Maiden of Inverness (33 page)

A flick of her wrist would reveal her mother's reflections on her reign. Would her words to Meridene be kind and at last loving? Would she express regret at her indifference to the tenets?

The door opened. She looked up to see Revas step into her room. Like a youth fearing detection, he eased the door shut. But when he turned, he bore the look of a man determined to claim his woman.

Still miffed at his despotic behavior, she gave him a bland stare and closed the book. “What do you want, Revas? Or should I name you Hacon?”

That look of tried patience was too familiar to mistake. For effect, he slid the bolt into the jamb. “If you would but try,” he murmured, “I'm certain you can reason out why I am here.”

“I reason better on English soil.”

He blew out his breath and approached her. “Shall we make a quarrel of it, Meridene?”

His boldness should not have surprised her, but it did. “I'd sooner argue with a braying ass.”

The mattress crackled beneath his weight. “Shall I scour the village and find you one?”

She scooted to the head of the bed. “Only if Leeds is the village you scour.”

The beast laughed and snatched the Covenant from her hands. “You cannot wound
me
with your ready tongue—not when William has sharpened it. You are not truly angry with me.”

“You aided him when he would not answer me.”

In exasperation, he stared at the tapestry over the bed. “I thought to keep peace in my own castle. You could have taken your argument elsewhere. Why should Brodie and the others witness you and William squabbling like children?”

She hadn't considered that, hadn't imagined their discussion would be perceived as a disagreement between siblings. Most times she thought of herself in a singular fashion. “It would not have come to a squabble.”

He held up his thumb and forefinger in measure. “You were this close.”

Drawing her legs beneath her, she sat up straight. “Ha! I do not know him well enough to engage in an argument.”

He fell back across the mattress, his arms behind his head. “You do not speak openly of yourself when others are listening. You are a private person, although not so much as when you first came home. Still, I feared you would regret revealing so much of yourself in public.”

True, she had changed. That he had anticipated her feelings filled her with joy. “You thought to spare me embarrassment later.”

“Aye. I know the both of you. I spent years with William, drinking and wenching—” He stopped and gave her a pained expression.

Her mind latched on to the word. “Wenching?”

Suddenly affable, he touched her knee. “Look, Meridene, 'twas nothing. Just lads reveling . . . and . . . foolish talk.”

Had she not been so jealous, she would have enjoyed seeing him squirm. “Foolish? I doubt that. I'm certain you take your wenching seriously.”

“I don't suppose you would be willing to look upon those times as preparation for my marriage to you?”

It was the last thing she expected him to say. She said the first thing that popped into her mind. “Had I been cloistered, I would know better than to believe that worthless chaff.”

He lifted his brows in entreaty. “Then could you perhaps view it as the misspent youth of a poor butcher's son?”

For a man of his size and strength, he squirmed handsomely, with grace and charm. She seethed with satisfaction. “Not even if your wenches were toothless crones.”

“You would have preferred a chaste husband?” He drew lazy circles on the bedcovers. “Here in your bed?”

“I would have preferred no husband at all.”

With the tips of his fingers, he touched her forearm. “You cannot deny that you enjoy our intimacies.”

He wanted to drop the subject of his transgressions. Relishing his discomfort, she resisted. “You wish to practice your wenching here? Now?”

Far too reasonably, he said, “A man cannot wench with his wife.”

“For that base logic, I should be grateful?”

His hand stilled. “Gratitude is not what I seek.”

Oh, no. Not Revas Macduff. He lounged in her bed as if it were his own. And according to the law, it was, along with all of her possessions. “You hope to make me forget your sordid past?”

“I hope to hear you again say my name and God's in the same breath.”

Warmth pooled in her belly. He moved up and over her, his face a hand's length away, his eyes filled with longing. “But were I given only one wish, 'twould be to hold you in my arms tonight and have harmony between us.”

Conversing with him was the easiest endeavor she had ever known. He exuded warmth and honesty.

She smiled in appreciation of yet another of his attributes. “Do you know what my father said when he learned that I had come home?” Why had she named Elginshire home?

He jerked away and put the Covenant on the table by the lamp. Sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, he said, “Nay, and I'd trade my place in paradise to have been there.”

He meant it, and she felt their closeness grow. “You know him far better than I. What do you think he did?”

“What any frightened coward does. He found a weaker man and spent his wrath.”

“A frightened coward? My father?”

Turning, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “ 'Tis for certain he fears
you
—even above the king of Scotland.”

“That's preposterous. Why should he fear me?”

“Because, my cloistered lass, he must yield his power to you, the Maiden of Inverness.”

“You cannot be so certain of that. Even if I did—and I have not said I would—declare myself the Maiden of Inverness.”

With his index finger, he tapped her nose. “
You've
been away too long. You belittle your importance in the matter of who wears the crown of the Highlands.”

Ten lifetimes wouldn't be long enough to evade Cutberth Macgillivray. “My father will not hand over the sword to me.”

Yes, he will,
Revas's expression said. “He has no choice, not with his people as witness and his sons flanking him.”

“A public spectacle.” She cringed.

“May we please speak of happier things?” He flipped onto his back and settled his broad shoulders into the mattress. “I am weary of Scottish politics, and the mention of your father fair sours my stomach.”

“On that,” she declared, “you have my complete agreement.” But her mind held an image of her father on bended knee, yielding up the sword of Chapling to the daughter he'd wronged.

“Would you care to tell me what message William's wife sent?”

What if Cutberth could tell she was no longer a virgin and publicly shamed her for it? She fled from the horror of that possibility and harkened back to the subject of her sister-in-law. “You would hear her words, even if they are political in nature?”

He kicked off his slippers. “I take back the question. Share a pleasantry with me. Tell me the plans Serena and Summerlad have made for their finest hour.”

