Until the Knight Comes (27 page)

But it wasn’t, so she turned toward the kitchen door before her friend could see the brightness beginning to burn and blur her vision.

The little storeroom off the hall awaited her, no cheering banks of gleeful joust spectators.

Just an overly-besotted, well-meaning friend, an auburn-haired youthful giant of a door sentinel, and a stump-toothed, aged dog.

Everyone else was already in position to greet fate.

Or their Maker, saints forbid.

“I see you frowning—even with your back turned.” Nessa’s voice carried across the kitchen. “You needn’t fash yourself. The men—”

“My mind is on men cut of a different cloth than ours.” Mariota paused outside the kitchen arch, her palms damping as she waited for Nessa to join her.

Faith, Kenneth had hinted Sir Lachlan might wish to wed Nessa. Yet now, such a possibility balanced on a sword’s edge, the whim of a speeding arrow. Unthinkable, if the good-hearted, dark-eyed garrison captain was suddenly ripped forever from her friend’s life.

“’Tis pleased I am to hear you call my men
ours
, my lady.”

Mariota jumped, whirled round.

Her Keeper was leaning against the passage wall, smiling at her. “Aye, mayhap it wasn’t necessary for me to come looking for you if you are already thinking thusly!”

“I-I thought you were on the battlements?” she gasped, her heart lodged so firmly in her throat she could scarce get the words out.

The creel she was clutching near crashed to the floor.

“O-o-oh, lassie, you mustn’t spill your provisions,” he purred, whisking the heavy basket from her with lightning speed. “That would not do. And”—he cocked a brow—“I see your ears are filled with wax again?”

“Wax?” Mariota blinked. “In my ears?”

He nodded and set down her basket. “Just that, my lady,” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Something seems to keep you from understanding what I say to you. And, in light of an imminent siege, I thought I’d not only escort you to the storeroom, but inquire if you’ve at last seen through what I said to you earlier?”

Mariota bit her lip, remembering indeed.

He’d spoken words that had made her weak-kneed, breathless with hope. And he was doing it again now.

“Do you mean something you said about . . . marauders?” Her face began to burn . . . nay, her
eyes.
“Something about not losing me to such men?”

“Ahhh, less wax than I thought,” he said, his tone and the way he was looking at her making her heart fill with joy. “But not quite what I meant.”

He captured her face in his hands and gave her a swift kiss. “Can you no do better, lass?”

Mariota’s eyes began misting in earnest. She had trouble wrapping her tongue around the words. “Y-you said you would not lose me to . . . any man.”

“Indeed, that is what I said—and meant.” He slid his arms around her, drawing her close. “And why I was pleased to hear you call my men . . .
ours
.”

Mariota dashed a hand over her cheek and wet her lips. “Are you telling me there will not be any riders heading out to prospective suitors?”

He nodded. “I am saying there will be but one suitor, lady, and there is no need to send a rider looking for him, for he is already here, standing before you.”

“Oh dear saints,” Mariota gasped, her composure breaking. “I do not know what to say . . . thought this Sir Dunc—”

“That one will dance at our wedding, lass, I promise you—if you will have me?” He clutched her to him, holding her so tight she could feel the thundering of his heart. “I meant to wait, see you? Until the spring. Thought to woo you properly, but . . .”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder, as sworded garrison men hurried past behind them. “I will still give you time, lass. So long as you need, just say you’ll consider me and I’ll—”

“
Consider you?
I would have no other!” she cried, her tears spilling freely now. “Dear saints, I ne’er thought—”

“Ach, dinna mind me if I say some of us
did
think,” Nessa beamed, coming through the open kitchen arch. “And not before time! ’Tis long I’ve waited to see such a smile on my lady’s face again.”

Kenneth turned to her. “Lady, I would see her wear such a smile on all of her tomorrows, but for the now, I must take you both to the storeroom.”

He pressed a quick kiss to Mariota’s brow and picked up her basket. “We will speak when this is past,” he said, glancing at her as he led them down the passage. “I’ve been away from my men too long and must get back to them.”

Mariota hastened after him, his words minding her of his plan to lead Hugh the Bastard’s men into an ambush. She shuddered anew, the very idea jelling her knees so badly she could scarce keep up with him on the stairs.

He was making a grave error to think they’d be easily fooled or maneuvered.

But neither would he.

One reason she thanked the saints he’d chosen the unassuming little storeroom as her refuge.

And especially that he’d ordered young Jamie to stand guard outside the door and not within.

Indeed, the strapping young knight stood there now, his dog sprawled at his feet. Tall and splendid, Jamie’s hand rested lightly on his sword-hilt and every inch of him looked a fine, Highland gallant. His auburn hair gleamed in the torchlight, but his handsome face flushed even brighter at their approach.

“Ladies. Sir Kenneth.” He jerked a bow and snatched his hand from his blade. “I greet you—and hope all is to your satisfaction within.”

Mariota touched a hand to his mailed sleeve, her throat still too tight for words.

“You will be safe within,” Jamie said to her. “While I am not the most battle-probed man in the garrison, I can swing a blade with the rest of them.”

“You are a fine sworder—one of the best I have seen,” she praised him. “We shall ne’er forget your valor.”

“Nor I, lad.” Kenneth clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Guard them well.” Turning to Mariota, he bracketed her face with his hands and leaned close to brush his lips across hers. “Be safe, my sweet. Jamie will look after you until I return for you.”

And with that he hastened away, his long strides carrying him across the hall to his gathering men.

Young Jamie waited until he was gone, then flipped back his plaid to reveal two naked dirks thrust beneath his belt. “I’m armed for whate’er comes at me and I’ll be here until this is done. No one will get past me.”

