Rowan's Lady (27 page)

“Nay, me laird,” she whispered and turned her head
away.

“Why will ye no’ eat?”

“Give it to the children, me laird. They need it
more than I.” She was exceedingly glad to see the old, sober Rowan had
returned. There was no hint of the drunkard or the angry and belligerent man
she’d been warned to stay away from.

“Quit
me lairding
me and eat, lass.” He was
growing more and more frustrated with her refusal.

“Nay!” Arline shook her head. She would have loved
nothing more than to devour every morsel left on the tray, but her conscience
would not allow her to. “Please, give it to the children.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The
children have eaten.” They were going around in circles.

She gave him a look of pity, one that said,
Och!
Ye poor, poor man.
She placed a cold palm on his cheek. “I ken that yer
larder is bare, me laird. ’Tis nothin’ to be ashamed of. Many clans have fallen
on bad times. I canna take food out of the mouths of children.”

He placed the tray on his knees, dumbfounded,
perplexed, and growing angrier by the moment.

“Arline,” he said, trying to keep the angry edge
out of his voice. “Ye have been sorely mistreated,”

Arline removed her hand and placed it in her lap.
With down cast eyes, she said, “Ye could no’ help it, me laird. Ye were too
drunk to ken what ye were doin’.” She wiped her face on the sleeve of her
cloak, unable to look at him.

“Drunk? Who the bloody hell told ye that?” He
could no longer shield his anger.

Arline blinked as she looked up at him. “Lady
Beatrice and Joan. ’Tis why ye’ve treated me so poorly. Ye could no’ help it.
’Tis why yer larder is bare, because ye drink too much and canna hunt or lead
yer clan to prosperity.”

He was too stunned, too angry to speak. He stood,
sat the tray on the stool he had just occupied and turned away. He did not want
her to see the fury as it boiled in his blood.

Beatrice.

It all began to make sense to him. Beatrice had
lied to him and to Arline. Somehow, she had managed to convince Arline that
Rowan was a drunkard. A drunkard who would take away her food, wood for her
fire, and not even allow her a bone needle.

“I be truly sorry for speakin’ of it, Rowan. I did
no’ want to embarrass or humiliate ye. Me da sometimes drank far too much, but
I think he drank fer different reasons than ye. Please, do no’ think that I
hold ye in low esteem.” In truth, she could not continue to be angry with him,
even after all he had done. If anything, she pitied the man, felt ever so sorry
for him.

Arline believed he was driven to drink after the
loss of his wife. It was a pain he could not vanquish without the aid of
whisky. ’Twas a shame, really, for she believed that if he were able to put the
bottle down, he could be a remarkable man and leader. The poor soul.

She had been so furious with him, just moments
ago, that she could have beaten him over the head with a chair. Had he been
drunk when she entered his library she might very well may have done just that.

Standing before her was a proud man, the man she
had grown to care so much about. The father of an innocent little girl who
worshiped the ground he trod upon. The anger had slowly begun to evaporate when
she caught sight of
that
man.

“I be no’ angry with ye, Rowan. Ye couldna help
yerself.”

The pity he heard in her voice intensified his
anger. He held no animosity toward Arline. Nay, his fury and rage he would
reserve for one woman and her maid. His hands balled into fists. Never in his
life had he ever wanted to physically harm a woman. Until now. This was beyond
the pale.

He took several deep breaths before turning to
look at her. The pity she held for him was plainly evidenced in her teary eyes
and the faint, sad curve of her lips.

“Arline,” he cleared the anger from his throat and
began again. “Arline, I can assure ye that me larder is no’ bare. Our children
do
no’
go hungry, I most certainly am
no’
a drunkard, and I would
never
call ye Blackthorn’s whore.” His words were clipped and angry.

He could see from her expression that she did not
believe him. “Would ye like to see the larder? Would ye like me to bring the
clansmen and children in one by one to tell ye that I speak the truth?” He
paused and shook his head. “I swear to ye that I speak the truth.”

He went to her then, bent to one knee and took her
hands in his. “Ye’ve been lied to, lass. I have been worried over ye to the
point that I canna sleep at night. Lady Beatrice has lied to us both. She told
me that ye do no’ like it here, that ye want to go back to yer da, to Ireland.”

