Plaid to the Bone (4 page)

Cait released the shirt she’d bunched in her fists and shoved against his chest with all her might.

Adam kissed her lips once more, a gentle probing touch, and pulled back, but not nearly far enough. He cupped her cheek, running a thumb over her lips. Cait was distressed to discover she was trembling and not from cold.

“Someday,” he said, his tone soft and rough at the same time, “we’ll go north and ye’ll show me this place where ye waited for your selkie.”

Cait pulled her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. She didn’t trust her voice. She didn’t know how to say what she was thinking even if she could make a sound.

He ran a hand over the crown of her head, a tender gesture. Almost more intimate than their kiss had been. It made her want to scream.

“I’ll see ye at the supper then.” He stood, and she felt the pressure of his eyes on her even though she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “We’ll be good for each other, Cait Grant. Ye’ll see. I’ll do even better by ye than your selkie man might have. Ye have my word.”

Cait didn’t glance his way until she heard the door latch behind him. She stared unmoving after him then, even though the water was getting colder by the minute.

“I tried to warn ye, Adam Cameron,” she said through chattering teeth. “A selkie tale always ends badly.”

Callum Farquhar suspected the quality of Bonniebroch’s wine cellar was spectacular. The butler poured Rheinish wine into the dear Frankish goblets that graced the table on the dais reserved for the laird and his lady. The pale liquid glimmered in the torchlight as if it were living gold.

Everyone else in the hall was served ale. It was rich, dark, and yeasty, but it wasn’t wine.

The laird had seemed to forget all about Farquhar. Callum didn’t really blame him, given that Lord Bonniebroch had his prospective bride to attend.

The board at Bonniebroch was rippingly fine. Certainly better than the tavern fare he’d endured on his way to the castle and infinitely better than the rough bread he’d begged at crofters’ cottages when his traveling money ran out.

Farquhar kept half an eye on his new employer while he ate, noting that the laird seemed to be doing everything possible to please the lady. Adam leaned toward Cait and spoke softly enough so no one could overhear them through the din of a myriad other conversations. The laird made sure her goblet stayed filled and offered her the choicest tidbits from his own trencher.

Mistress Grant didn’t seem impressed. She stared straight ahead most of the time or fidgeted with her goblet without actually drinking much from it.

Not the actions of a happy bride. Farquhar puzzled over this while he absorbed as many of the conversations going on around him as possible. Surprisingly enough, the same folk who’d pelted him with offal when his ear had been nailed to the pillory were chatty and gregarious now that he’d been pardoned by their laird. Only Mr. Shaw, the steward, kept sending fiery darts his way in the form of glares and frowns.

Farquhar fiddled with the piece of twine he’d run through the hole in the upper flange of his ear. He’d decided to keep it open until he could afford to fill it with a truly garish ring.

That should irritate Shaw even further,
he thought with a smile.
And make me look like an old pirate in the process!

“I’m impressed the castle’s kitchens were able to put together a feast like this to honor the new lady on such short notice,” Farquhar said to the beefy man-at-arms on his right.

The man grunted. “’Tis no feast. Our laird is a man of liberality and insists the folk of the castle eat well every day. A man attached to Bonniebroch will ne’er feel his stomach knocking on his backbone. That’s for sure. More bread?”

Farquhar accepted the basket filled with bannocks and secreted a couple in his sporran, just in case the man was exaggerating about the laird’s generosity.

One thing Lord Bonniebroch wasn’t sharing was that wine. And Farquhar had a weakness for the fruit of the vine that bordered on sickness. Ale was all well and good, and would do in a pinch, but there was nothing like a fine vintage to make a man feel utterly civilized and slightly superior to the rest of the world while he drank himself into a stupor.

He’d been given the run of the place. While everyone else was eating their fill in the Great Hall, what was to stop Farquhar from doing a bit of reconnoitering? Who knew? He might accidentally discover the whereabouts of the rest of the laird’s stock of Rheinish.

When a young boy started wheezing a particularly unmelodious tune on a set of pipes, Farquhar decided absolutely nothing was stopping him.

He rose and slipped out of the Great Hall without exciting any notice.

Sometimes there was enough moonlight fingering its way through the arrow loops to see the chambers he passed through, but when he came upon a torch sputtering in a wall sconce, he liberated it. The smell of burning pitch assaulted his nostrils, but it was better than groping in the semidarkness.

