Flame (11 page)

But what if the truth lay not in such
thinking?

The sounds of shouting and then horses came
from the courtyard. Gavin looked up. John Stewart, the Earl of
Athol, laird of Balvenie Castle, had arrived.

The stillness, taut and charged with
hostility, hung suspended in the air over the warriors in the Great
Hall. The threat of violence lurked in every corner, and the few
audible murmurs poisoned the air with low, menacing growls. On the
walls, armed hunters and dying animals glared down from tapestries
amid the mounted heads of deer and elk and boar.

And at the head table, the two leaders seemed
to be making no serious attempt to dispel the gloom or to ease the
tension.

Gavin Kerr stared thoughtfully at the crystal
goblet in his hand. The wine, red and potent, glowed in the light
of the fire in the great hearth. It was difficult for him to ignore
the seed of suspicion that the priest had planted in his mind. From
the time he’d greeted the Earl of Athol and his men, a coldness had
taken control of him, driving his actions. Gavin knew he was not
very proficient at hiding his feelings, and he was certain that the
tall, lean Highlander had read the distrust in his face. Now,
sitting at the long table with the haughty, silent man, he wondered
if John Stewart was indeed responsible for the deaths that had
taken place here last fall. Athol had reasons for desiring revenge,
and he had the opportunity.

The Lowlander eyed the men crowding the hall.
Tonight, before everyone had seated themselves at supper, Gavin had
drawn his steward, Allan, aside, and had questioned him again about
that dreadful night. The steward had told him that when the fire
was out--when it was clear that no survivors existed--the Earl of
Athol and his men had immediately left Ironcross Castle. Nay, Allan
told him, they had not bothered to stay so long as to bury the
dead. What would drive a man to flee such a catastrophe, Gavin
wondered. If not the demons of guilt, then...what?

Gavin knew some of Athol’s warriors. There
were some very fine fighters among the Stewart company. Indeed, too
many hands rested on the hilts of swords in the flashing light of
hearth and torch. The warriors from both sides were watching them
carefully, taking their signals from the two leaders. Edmund had
seated himself with his men by the door to the courtyard, and Gavin
could see Peter amidst his fighters.

Gavin knew the value of his own men, and he
knew they could win a fight against Athol’s company. But it would
be a bloody victory, and for what? This was no time or place to
settle the crimes of the past. Besides, he reminded himself, he had
no proof...yet. He still needed to give the man the benefit of the
doubt. After all, the Earl of Athol carried the blood of the royal
family in his veins. John Stewart had been cousin to James IV--the
king whom Gavin had honored above all men. Spilling John Stewart’s
blood would require irrefutable proofs of guilt.

He turned to the nobleman sitting at his
side. Athol’s hair had been adorned with thin braids that mingled
with the rest of the long, dark red locks that he wore down his
back. A bit of a dandy, Gavin thought, eyeing the jewel encrusted
broach that held his tartan of red and green in place. He would not
make the mistake of underestimating the man, though. He had seen
Athol wield a sword at a number of tournaments, and his speed was
lethal.

Gavin forced himself to speak. “We have begun
work on the south wing.”

Athol lifted his goblet of wine and drained
it. “I knew your Border men were renowned for their prowess in
battle.” His face had the faintest trace of mirth in it. “I did not
know they were builders as well.”

“My lads would tear down and rebuild the
gates of Hell if I commanded it.” Gavin stared out at the tense
fighters who were watching them with the eyes of hawks. He
lightened his tone perceptibly and looked back at his guest. “I
have already sent a man to Elgin to fetch the needed carpenters and
stonemasons. I plan to rebuild that wing as it once was.”

“You waste no time.”

“From what I understand, when you are laird
of this keep, time is a precious commodity.”

“Time is precious for all of us,” Athol
replied vaguely, before turning his gaze again on the Lowlander.
“But tell me, Gavin Kerr. Do you believe in the curse of
Ironcross?”

Gavin filled up his guest’s cup and then did
the same for himself. “You have lived in this region for all of
your life. What do
you
believe?”