Arline stared blankly into his brown eyes. He was
pleading with her to believe him. There was such sincerity to his voice. She
desperately wanted to believe him. It was difficult to believe that Lady Beatrice,
the woman she thought her only true friend here would lie. Arline had
thoroughly believed that only men were devious and masters of manipulation. The
thought of a woman behaving in such a manner never entered her mind.

Something in his eyes, the firmness of his voice,
the quiet turmoil she saw simmering just under the surface of his calm exterior
made her believe he was telling the truth.

The sudden realization that she had been lied to,
had been made to believe all the ugly, horrible things said about him left her
feeling as though a wall of stone had just crashed onto her shoulders. She felt
guilty and ignorant and terribly naïve all at once.

She covered her mouth with the palm of her hand to
stifle the cry and the curses that threatened. “I’m a damned, bloody fool.”

Relief washed over Rowan when he saw clarity dawn
in her wide eyes. He chuckled softly, squeezed her shoulders and smiled. “If ye
be a damned, bloody fool then I am a thousand times worse.” He shook his head
and let go of her shoulders. “I should never have believed the things Beatrice
was telling me. I should have demanded that ye see me. Earlier, when I cam to
see ye, I should have broken down the door and made ye speak to me.”

Arline’s eyebrows drew inward. “Ye came to see me?
When?”

“Not more than a few hours ago. Right before the
evening meal. I knocked and knocked but ye didn’t answer. Joan finally came to
the door and told me ye were sleepin’.”

Beatrice and Joan were far more devious than
Arline would have given them credit for. “Rowan, I was no’ sleepin’ and I didna
hear ye knock. Which room did ye visit?”

“The room I gave ye four days ago, lass. Me mum’s
auld room.”

Her mind began to race with all the events of the
past few days. Outrage began to build from the depths of her belly. “Lady
Beatrice moved me out of that room days ago, Rowan. I’ve been stuck in a tiny
room on the third floor. I’ve been sleepin’ on a pallet amongst empty trunks.
They came today and took the brazier away, sayin’ ’twas by yer command. If ye
had knocked on the proper door, I would no’ have turned ye away. I would have
hit ye over the head with me chamber pot!”

He chuckled again as he rubbed his fingers along
his forehead. “I do no’ doubt it! Is that why ye came chargin’ in here earlier?
To beat me senseless?”

Shame turned her face beet red. “Aye,” she
whispered, feeling all the more guilty and ashamed for having been so easily
duped.

Rowan patted her shoulder and smiled. “I canna say
that I blame ye. I reckon I’d have felt much the same way.”

He offered her the tray of food once again. This
time she took it, placed it on her lap and ate without question, without
restraint. “Would ye like somethin’ to drink lass?”

With her mouth full of cheese, she nodded her
head. “A dram of
uisge beatha
would be verra good,” she answered,
plopping a plum into her mouth.

Rowan’s brow quirked with surprise. “Ye like
whisky?”

Arline nodded in affirmation as she tore a hunk
from the loaf of bread and stuffed it into her mouth. “Ye ferget, I be Irish.
We’re weaned off our mum’s breast and onto the
uisge beatha.
”

She took a knife from the tray, found a relatively
clean spot on her cloak to wipe it clean.
Butter!
She could have cried
tears of joy over the butter alone. She slathered a dollop onto a piece of
bread and popped it into her mouth. Manners be damned, she was hungry!

Rowan returned holding a bottle of whisky in one
hand and a mug in the other. Arline set the knife down, brushed crumbs from her
fingers and took the bottle.

“Thank ye, Rowan!” she smiled and took a drink
from the bottle. A moment later, she sighed a most contented and blissful sigh
as the whisky spread from her belly to her extremities, leaving her feeling
warm and happy.

The look of bliss on her face, that happy,
contented sigh reminded Rowan of the sounds a woman -- or a man -- made after a
good round of loving. It made his groin ache.

Arline took another drink from the bottle and sat
it at her feet. “’Tis no’ bad whisky, fer a Scot that is.”

He did not take her statement as an insult toward
Scots. She was a woman just as proud of her heritage as he was his. Though
Rowan felt Scots made much better whisky, he would not argue the point with her
now.