Finally, he spied a set of stairs leading downward and decided to take them. A wine cellar would undoubtedly be below ground. Someplace cool and dark and vaguely mushroom-ish. With any luck, perhaps he’d discover the cool larder as well, where wheels of cheese might be aging. He’d cut himself a nice little sliver of
fromage
to go with the bottle of Rheinish he intended to pilfer.

With such felonious thoughts to keep him company, he was a little aghast when he stumbled into a room that could only be the dungeon. Three barred cells opened off the main chamber. Thankfully, they all seemed to be empty. The air was musty and still as though the place hadn’t seen much use for a long time, but a note of rusting iron and ancient misery crept into him with each breath.

There were a number of evil-looking devices spread about the space—a gibbet that was mercifully unoccupied in the corner, a cold hearth that had probably heated its share of hot pincers, and an assortment of manacles still affixed to the stone walls. The one thing that surprised him was a long looking glass suspended from the heavily beamed ceiling in the center of the chamber.

Something about it made the hair on his scalp prickle. He approached it with caution, trying to walk on the balls of his feet, making as little noise as possible. The silvered glass was age-spotted. Another surprise. Making a mirror by affixing a thin layer of metal behind glass was a fairly new method. This looking glass seemed to be of both new design and extreme age. And in all his travels, he’d never seen one quite this large.

His reflection was only slightly distorted, but there was another type of energy emanating from the glass along with his image. The mirror was lousy with magic. If spells were lice, the slick surface would be crawling.

He shivered and made the sign against evil with his thumb and forefinger.

“So, ye feel it too.” A voice came from behind him in the dark.

Farquhar whirled around to find Morgan MacRath stepping from the shadows.

He swallowed hard. When he first met Mistress Grant’s factor, he’d felt a strange ripple of power emanating from the man. Now he knew why.

“I . . . dinna ken what ye mean,” Farquhar said. “I’m only after finding the wine cellar.”

One corner of MacRath’s mouth quirked up. “Let us not dissemble, ye and I. We are both men of power. I see it on ye and no doubt ye’ve been aware of me since our first meeting. What I’m really interested in is what ye seek here in Bonniebroch.”

“I seek to serve its laird.”

“By any means?”

White magic or dark?
That’s what MacRath wanted to know. Farquhar understood the difference between the two paths. He’d seen enough strange things in his travels to recognize the power—and the danger—in both.

“There are places where a wise man doesna put his foot,” he said circumspectly. It was a cautious response, especially since Farquhar still considered himself a neophyte in the world of the fantastical.

“And yet here ye are. Deep in Bonniebroch’s underbelly.” MacRath made a sweeping gesture that took in the whole ghastly chamber. “This castle is rife with dark forces. It has to do with how it was built, ye ken. The first baron was a hard man, but he understood a thing or two about spiritual currency.”

Farquhar frowned in confusion. Of course, he’d heard about the magical properties of the castle. Beyond the fact that he agreed with the laird’s choice for the young king’s regent, tales of the castle’s unique attributes had drawn him to Bonniebroch. But he wasn’t well versed enough in the occult to follow MacRath’s reasoning. “What do ye mean by spiritual currency?”

“Gold and silver are nothing in the realm of the spirit. Blood is the only thing of value. So, with the blood of his eldest son, the first Lord Bonniebroch laid the tower’s foundation, and with the life of his youngest, he set up the gates.” Now it was MacRath’s turn to frown. “I’m surprised ye dinna ken these things. Maybe ye’re no’ as much of a magus as your aura proclaims ye to be.”

Farquhar had few possessions, but one he prized and pored over frequently was a grimoire that had belonged to a wizard he’d met during his travels. Old Elymas insisted that there were places in the earth where magic from other realms regularly burst into this one. Farquhar had assumed they sprang into existence naturally. He didn’t remember ever reading that one might be able to create such a place if one were willing to murder one’s children.

“Undoubtedly, I dinna know as much as ye about such doings,” Farquhar said, keeping his face studiously blank. “But I do sense something’s a bit odd hereabouts. Tell me. If ye can harness some of the power of the place, what is it ye intend to do with it?”

Morgan smiled. Usually that meant a pleasant countenance, but there was such sly malice in his expression, Farquhar had to force himself not to recoil.

“I intend to make sure an oath taken is an oath kept,” he said cryptically.

“Commendable,” Farquhar said. “Nothing wrong with making sure what’s been promised is what’s performed.”

Perhaps the man doubted that the laird would honor his agreement to wed Cait Grant, though why he wouldn’t was a mystery to Farquhar. In the secret pantheon of his idolatry, the young lady who’d saved him from the pillory had already been placed on a pretty high pedestal.

