The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (3 page)

Adaira tried not to stare at the fish scales glistening on the tip of his sunburned nose or the one balanced on his upper lip. Poor Brayan. His large lips resembled the fish he was fond of catching.

“Aye, lass, I’ll help ye.”

“You will?” Her gaze flew to meet his.

She’d expected to have to persuade him or have him tell her,
Yer aff yer heid
. Mayhap she was off her head, but she loved Yvette. Adaira wasn’t some simpering lass afraid to take matters into her own hands.

“Did ye doubt it?” Brayan spoke softly, adoration in his sandy brown eyes.

Dash it all. Guilt bathed her once more.

She shook her head. “By now, Marquardt should be nearing Kirk’s Craig. I hope to stop him before he reaches Loch Arkaig.”

Fionn pawed the ground and pulled his head toward the tempting water. She bent forward and patted his sweaty neck, breathing in his familiar scent. “Sorry, my friend. No water until you’ve cooled down. We’ll be off soon.”

Adaira scanned the road ahead. “Can you meet me at the abandoned crofters’ cottages? I haven’t quite decided how to apprehend Marquardt. I’ll hatch a scheme by the time we meet, though.”

“Aye, I can stash me fishing gear there.” Brayan retrieved the squirming trout, neatly cutting the excess line. The string dropped to the ground atop his boots. Tying the remainder into a loop, he extended the wriggling fish to Adaira.

From the pride shining on his face, he might have been presenting her a prized jewel. “Ye take them. They’ll spoil by the time I get them to Mother.”

Adaira’s nose twitched. Only by biting the inside of her cheek did she keep a look of horror off her face. Couldn’t he at least kill the revolting things first?

“I ken yer mother likes them,” he said, stepping forward.

Remorse lanced her. Did he know she didn’t?

Plastering a smile on her face, she wedged the riding crop into the front of her coat before taking the string of trout. She slipped a hand through the loop. “Thank you. Mother does enjoy fresh-baked trout.”

Personally, Adaira couldn’t stand them. No matter how trout was prepared, the meat tasted of mud and weeds.

The cold fish flapped against her thigh. Queasiness tightened her stomach. At least they gave her a reason to use the kitchen entrance. A smile played around the corners of her mouth.

The fish were just the excuse she needed. She could enter the keep through the kitchen and take the rear stairway to the upper levels. If anyone saw her, she’d claim she was ridding herself of fish stink. Once above stairs, she could gather everything she needed to keep Marquardt imprisoned for a few days.

She smiled at Brayan, this time genuinely happy. “Brayan, thank you for your generosity. Mother will be well-pleased.”

Picking up the length of rope, he wrapped the strand into a neat coil. He tucked the length into his vest pocket before making his way to his horse tethered under the trees. Swinging into the saddle, he said, “I’ll meet you at the old Brodie cottage.”

“Aye, leave your horse by the castle ruins. I’ll not be more than half an hour.” She turned Fionn toward the road.

“Addy?”

Adaira twisted in the saddle to look at Brayan.

He grinned like a buffoon. “I dinna ken any other lass with yer courage.”

He shook his head. “Taking the bugger prisoner.”

Trotting away on his roan, his words carried to her on the soft breeze. “Nae, there be none other like ye.”

Adaira chuckled. Abducting a stranger
was
beyond the pale. Even for her. A surge of pride thrummed through her and confidence emboldened her. Marquardt deserved this. He was a scoundrel. She was simply assisting in his capture.

Her smile faltered. The repercussions could be dire. She drew in a hefty breath, holding it in her lungs. Even though Marquardt was a traitor, could she be charged with abduction?

Could Brayan?

Grasping Fionn’s reins, she weighed her choices against the consequences. Tilting her chin, she stiffened her spine. So be it. She’d take full responsibility for what she was about to do. Yvette must be kept safe.

Even if it meant Adaira would go to prison.

CHAPTER 3

Adaira scanned the keep’s kitchen gardens as she cantered Fionn into the enclosure. Good. Only Clyde was about, tending the vegetables. This side of the castle was blessedly shaded from the late morning sunlight. She swung her leg over the saddle, then hopped to the ground. The fish banged against her thigh leaving a trail of scales.

She grimaced.

“Clyde, will you please walk Fionn for me? I’ll be but a few minutes?”

Clyde set aside his hoe. “Aye, be happy to, Miss Adaira.”

She eased her crop beneath the edge of the saddle. “Thank you.”

The kitchen was situated at the rear of the keep. A walled area to the left boasted a flourishing vegetable and herb garden surrounded by a well-kept lawn. The pungent aroma of sun-warmed sage, rosemary, and mint permeated the air. Violet, pink, and white clematis hung in great drooping clusters from a trellis framing the kitchen door.

