not, there might yet be something left that the
bogles
dinna want us to see. If so, I mean to find it.”

He glanced round at his kinsmen and friends, making sure everyone had heard him.

Hoping any
un
-friends who might be about, heard as well.

“And when I do, it won’t be me who’ll be the sorry one,” he added, pulling Aveline along with him as he strode for the tower stair.

But their exit was marred by a feminine gasp, a rustling flurry of skirts as Gelis leapt to her feet and dashed after them.

“O-o-oh, you canna go near the cataracts,” she cried, grabbing Jamie’s arm. “Say you will not!”

He swung around and looked down at her, the fear in her eyes and the paleness of her face making him all the more determined to go indeed. Especially since she was Linnet MacKenzie’s daughter.

He knew better than to discount warnings coming from that direction, but he also recognized the need for caution. So he patted her hand and forced a reassuring smile.

“Ne’er you worry,” he lied, telling a falsehood to an unsuspecting female for what was surely the hundredth time in just the last few days. “I willna go near the Rough Waters.”

But I might poke around a bit on the braeside overlooking them
.

That last, of course, he left unsaid.

“I did not like the way she looked at you.”

Aveline blurted her concern the moment they topped the turnpike stair head.

“Gelis?” Jamie shot her a bemused look. “The Black Stag’s sassy wee gel?”

Aveline nodded.

She smoothed her hands on her skirts, annoyed by their dampness. Truth was, she hadn’t seen anything
wee
on the MacKenzie lass.

Not that it mattered.

She’d liked the girl. And Jamie—clearly hearing with a man’s ears—had totally misunderstood her.

Even so, she wished the words unsaid. But that was impossible, so she let him lead her down the dimly lit passage and into the empty bedchamber that had been his brother Kendrick’s.

She bit her lip as they crossed the threshold, her own agitation immediately forgotten. Faith, but the room’s silence twisted her heart.

Truth be told, she’d liked Kendrick tremendously. Though like her sisters and any female with a whit of sense, she’d known not to take him seriously. A notorious skirt-chaser; laughing-eyed, full of himself, and e’er amusing, he’d been the most dashing of the Macpherson brothers.

Quick to smile, outrageously flirtatious, and able to make even the most withered stick of a crone feel beautiful.

Aveline swallowed, fighting against the thickness in her throat.

Even the few times she’d glimpsed his ghost, he’d looked, well, larger than life.

Anything but . . . dead.

“Come, lass.” Jamie looked at her over his shoulder. “You needn’t fret o’er Gelis. Or fear this room. Kendrick isn’t here.”

But Aveline wasn’t so sure.

Gelis didn’t really bother her, but traces of Kendrick’s zest lingered in the chamber and it was all she could do to keep from glancing about, looking for him.

Half-expecting him to swagger over to them, offering refreshments and a lusty, wicked tale, she shivered and clasped her hands before her, looking on as Jamie closed and bolted the door.

He
humphed
as soon as the drawbar slid into place, but other than that noncommittal grunt, he gave no sign of intending to say more.

Far from it, he strode across the chamber, taking the night candle from the table beside the bed, then lighting it at the hearth. A charcoal brazier already hissed and glowed in one corner and a few of the wall sconces had been lit and were throwing off their light as well, but Jamie continued to move about with the burning taper, tipping its flame to the wick of every candle in the room.

“To better see the
bogles
,” Aveline thought she heard him say.

But she’d been listening for other voices, finding it so hard to imagine Kendrick gone. And feeling not quite at ease claiming his quarters. The notion sent chills sliding up and down her spine no matter how many candles Jamie set to blazing.

An unnecessary extravagance, for enough moonlight streamed into the chamber to stretch deep into the room, silver-gilding the elegant trappings, illuminating the sumptuousness.

And the room was sumptuous.

Looking round, Aveline knew she’d seldom seen anything quite so fine.

Rather than the usual rushes, furred skins covered the wood-planked floor and still more furs, softer looking and more luxuriant, made the room’s great four-poster bed an almost irresistible enticement.

Her heart thumping, she went to one of the arched windows and breathed deep of the chill damp air. The night smelled of rain, wet stone, wood ash, a soul-lifting hint of heather and Caledonian pine.

Soft mist and dark, lowering clouds.

The silvery sheen of the moon.

Night scents familiar to all Highlanders and not at all unlike she knew from Fairmaiden. But here, in this grand-seeming chamber with its heavy oaken furnishings and arras-hung walls, intoxications that caressed and stirred.

Rousing her deepest, most elemental yearnings. Desires even Kendrick’s ghost couldn’t squelch. Not with James of the Heather striding toward her, the look in his eyes melting her.

“You needn’t fret o’er Gelis,” he said again, stopping not a handsbreath away from her. Lowering his head, he brushed his lips ever so gently across hers. “I think you saw in the wood that night just who enchanted me.”