“What about you?” MacRath asked. “What would you do with the castle’s magic?”

It was time to dissuade MacRath of the notion that Farquhar was vying for control of the energy coursing around them.

“The only magic I seek comes in little corked bottles. Truly, I was only after finding the wine cellar. I’ve a powerful thirst for some of that Rheinish I saw the laird and his lady drinking.”

“She’s no’ his lady yet.”

“Maybe, but the wine’s his for certain. And I mean to have a taste of it before this night is out.”

Morgan MacRath narrowed his eyes as if weighing Farquhar’s words for veracity. He shook his head. “Perhaps ye’re merely a wise fool—one with a sort of power but unaware of its nature or uses,” he mumbled.

Farquhar shrugged. “Nothing is more likely. I canna tell ye how many things I’m unaware of, because . . . well, then I’d have to be aware of them, would I no’?” Surely that sounded daft enough to throw the man off. He forced a smile. “But I’m fully aware of the use of a bottle of wine. Will ye join me in one once I find that cellar then?”

MacRath made a low growling noise in the back of his throat. “Take those stairs”—he pointed across the room—“up a flight, then bear to the right. The cellar is likely locked, but an enterprising fellow like yourself ought to be able to figure a way around that. Drink yourself to oblivion for aught I care, but dinna come here again.” He skewered Farquhar with a penetrating gaze. “Do ye ken my meaning now?”

Whatever MacRath was intending to do with the energy pulsing through Bonniebroch, he didn’t want interference from anyone.

“Oh, aye,” Farquhar said as he backed toward the stairs. “Now that I know where the wine cellar is, there’ll be no need to return here, will there?”

He didn’t turn around until he was out of MacRath’s sight. Then he bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He didn’t stop at the first landing to find the wine cellar. The call of the Rheinish vintage had subsided to a mere whisper.

Instead, Farquhar was determined to find out more about those places in the earth where the veil between the realm of magic and the realm of men was thin. He’d tear into Elymas’s grimoire again to see if there was a way to put the virulence of the ancient blood buried beneath Bonniebroch to rest. Somehow, he’d turn the castle from a bastion of darkness to one of light.

It was the best way he could repay his vow to Cait Grant.

Grizel hummed a tuneless little ditty as she brushed Cait’s hair. It shimmered over her shoulders like a brown, snow-swollen burn in full spate.

She’d dismissed those young magpies, Jane and Janet, without waiting for the lady’s say-so. The folk of this castle might be trying to make more of Grizel than she was, calling her a “lady-in-waiting” and inviting her to put on airs, but she knew her place.

Right beside Cait Grant.

It had been that way since the bonny child slipped from her mother’s body, all new and mewling and needing to be cleaned up before the quality folk would deign to hold her. Grizel had pressed the babe to her bony chest, crooned endearments while she sponged off the enraged little body, and swaddled the girl-child in her own apron. Grizel and her husband—God rest the man’s soul—had never been blessed with children, and Wallace Grant had never let Grizel dote on his sons as she longed to.

But his daughter was another matter altogether. The Grant chieftain didn’t care a flibbet about a daughter, so he didn’t raise any objection when Grizel cosseted and petted her until she was almost spoiled.

Grizel couldn’t love Cait more if she’d been her own. That’s why it fretted her to see her darling girl so tetchy when she had every reason in the world to be happy.

“I’ve been talking with the help and they all say as Lord Bonniebroch’s a fine man. Stern, at times to be sure, but fair,” Grizel said softly.

“Weel, they would, would they no’, if they want to continue to eat his bread.”

It was not the reaction she’d hoped for from the bride-tobe. With a frown, Grizel began to plait her mistress’s hair for the night. “No one has to tell ye he’s verra fine to look upon. That ye can see with the eyes God gave ye.”

She expected Cait would be forced to agree, but that observation only earned a noncommittal “hmph.”

Grizel had feared for Cait when she first heard of the arranged match, imagining that the laird of Bonniebroch would be a dissolute rogue old enough to be the girl’s grandsire. She worried that he might be a drunkard or a man with a cruel streak.

God knew there were plenty of those.

She wondered how much Cait remembered of how life had been before her mother passed. Grizel and Cait’s mother had tried to shield her from the worst of her father’s rages, but there was no knowing what a child might mark and remember.

Was that why Cait was less than pleased over the prospect of taking a husband?

But before Grizel could decide how to ask if there was a troubling memory she might smooth over, Cait turned to her and took both her hands.