Lamplight flickered on the moonlit scene on the tapestry overhead. The goings-on below appeared just as peaceful to Meridene. “Their wedding is also political.”

“Then I forbid you to—How can speaking their vows . . . ?” His expression turned sly. “ 'Twas a jest you were making.”

She faced him boldly. “Yes.”

“At my expense.”

“Completely.”

He winked. “Good housewifery, that.”

Flattered to her naked toes, she smiled down at him and thought herself as fortunate as her namesake. “Hacon, indeed,” she scoffed.

He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. “Leave off, and tell me again about your fine English mount.”

“Why?”

“I'm tempted to go a-raiding for new horseflesh and delicacies.”

Delicacies. She understood. Rather than admit he'd come to England solely for her, he had praised the English ports for their fresh fruit. So well tended was the memory of that conversation, Meridene felt she had always known his tastes.

“Unless the beast has a rough mouth and plodding gait. Then I would hear you retell the tale of donning that chastity belt.” Laughter rippled his chest and danced in his eyes. “I'll wager you played the tart that day.”

Pleasant moments from her past clamored to be shared. When he took her hand, Meridene told him about the day her mare had outdistanced Johanna Benison's exalted hunter.

He spoke of the Highland games at Elginshire and the year the duke of Ross traded five-score sheep for a yearling from Revas's stallion.

He kissed her good night and left. Meridene fell into a restful sleep. A popping sound awakened her. She opened her eyes and screamed in terror.

Flames climbed the bed hangings.

*  *  *

Hours later, Meridene stared, shocked, at the destruction the fire had wrought. Serena mopped up dirty water from the stone floor. Summerlad pulled the scorched mattress from the bed frame. Sim yanked the charred remains of the bed hangings from the canopy. Gibby huddled in the corner, her shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands. At her feet, the terrier whined in confusion.

Revas paced the floor, his hair singed, his face dusted with soot. The acrid smell of smoke hung in the air, a constant reminder to Meridene that her beautiful sanctuary had been invaded. Thank goodness no rushes covered the floor. Her looms were spared, and her clothing untouched. The fire had been contained to the bed and several of the small floor tapestries.

Who could have wreaked this havoc?

The answer did more than lay blame for the near tragedy; it told her just how desperate her father was and how frightened she should be of him. Without doubt, this was his work, for she had no other enemies in Scotland.

Her own father had tried again to kill her.

The knowledge bewildered her, and she turned to flee the room.

William made an untimely entrance.

“Sweet Lord, what happened here?”

Looking at her brother, Meridene was reminded of countless and long-suppressed confrontations with Cutberth Macgillivray. She did not try to hide her scorn. “I should think it's obvious.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” Not where anyone could see.

“I'm sorry we quarreled, but I thought you wanted no part of your heritage.”

Her first thought was to keep her own counsel, but the urge to express herself won out. “I did not ask you what my father thought about the return of the Maiden.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I do not understand. You
are
the Maiden of Inverness.”

Even William could not separate the woman from the legacy. She considered reminding him that she was also a child of Cutberth and Eleanor Macgillivray, same as he, but he wouldn't understand that, either.

A hand touched her shoulder.
“I
ken your meaning,” Revas said, then addressed William. “Have you come to help?”

“Aye. What can I do?”

Revas jerked his head toward Summerlad. “Help him haul out what's left of the bed. We'll discuss what happened here later.”

To Meridene's relief, William nodded, picked up one end of the blackened leather mattress, and dragged it out the door. Sim followed, his arms filled with the ruined velvet drapings.

Serena leaned on the mop handle. “What could have happened?”

A father tried to kill his daughter,
Meridene thought morosely. But did Revas speak the truth when he said her father plotted against her out of fear, rather than hatred? Did her mother know and condone Cut-berth's treachery? Did the answer lie in the Covenant? Meridene glanced at the book and knew that she must find the strength to read her mother's words. But heaven help her, she'd had enough shock for today.

“ 'Twas my fault.”

Gibby's tearful admission broke the silence.

Revas knelt at his daughter's side. “Nay, lass.”

“I banked the fire poorly.” She gazed up at Meridene. “I'm sorry.”

Her misery pushed Meridene into action. She, too, moved to comfort the girl. “The brazier was perfectly tended.”

“I've ruined it all. I'm unfit to be a handmaiden.”

Revas pulled her into his arms, dwarfing her tiny form. “Never say that, sweeting.”

“Misfortune was the cause,” Meridene insisted, her heart aching for the girl.

“ 'Twas a villain's work,” he said.

Gibby cried harder. “I'm wretched to my soul.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, nay. You're my special gift from God.”

The girl leaned back and looked her father in the eye. Chin quivering, she said, “I should not have come here to live. You're only being nice because you love me.”

His chest swelled, and he clutched her to him in a death grip.

“ 'Twasn't your fault, Gibby.” He carried her to the window. “The glass was broken from the outside. See the shards on the floor? Had the damage been done from here, the glass would have fallen outside, into the flower garden.”

He was speaking of an intruder. Gibby was thinking of the fire itself. To aid his failing logic, Meridene said, “Gibby, did you clip the candle wicks when Lisabeth forgot?”

Gibby twisted in his arms. Her yellow smock was smeared with soot from his soiled hands and clothing. “Aye.”

“Didn't Ellen thank you twice yesterday for sweeping the floor after she spent too long in the common room?”

She sniffed and rubbed her nose. “Aye, but she fetched the stool so I could reach the windows.”

“You complete every task in great good cheer, and you have made friends with the other girls. You do not even laugh at Ellen's carrying on.”

Revas shot Meridene a look of sheer gratitude. To Gibby he said, “You're a thoughtful girl who never gathers wool.”

“Nay, Papa. I gather berries and lichens for the dyes.”