Fionn wandered the few feet to the grass beyond the paving stones, and with a soft snort, began nibbling contentedly. Clyde took the horse’s reins and patted the stallion. “Not yet, ye great brute.”

Adaira rushed into the warm kitchen bumping into her cousin, Aubry Ferguson. On her way out the door, Aubry jumped backward jerking her skirts aside to avoid the swinging fish.

“Watch where you’re going, Adaira,” she snapped. Folding her arms across her chest, she scrutinized Adaira’s attire and the fish dangling from her hand. She shook her auburn head. “You’re hopeless. Dressed like an urchin and,” she sniffed, wrinkling her nose, “smelling like one, too.”

Pushing her way past Adaira, Aubry flounced out the door leaving it gaping open behind her.

Aubry should talk. There was more to being a lady than dressing the part. She’d treated Yvette abominably from the day the other woman arrived at Craiglocky.

Adaira couldn’t fathom what maggot had given Aubry the notion Ewan regarded her romantically. She’d been furious when Ewan came home with a bride. Aubry tried to conceal her feelings behind false smiles, but she continued to harbor spite and jealousy toward Yvette.

Closing the door, Adaira sniffed in appreciation. Fresh bread and rolls cooled on a long table. Other marvelous smells tickled her nose. Vanilla, lavender and heather. Sorcha must be making soap.

Adaira dangled the brown trout. They didn’t smell half so lovely. “Brayan sent these.”

Sorcha smiled and angled her head toward a counter.

“Ye can put them over there. Baked fish for dinner then, aye? Will ye be having any, Miss Adaira? Maybe ye fancy that nice fat one?” the cook teased, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

Adaira laughed. “No, fat or not, I won’t, as you well know.” She spread her hands, looking at her breeches and scrunching her nose. “Aubry is right. Look at me. I’m covered in fish slime!”

Sorcha chuckled. “Ye’d best get washed and changed. I’m surprised ye even agreed to deliver them.”

Adaira made quick work of washing away the odor. Then she grabbed an apple and a couple of carrots for Fionn from a basket atop the counter. After tucking them into her coat pocket, she helped herself to a pair of oat rolls off the table. She took a bite and grinned.

“Mmm, I do love your rolls, Sorcha.”

“I’m not surprised yer ravenous. Ye didn’t break yer fast this morning.” Sorcha pushed the pot to the rear of the stove. She eyed Adaira toe to top. “Ye be wanting a bite of cheese and chicken to go with those?”

Adaira nodded. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. Would you mind packing enough for Brayan too? Your oatcakes and Scots pies are favorites of his.”

“Aye.” Sorcha beamed, patting her ample hips. “Ye be sure to eat some too. Ye need to get ye some meat on yer bones, lass.”

Adaira took another bite of the roll to hide her smile. Sorcha thought every woman should be as generously rounded as she was.

Brayan’s appetite rivaled Sorcha’s. The amount of food he ate was necessary to fuel his muscular body. Adaira was counting on Sorcha providing enough food to feed a small army. There would be plenty for Marquardt for a day or two. Adaira had no intention of starving the cur, though he deserved to go hungry.

She hurried to the stone steps beside the kitchen’s enormous soot-edged fireplace. Tossing a glance over her shoulder, she asked, “Can you have the food ready in fifteen minutes? Oh, and some wine?”

Already busy slicing cheese, Sorcha didn’t look up. “Aye, lass. And me shortbread. The lad does like me shortbread.”

Adaira wrinkled her brow. Had she given herself enough time?

She ticked off a mental list. Change. Pilfer one of Ewan’s dueling pistols—thank God he was still in London. Gather the other supplies . . . blankets, buckets, matches, candles.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she bolted up the narrow stairwell. Were the keys to the cells still hanging from the peg in the stairway alcove? A chill surged over her. She’d not been in the dark maze below the castle for three, no, four years.

Gripping the cross at her throat, she determinedly stifled the memory, something she’d become adept at doing. Never mind. This must be done. She pressed her lips together, ignored her roiling belly, and sprinted up the remainder of the stairs.

Vengeance is the Lord’s.

She tilted her chin, determined to disregard the voice whispering in her conscience. She’d see to it Yvette never had reason to fear Marquardt again.

Holding her breath, Adaira crept past the kitchen door. She hurried on silent feet along the back corridor. Her lungs burned in protest. She didn’t release the pent-up breath until she reached the entry to the lower levels.