“Grizel, tell me something. If a body takes an oath to do something, what happens if they find they canna keep it?”

So. The child was worried that Lord Bonniebroch might break his wedding vows and take a mistress. Well, if every married man who did that sprouted a forked tail tomorrow, there’d be plenty of men with something suspicious protruding from beneath their kilts at breakfast.

“I dinna think ye have to fret over Lord Bonniebroch keeping his vows. I’ve seen the way he looks at ye, and the man shows every sign of having lost his heart. And that’s a grand way to begin a marriage, believe me.”

Cait worried her lower lip. Grizel’s words hadn’t been the comfort she intended.

“Dinna borrow trouble, child. Besides, God holds no one accountable for someone else’s oaths. Ye’re only responsible for your own.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

Cait pulled away and rose to walk over to the small green-glassed window. The chamber was lit by the occasional flare from the fireplace as the peat spit and hissed. A single candle, whose circle of light barely reached beyond the table where it sat, didn’t drive many shadows from the room. Cait stopped before the high window and gazed up at the moon, which was distorted in the wavering glass. Bathed in the moonlight that shafted in, she looked like a changeling princess, all edged with silver, cold and untouchable.

“Leave me, please.”

“As ye wish,” Grizel said as she headed for the door.

She didn’t drop a curtsey as the Jane and Janet twins did every time they entered or exited the chamber. She and her mistress went back too far for such gestures. But she did wish she could put her arms around her lassie and press a kiss to Cait’s forehead as she had when she was little. Grizel would give much to soothe away whatever it was that had her mistress in such a state.

Out in the corridor, Grizel nearly stumbled straight into the chest of Lord Bonniebroch.

“Oof! Ye gave me such a turn,” she said. “What are ye about, milord, lurking in the dark like that?”

“’Tis no’ lurking if ye ken your way well enough no’ to need a light, is it?” he said, his deep baritone a pleasant rumble. She could hear a smile in his voice. “I’m only here to bid Mistress Grant a good night.”

“Hmph! Well, best I should go back in wi’ ye then.”

“We’re to be wed on the morrow,” he reminded her. “Do ye no’ think ye could pretend ye didna find me here, just this once?”

Grizel crossed her arms over her chest, considering. It wasn’t as if the man intended to ruin Cait. Their impending wedding was the talk of the castle. Perhaps Adam Cameron would be able to allay the lassie’s fears and settle her heart over this match in ways Grizel couldn’t.

And if they should happen to anticipate their wedding night by a little bit, well, they wouldn’t have been the first couple in the world to do that. For a moment, a memory of her own dear man and the breathless mischief they got into on the night before they wed rushed back into her. Her husband had been gone now these twenty years and a mere remembrance of the man could still set her heart racing.

Maybe this “good night” call was just what Cait needed.

“Och, well, just this once, mind,” Grizel said. “But behave yourself, milord, or ye’ll wish ye had.”

He chuckled. “Is that a threat?”

“A promise.” Being an old woman had its rewards. Grizel could speak her mind to most anyone. The more outrageous she was, the more likely she was not to be called to account for it. “Laird or no’, if ye give my lass a moment’s grief, mark me well, ye’ll find an adder in your boot some morning.”

 

Adam watched the little old woman totter down the hall, an amused grin tugging at his lips. Cait Grant must be less prickly than she seemed. Anyone who inspired that kind of loyalty in her servant had to have a kind heart and a good soul.

He’d never have known it from Cait Grant’s behavior at supper. She was as distant and unreachable as a statue of a saint in a cathedral.

Except she doesna kiss like a saint
, he reminded himself as he pushed her door open without a knock.

Why should he knock? Bonniebroch was his castle. Every soul that bided there was under his care, beholden to him for every morsel in their mouths and every stitch on their backs.

He didn’t have to knock.

Yet when Cait Grant’s narrow-eyed gaze fell on him, he wished he had.

“Am I to be given no privacy?” she asked.

“Why would a bride need privacy from her bridegroom?” he answered, more tetchily than he’d intended. “Consider yourself fortunate that I didna come by the secret passage that connects our chambers.”

“Perhaps ye’re leaving something for me to look forward to after the vows,” she said with disdain.

“I’m thinking we’ll both have something to look forward to then.”

Her only response was the twitch of an eyebrow.

Adam wished he’d brought her a gift. It would have given him something to hold. At the moment he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands and letting them hang empty at his sides felt all wrong. His arms were suddenly too long. He wondered if he could scratch his knee without bending over.

“How have I offended ye, Cait?”