She took another drink from the bottle and handed
it back to him. “I best be careful with that. I’ve not eaten well in some time
and have had nothing but that awful bitter tea ye all are so fond of.”

Rowan had no idea what she meant. “What bitter
tea?”

“Och! That tea Joan kept bringin’ me. ’Tis bitter
and tastes like the devil himself peed in it!” She giggled at her own jest as
she ate another plum.

Rowan was just about to ask a question as it
pertained to the tea but Frederick walked in, carrying a tray of food.

“I be sorry, Rowan, but Mrs. McGregor was no’
verra happy,” Frederick said as he brought the tray to Lady Arline. Rowan took
the now empty tray from her so that Arline could take the tray from Frederick.

“What do ye mean, she be no’ verra happy?” Rowan
asked. Frederick glanced at Arline then back to Rowan. Rowan could tell there
was something Frederick wanted to say but did not want to say it in front of
Lady Arline.

Rowan stood and pulled Frederick aside. In a low
voice he asked him to clarify what he meant.

“Mrs. McGregor said she’d no make anything special
fer,” he glanced at Lady Arline before continuing on in a whisper, “fer
Blackthorn’s whore.”

Rowan began working his jaw back and forth. He was
long past the ends of his patience, ends that were, in fact, completely out of
sight.

“I made the tray meself, fer she absolutely
refused.”

“Why do they dislike me so?” Arline’s voice,
trembling slightly, broke through the stillness of the room. She had heard
their conversation.
Blackthorn’s whore.
It was like a dull knife cutting
through her heart. She set the tray on the floor, unable to touch another bite
of food. She felt sick and betrayed and for some reason, unworthy, though she
knew that to be unwarranted.

Neither Rowan nor Frederick had an answer. She had
done nothing to any of the clansmen to deserve their unkind words or
mistreatment.

“Daniel has everyone in the gathering room,”
Frederick said after several moments of tense silence passed.

“Go,” Rowan said, his attention and eyes focused
intently on Lady Arline. “I shall be there shortly.”

Frederick gave a quick nod before quitting the
room. Rowan and Lady Arline stared at one another for quite some time. There
were a thousand things he wanted to say to her but knew now was not the time.
He wanted to take her in his arms and apologize, beg for forgiveness. Had he
been paying closer attention to his instincts none of this would have happened.

Swiftly he went to her, knelt and took her hands
again. “None of this is your fault, I want ye to ken that. While I am certain
Lady Beatrice is behind all of this, I need to speak with my people.”

Arline sighed and shook his hands loose. “Why?
What will it matter, Rowan. They do no’ want me here.”

He searched for the right words, a way to explain
to her that they only felt this way for two reasons. One, someone had used lies
to sway their way of thinking and two, they did no know her.

 “Lady Arline, are ye going to just sit back and
let Beatrice win?”

“What do ye mean?” she didn’t appreciate the
accusatory tone in his voice.

“If ye do no’ go out there, to the gathering room
with me, with yer head held high, then Beatrice wins. If ye hide, it will look
as though ye have somethin’ to hide or that yer ashamed of yerself.”

“Go out there? To the gatherin’ room? With ye? To
face all those people?” She shook her head. “Nay, I will no do that. They’ve
made up their minds, Rowan. They do no’ want me here.”

He took her hands in his again. He liked the way
her long delicate fingers felt wrapped around his. “The Lady Arline that I met
last week would no’ let a woman like Beatrice get away with such behavior. The
Lady Arline that I know would stand up to her, toe to toe, and not back down.”
He squeezed her hands again. “And mayhap,” his voice turned playful, “she might
even beat her over the head with a chamber pot!”

Arline could not help but join in his laughter.
She knew he was right. If she hid, she would look guilty. Her crime? Weakness.
No matter what rumors may be floating around the castle, whether there was any
truth to them or not, the rumors would take hold and it would take a lifetime
to dispel them.

If she truly were to try to make this her home,
she could not back down, could not run and hide.

Until a few moments ago, she was thinking of
nothing else but going to Inverness. Now, when he looked into her eyes, she
wanted nothing more than to stay.