Casting one last look over her shoulder, she opened the heavy door. She deftly nudged the bulky bundle onto the landing with her foot. With the buckets’ handles looped over one arm, she made quick work of lighting the lantern. Then, she shoved her way through the partially open doorway. Seldom used hinges squeaked and groaned in protest. She swallowed.

Had no one opened it since. . .?

Grimacing, she laid a shaky hand across her knotted middle. Possibly not.

She edged the thick wooden slab shut. It closed with a portentous
thunk
. One hand on the cold, stone wall for balance, she turned and peered into the blackness. The heavy air settled around her, its cool dampness thick and suffocating. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Adaira closed her eyes, fighting to draw air into her lungs.

The lamp sputtered and hissed. Her eyes flew open. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears.

Please, don’t go out.

The flickering stopped. The weak flame leaped to life. The orangey-red fought against its glass constraints before yielding to the inevitable. Adaira’s nose twitched at the acrid smell of burning oil.

She’d not be surprised if bats weren’t hanging by their horrid little curled toes on the beams far above her head. She cast a hurried glance upward. Nothing. Thank God. Rats and mice she tolerated. But bats? No. Not since she’d hidden in a cave when she was eight and disturbed a colony of the little flying devils.

Her gaze raked the stairwell once more. Blast, but it was black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat.

There was a time when the darkness hadn’t bothered her. Back then, she used to visit the lower chambers regularly. Well, truth to tell, she’d sneaked into them to avoid her lessons from the time she was twelve until four years ago.

She’d managed to turn a chamber near one of the outer doors into a rather comfortable sanctuary. Granted, a nasty fall getting a skirted armchair down the narrow stairs had nearly broken her arm. The bruise had lasted a full month. She’d also stashed a small table, a discarded candelabrum, a straw tick and quilt for napping, and even a stack of books purloined from the library in her secret hideaway.

Only it hadn’t been entirely secret.

She’d learned that too late.

Adaira released a long, slow breath. She was wasting precious minutes. After hanging the lamp on a rusty hook beside the door, she adjusted the buckets. She bent and retrieved the bundle.

Holding the lamp aloft, she eyed the steep stairway. “Och, one false step and I’ll be tumbling head over arse.”

She whispered a quick prayer and stepped off the landing. With infinite care, she descended the stairs. She took care to stay close to the fusty wall despite its numerous hairy-legged residents. A shudder rippled down her spine. She loathed spiders.

As she stepped onto the dungeon floor, a nervous giggle escaped. It echoed throughout the network of passages before fading away.

She shone the light along the stones. Where were the keys? A thick maze of cobwebs covered the opening. She placed the bundle and buckets on the floor. Patting her pockets, she searched for something to move the mass of dusty threads.

The carrots.

Wielding the longest one like a small dagger, she swirled it around the opening first, then inside the slot to collect the webs. A fuzzy brown spider skimmed across her hand and onto the carrot. Yelping in alarm, she jumped away. She heaved the vegetable against the opposite wall.

Adaira shivered. Whether from the chill of the chamber or the fear she refused to yield to, she couldn’t be certain.

What a ninny.

She often walked the woods alone at night with far more dangerous creatures than a few spiders and bats.

“You must do this for Yvette,” Adaira scolded herself.

Gritting her teeth, she reached in and snatched the key ring. A wave of relief washed over her. She released a long hissing breath before she grabbed the bundle and buckets off the floor. Then, shoulders squared, she resolutely marched along the passageway. The cloying smells of stagnant air and damp earth encircled her.

Long since forgotten barrels and crates littered the sides of the passageways. Rustic metal torch brackets were positioned every few feet along the walls. When lit, the bowels of the keep weren’t nearly as ominous.

She’d not dally to light the torches today. She wanted to prop open the outer door exiting by the loch, one of two entrances undetectable from outside. That would help expedite getting Marquardt inside. She still had to return to the kitchen for the food Sorcha was packing.

Grandmother had showed Adaira the stone doors years ago. She’d whispered of prisoners, enemy clan members, and even aristocracy who’d been smuggled in and out of the keep’s bowels. A half-smile curved Adaira’s mouth. Grandmother was the bravest woman she’d ever known.

The occasional rustling of small feet as a rodent scurried ahead of Adaira didn’t slow her pace. She was going to be late. Brayan would wait, of course. That wasn’t what worried her. No, it was the knowledge that Marquardt might very well be nearer the castle than she’d calculated.

She held the lamp higher and hurried down another passageway. Her steps faltered as she reached her former sanctuary. She swallowed against the lump of fear lodged in her throat.

“Grandmother, I could use some of your courage right now,” she whispered into the gloom.

Staring into the cell, its door hanging wide open, time stood still. Everything appeared exactly like she remembered.

Exactly the way she’d left it four years ago.