“Other than by interrupting my bath and storming into my bedchamber uninvited, ye mean?”

“I’d say I was sorry for catching ye in the tub, but it would be a lie.” Memories of the stolen peeks at her pale skin through the soapy water had made him feel pleasantly male all evening. “An untruth is no’ a verra good way to start a marriage.”

“What about an apology for barging in unannounced now? Anyone might have seen ye enter my chamber. My character will be maligned throughout the whole castle.”

“My people willna speak a word against ye, else they’ll answer to me. Besides, I’ve been warned to behave myself.” He chuckled. “If I put so much as a toe out of line, I do believe your maid Grizel means to murder me.”

Her eyes flared at that. Was she concerned for his safety? Perhaps she did feel the slightest particle of regard for him after all.

“Grizel would never do such a thing,” she said, crossing over to her dressing table and pulling the ribbon from the end of her plaited hair. She picked up her boar’s hair brush and dragged the bristles through her long locks with forcefulness. They didn’t need brushing, but her frenetic strokes spoke of how upset she really was. “She’d never harm ye. No matter how much ye deserve it.”

Adam was more than a little flummoxed. He’d rarely had to do more than crook his finger at a lass and she’d follow him blithely wherever he chose to lead. Granted, those were all light dalliances, brief exchanges of pleasure with no thought for the morrow. No one could have mistaken them for something more.

But a man had a right to expect more from the lass who’d promised to wed him, didn’t he?

“You’ll snatch yourself bald-headed if you keep brushing like that, Cait.”

“’Tis my hair.”

“No’ for long.” He gentled the brush from her hand and began giving her hair long, slow strokes. “On the morrow it’ll belong to me. Has your priest no’ instructed ye that a wife doesna have power over her own body? It belongs to her husband.”

“Aye, and likewise, the husband’s body belongs to his wife.” Her green eyes were enormous as she met his gaze in the mirror over her dressing table. “I trust my religious training meets with your approval, milord.”

“We’ll suit in that regard. And in others, I’m thinking.”

She dropped her gaze to her lap as he continued to brush her hair. The long strands were like silk sliding through his fingers.

Neither of them had chosen this match, but if they decided to make the best of it, he expected they’d both be pleased. Why did she refuse to meet him halfway?

He bent to place a kiss at the juncture of her neck and her shoulder, but stopped himself as he brushed his lips over her skin. A sudden thought made him straighten upright. It would explain so much.

“Did ye leave a beau behind in Grant lands?”

She looked up then. “No.”

“Ye’re no’ afraid of me, are ye?”

“No.” The challenge was back in her eyes. Cait’s gaze was as defiant as a she-wolf’s stare. If he were a hare in the garden, he’d have taken to his heels. But Adam had stood his ground against his share of wolves, both the two-legged variety and the four.

He just never expected to wed one.

She’d demanded an apology. Would giving her one melt her? He had little experience with admitting he’d been wrong, but it was worth a try. “I suppose I was a bit of a lout for staying once I realized ye were naked in your bath, but in my defense, there’s few men who wouldna have done the same.”

“If that’s an apology, ’tis a poor excuse for one.”

“’Tis all ye’re like to get. I’d accept it were I you.” He laid aside the brush but couldn’t keep his hands off her hair. It curled around his fists and slid through his fingers. Unlike the woman they were attached to, her tresses were malleable and soft. “Once we’re wed, I’ll make sure I dinna enter your bedchamber from the hallway again. I’ll use the private passage that connects our rooms if ye’re the modest sort who doesna wish others to know when her husband visits.”

The glare was gone, but Cait didn’t answer. Instead she stared down at the small pots of paint and neat row of hair combs spread out before her. Her brows drew together and she worried her lower lip.

Anger sizzled up in him. He’d done more than he ought to make her feel welcome. It was high time she gave an inch. “No man wants a wife who canna bear him. Would ye have me release ye from our betrothal and send ye home to your father?”

“No!” She stood quickly and turned to face him. They were standing close enough that her warm breath drifted over his neck when she tipped her chin to meet his gaze. “I can bear ye, Adam,” she said softly.

“No’ just because of my agreement with your father?” He bent to her till their lips were but finger-widths apart.

“No’ just because of that.”

“We dinna have to wed on the morrow.” Part of him, the aching stiff part between his legs, damned him for a traitor. Even tomorrow seemed too long a wait when he longed to sink into her softness, but he heard himself offering, “If it will suit ye better, we could put off the wedding until we ken each other a bit more.”

“I dinna want to wait.” She draped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. Hard.