The Highlander paused thoughtfully as he
brought the wine to his lips. Then he let his gaze range over the
Hall before returning to his host. “What I believe matters naught.
But it appears that history is on the side of believing.”

“Then you believe in these curses and ghosts
and the violent death that goes with being laird of this keep!”

“Perhaps I do.”

Gavin took a long moment before continuing.
“Then why did you press your claim to be the laird of this holding?
Do you not value your life?”

A sudden flush darkened Athol’s
expression.

“‘Tis no secret,” Gavin continued, motioning
for a serving lad to bring more wine. “You and Sir John made no
attempt to hide your feelings on the night he died. As I hear it,
this Great Hall was filled with onlookers, as ‘tis now.” Calmly, he
paused as he refilled both of their cups. “But why should you want
it so badly, and then leave it the next morning--barren,
unprotected, and ripe for the taking?”

“You push the bounds of a
new...friendship.”

“Do I?”

“Aye. ‘Tis none of your business what went on
between the MacInnes lairds and the Stewarts of Athol, and I owe
you no explanations for anything I do. But I will tell you
this...my claim was fair.”

Gavin returned the man’s steady gaze for a
long moment. “Perhaps that is so...friend.”

Athol hesitated and then reached for the
goblet. Several of the visiting warriors were restlessly stirring
in their seats--as were Gavin’s men--but no weapons had yet been
drawn.

Athol’s look at Gavin told him that his
neighbor was also very aware of the nearness of a confrontation.
After taking another drink, the earl spoke again, clearly trying to
keep his voice calm. “How...how much progress have you made in that
wing?”

Gavin paused a moment and then nodded,
acknowledging Athol’s effort to diffuse the potential violence
between their men. “You can see for yourself.” He rose from the
table. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

***

From the commotion in the kitchens, she had
known the keep was overflowing with guests--and she knew who the
visitor was. But Joanna still had a ghostly reputation to
maintain.

It had been a difficult day for her, though,
and one without sleep. The cursed laird had his man and Allan
exploring the passages for most of the day. After she had returned
from the tower chamber, she had kept an eye on them, trailing them
as they made it as far as the subterranean tunnels, but not so
close that they had any idea she was there. Oddly enough, Allan did
not seem to be very familiar with the passages, and so the two
hadn’t been able to go very far. They never even came close to the
south wing. But Joanna was becoming quite weary now. Real ghosts,
she supposed, don’t need much rest.

But at last the deed was done, and Joanna
smiled as she closed the panel beside the hearth in what had been
the study. The passage entry where she had nearly been caught by
the new laird was of no use to her now--with the floor all torn
away and the panel nailed shut--but another small panel on the
opposite side of the hearth was close enough for her to continue
plaguing the man.

So after everyone had settled down to their
supper in the Great Hall, she had crept back to the laird’s room,
taken her portrait once again, and brought it back here.

Once, long ago, Joanna had prided herself on
her strength and perseverance. Admittedly, she had even been a bit
mischievous as a lass.

It was good again to have a chance to be
human again.

***

Gavin glared at the smiling image.

It took great restraint on his part not to
curse out loud at the sight of the portrait hanging yet again on
that blasted wall. Drawing in his breath deeply, he scowled at
Edmund, who stood at his elbow gaping dumbly at the picture.

Tearing his eyes from the painting, the laird
tried to pretend that nothing was amiss. Gavin stepped into the
open area and continued with the explanation of the renovations he
had planned.

“As you can see, we are still in process of
pulling down those walls. My thought is to rebuild, using a style
that I have seen in my travels.” Gavin hesitated, noticing that his
guest had not followed him into the room. Athol remained standing
in the entry way, his eyes focused on Joanna’s portrait. As the
Lowlander looked into the earl’s face, he sensed something far
different than what he had expected to find there. For Gavin saw no
guilt, and his jaws clenched tightly in response.

There was longing in Athol’s eyes as the man
gazed on the portrait.