He flashed a smile of dimpled charm and opened the storeroom door with a bit of a flourish. “And if I lose my weapons, I’ve got two strong hands, so dinna either of you worry!”

“And we will not,” Mariota said, clutching her basket again.

She had a plan to assuage her worries.

And Nessa, bless her, would soon be rendered oblivious to fretting of
any
nature.

But the simple words seemed to please the young knight and he made a gallant show of ushering them into the chamber. Not to be bested, Cuillin pushed to his feet and padded in after them.

The old dog made himself comfortable at once, plopping down in front of a tiny, red-glowing brazier. The only halfway warm spot in the room.

Two rushlights burned in wall brackets near the door and someone had placed a small, rough-hewn table and two three-legged stools against the wall. And an earthenware jug and two wooden mugs on the table signaled that true to her Keeper’s word, someone had opened one of the wine casks.

A more thorough glance showed an animal skin and a folded, somewhat tattered plaid on the floor in a corner, clearly meant for Cuillin’s comfort. A thoughtful gesture underscored by the large bowl of water and several well-beefed meat bones lying nearby.

Not that the old dog would budge from his chosen place before the coal brazier.

Otherwise, the little room appeared much as it had the last time she’d been here—when she’d discovered the secret stairs and what she hoped would prove to be a warren of subterranean passages cut into the living rock beneath Cuidrach.

A way out—if only she could induce Nessa to eat enough salt herring and dry bannocks.

And if her friend’s ensuing thirst caused her to drink as much of the heady Gascon wine as Mariota hoped she would.

She felt a throb of guilt, wished such measures weren’t necessary.

Praying that all would go as planned, she waited until young Jamie left, then leaned back against the closed door and let out her breath.

To her delight, Nessa was already seated at the little table, a butter-less bannock in her hand, a cup of wine at her elbow.

Mariota watched her eat and bit back a smile.

Especially when Nessa plucked a particularly long twist of dried venison from the food basket.

Already, the innocent-looking crack down the opposite wall beckoned.

If she could locate the right underground passage and exit the thing anywhere outside Cuidrach’s walls, she was sure she’d be able to find Hugh’s men before they loosed a single fire arrow.

She
was their prize, after all.

Not a half-ruinous pile of stone and men with whom they had no grievances.

She also possessed enough wit to lead them in circles until Kenneth could send for help from his uncle at Eilean Creag. Once those additional men reached Cuidrach, she knew they’d come looking for her.

Or she’d escape on her own.

For the nonce, all that mattered was getting
out
of Cuidrach, not back in.

If all else failed, she’d think of some feint to employ on Jamie and—

“Oh dear saints!” Chills racing through her, she closed her eyes, Jamie’s bright red hair filling her mind.

The little red fox also returned to haunt her.

The creature’s glossy fur had gleamed in the moonlight, shone with the same brilliance and color as James Macpherson’s proud auburn mane.

Even now, she could still see the fox flitting over the rocks, disappearing in and out of a dark and mysterious gap in a certain rough-stoned outcropping.

And with the memory, came surety.

At last, she knew where Cuidrach’s secret passage would lead her. She was certain of it, and the location could not have suited her better.

She need only bide her time.

That, and hope Nessa gorged herself on salt herring and wine.

About the same time, but across wind-tossed waves and surf-beaten shores, the Hebridean Isle of Doon lay in silent slumber. Thick mist rolled in from sea, darkening the sky and turning day to deepest, impenetrable night until no place could have appeared more lonely. Or so full of the echo of older, darker times.

Indeed, the lovely isle that usually rose so blue from the sea took on an eerie silver-black hue, and hills that were e’er praised as romantic and picturesque, now bore a creeping, ominous tinge.

A cold chill swept Doon as well, tearing across the bogs and black pools of the moors. Not that all Doon’s folk noted the dark wind’s passing.

Devorgilla, in particular, remained in blissful ignorance.

Doon’s far-famed
cailleach
and wise woman since before time was, the indomitable crone slept peaceably within the thick, white-washed walls of her cottage. Leastways, she rested so comfortably as her somewhat lumpy pallet of dried heather and bracken allowed.

Snoring lightly, for she’d imbibed a bit more heather ale than was good for a woman of her years, she paid no heed to bumps in her pallet. Not that she would have cared if she did notice them. Too pleasing were her dreams of fearless warriors and magical otherworlds, the wondrous feats of Celtic gods and heroes.

And, as always, her small but tidy dwelling place wrapped her in goodness and quiet, the air pleasantly scented with peat and pungent herbs.

Nay, it was the glaring light burning her tightly-squeezed eyelids that vexed her, trodding so rudely over her much-needed sleep.

Deep
morning
sleep, for at her impressive age, a soul was entitled to slumber when they wished.

And after a long night of spelling and working charms straight through to the small hours, Devorgilla wanted naught more than to sleep.

She would, too.

If it weren’t for the infernal light.

A persistent, pulsing
glow
that was spreading through the whole of her cottage.

That she knew without even prying open one tired eyelid.

Determined to remain undisturbed, she rolled onto her side, flung a knotty-elbowed arm over her grizzled head.

Not that it made a whit of difference.

One slit-eyed glance at her two deep-set windows proved what she already knew.

The morn was so gray, so damp and mist-hung, she doubted she’d be able to see her hand in front of her face were she to force her age-stiffened legs to carry her outside.

The eerie glow came from within her cottage.

Truth tell, she didn’t even need to look to be certain.

She could
feel
the light seeping into every nook and cranny, inching its blaring brilliance up the walls and across her black-raftered ceiling, every bright, throbbing beat of it stealing her sleep and minding her ancient bones of something she ought not be forgetting.