Gavin turned away, fighting off the insane
possessiveness that he could feel flooding through him. And it
was
insanity, he knew. He wanted to shrug off this intruder,
climb the ladder, and carry the picture back to his chamber. As he
had done before. As he would do again.

Athol broke the awkward silence, and his
voice was husky, almost reverent. “I didn’t know anything survived
the fire.”

“
She
did,” Gavin put in shortly.

“Why have you left her there?”

“To oversee the work!”

Athol’s eyes darted to Gavin. A glimmer of
wry amusement flickered in their depths. “I see that the madness
that runs rampant in these hills has affected you as well. I would
pay a fine price for that painting if you could bear to part with
her.”

“She is not for sale,” Gavin said shortly,
ready to usher his guest out of the chamber. Edmund and a few men
stood in the corridor beyond Athol.

The earl was not ready to budge from where he
stood. He almost smiled at Gavin’s response. “Perhaps this is not a
good time to discuss the matter.”

“There will
never
be a good time to
discuss it.”

Athol didn’t seem convinced. Still rooted to
the spot, he again looked longingly at Joanna’s portrait. “I knew
the grandmother well. She was quite attached to the lass.”

“Aye. What of it?”

“I was wondering if you were going to honor
her wish?”

“What do you know of Lady MacInnes’s
wishes?”

“I know she wants the painting for herself.
She sent word to me last winter after the fire. She wanted me to
ride down here and see if...if Joanna’s portrait had survived the
blaze.”

“But you did not come back.”

Athol stared at him. “Nay. I did not come
back.”

“Why?” Gavin pressed. “What was it in this
destruction that you could not bring yourself to look on? They say
‘tis hard to return to a place where one feels...” The warrior
chief paused, pretending to search for the right word.

“Once again, you are meddling in my
business!”

Gavin gestured to the chamber behind him. “I
see the destruction in a keep that now belongs to me. ‘Tis my
business to learn the truth.”

“This truth that you are after has nothing to
do with me. What went on between John MacInnes and me that night
was the same quarrel we had been having for some time. That night,
though, so many were present.”

“And that night, disaster followed.”

“A disaster that had nothing to do with our
disagreement.”

“There are others who feel differently.”

“They can all burn in hell,” the earl
exploded. “As far as I am concerned, they are nothing but a pack of
cowardly dogs. If you look closer...laird...you will see that each
one of them...well, you will see that there is more here beneath
the surface than meets the eye. And far more reason for murder in
some than you will find in any debate between the MacInnes and
me.”

Gavin looked at Athol’s flushed face and saw
it best to let the matter drop, for now. “Whatever happened, ‘twas
a waste of life, was it not?”

The Earl of Athol stared at his host for a
long moment. “Aye, Gavin Kerr. A great waste.”

***

Joanna awoke with a start.

Tucked away in a passage beneath the Great
Hall, the young woman listened carefully. She must have dozed off,
crouching next to the wall, but she was unsure what had awakened
her.

Quietly, she stood up. As she moved
confidently through the darkness, she considered how much bolder
she had become of late. She knew that they had returned the
painting to the laird’s bedchamber just before he had retired, and
as she reached that level, a thrill coursed through her. Aye, she
thought, she would steal the thing again and no one would catch
her!

But as Joanna closed a sliding panel behind
her, a chill ran up her spine and she thought, suddenly, how
fragile a looking-glass image can be. Someone had been through this
passage, and not long before her. The smell of oil from a wick lamp
was heavy in the enclosed space.

Pressing her back against the wall, the young
woman stood motionless and considered her next move. The
laird--rightfully so--was becoming irritated with her mischief. No
doubt that was why he had sent his men to probe the passages
earlier in the day. She peered through the darkness down the
passage. She was only a few dozen steps from the laird’s chamber.
Could he be setting a trap for her? Could he himself be waiting to
discover her? To her shock, waves of fear mingled with an insane
sense of excitement and--though she denied even the thought of
it--anticipation. She had been alone too long, she thought, biting
at her lip.