The Frost Maiden's Kiss (2 page)

“A curse?”

Malcolm shook his head. “I had an aunt, or a woman we called an aunt. Rosamunde was a pirate and proud of it. She also was in love with Tynan. They had thought their feelings for each other wrong, for they believed that they were blood cousins. In truth. Rosamunde was a foundling who shared no blood with us and who had been adopted by my grandfather’s brother. When they learned the truth, I believe they became lovers.”

“The pirate and the man of honor. It is an unlikely partnership.”

“I believe it was quite stormy, but passionate. They finally argued about the relics and parted, but he pursued her into the caverns.”

“Then she killed him, to gain the hoard.” Rafael nodded. “I should like to have met this woman.”

“Nay, nay. She tried to save him.” Malcolm paused in his tale, for the next part sounded implausible, even in his own thoughts, though he knew it to be true. “There is an old tale that Ravensmuir is a portal into the hidden realm of the Fae. We never believed it, until my youngest sister, Elizabeth said she could see the Fae in our abode of Kinfairlie.”

“Kinfairlie?”

“A sister estate, governed by my father and now by my eldest brother, Alexander.”

Rafael’s expression was too assessing for Malcolm to not readily guess his thoughts. He spoke with an indifference that was surely feigned. “Children claim to see many things.”

“Indeed. But in the caverns below Ravensmuir, strange events occurred. Rosamunde and Tynan were confronted by a Fae, a spriggan, convinced the relics were its own treasure. In the ensuing battle, the caverns collapsed.”

“And there your uncle died,” Rafael guessed.

“And there he died, but not Rosamunde. She escaped into the realm of the Fae, through that very portal, one that was truth not rumor.”

“And you know this because she returned to share the tale.”

Malcolm nodded. “I had word of it from Alexander.”

To his thinking, there had always been an unreal quality about Ravensmuir. It was perched on the lip of the North Sea, a brooding dark keep where there should not be one, a tower filled with secret passages and undermined by hidden tunnels, a castle said to be administered by lairds with strange powers. Ravens had lived in the tops of its towers, dark and watchful birds that were said to communicate with the laird himself. There was a hedge of thorns before the gates, as if visitors were not welcome. Malcolm had played at Ravensmuir as a child, and its hall had been merry much of the time. Still he had always had a sense that there was more afoot than most people guessed.

More even than the secret traffic in religious relics that had funded Ravensmuir’s construction.

Rafael scoffed. “So you were to believe a pirate.” He shook his head. “I am skeptical, my friend. It seems to me this pirate Rosamunde stole the hoard, destroyed the caverns to escape your uncle when he opposed her, and returned—after the sale of the goods—with a pretty story to pacify you all. Perhaps she intended only to confirm that there was no more for the taking.”

“Believe what you must,” Malcolm said. The forest ended just ahead and all he could see was swirling white. He nodded toward it. “We ride directly toward the sea and the fields are open there. It cannot be a league to the keep, but it will be cold.”

Rafael rolled his eyes, then pulled down his hood, winding his cape across his face. “The blood in my veins turns to ice,” he complained, then caught his breath as they left the comparative shelter of the forest.

The wind was bitter and strong, the snow falling fast and thick. The sky was as dark as pewter over the sea and the snow drove at them in small hard pellets. Malcolm had a sense that Ravensmuir would keep them away, but the holding was his legacy and he had been absent long enough.

After half an eternity, he saw the broken tumble of stone ahead of him that had once been the proud keep. He eyed its silhouette with a lump in his throat. Ravensmuir had always haunted his dreams.

He urged his horse onward, but the steed halted at the hedge of thorns.

“What manner of foul gate is this?” Rafael cried. The opening had grown over, for so few had come this way. Malcolm dismounted and used his sword to hack back the doughty growth. He wondered if it would dull the blade, but did not care.

He hoped his days of fighting were over, forever.

The wind was howling in his ears and echoing in the ruins of the keep when he had made a way broad enough to let the horses pass. His own steed balked and Malcolm had to lead him, then mount again once they were through the barrier. He checked that Rafael was close behind, along with the palfreys loaded with their spoils of war. He rode to the stables, glad that they had not been completely destroyed. The stables were constructed of wood and not stone and were extensive, given his family’s history in breeding horses at Ravensmuir.

It was still inside and much warmer out of the wind. He dismounted and pushed back his hood, looking around with appreciation.

“This is your legacy?” Rafael demanded, his own expression much less pleased. “You have inherited a ruin, my friend!”

“And I will see it rebuilt,” Malcolm said with resolve. He straightened and eyed his companion. “You are welcome to stay, if you so choose. If you go, I will not be offended.”

Rafael’s glance slipped to the loaded horses, and Malcolm remembered that they both knew the packs to be filled with gold and silver.

Perhaps it had not been the best choice to ensure that he was alone with his fortune in the company of a ruthless mercenary.

Perhaps he was too tired to think clearly. He and Rafael had fought back to back a hundred times, and each had returned to save the other at risk. Malcolm reminded himself that he could trust Rafael.

He took a bucket and tried the well, gladdened to find that the water was still abundant and clear. He fetched water for the steeds, returning to the stables to find that Rafael had removed their trap and started to brush down his own horse. There was still some hay and oats, as well as a few bundles of straw. Rafael’s brows rose as he surveyed the former majesty of stables, but for once, he held his tongue.

The two warriors worked together in silence, tending their horses and ensuring that the animals’ needs were met. For Rafael, Malcolm expected that this labor was part of ensuring his arsenal remained in good care: a horse was a weapon and a tool, no more than that. Good care would ensure the steed survived longer and performed better, providing greater value for coin spent.

It had never been that way for Malcolm. The horses were as important to him as people, perhaps more so. He knew their characters and their preferences and was devastated by the loss of a single one. That was why he had not taken one of the black destriers bred by his family with him when he had left. Malcolm had known he rode to war, and he did not want to sacrifice such a majestic steed.

The lineage of those who had bred horses at Ravensmuir ran in his veins and the prospect of continuing that legacy pleased him. He kindled a fire on the hearth that had been used by the ostler as the steeds ate, aware that Rafael was pacing the length of the stables.

“Your family did well in their trade,” he said quietly when he returned to watch Malcolm. “It has been a long time since I have seen a stable of such generous proportions and grace.”

“They also bred horses.”

“The black destriers of Ravensmuir,” Rafael said softly. Malcolm turned in surprise. “Oh, they are of great renown, even amongst the Saracens. I have heard of them but never seen one. I thought, actually, that they must be a fable.” He stretched out his hands to the growing blaze with obvious pleasure, then turned to look again. Malcolm followed his gaze, eying the carved wood edges of the stalls and the vaulted roof overhead, also adorned with carvings.

“Many a man would be glad to be sheltered so well,” Rafael said, his tone wry. “You keep your promises, my friend.” He watched Malcolm carefully. “You pledged to return here, did you not?”

“And to rebuild. And I will.” Some good had to come of his deeds and his years of service. Malcolm had long ago decided that the rebuilding of Ravensmuir would be that good end.

Rafael nodded, his gaze wandering over the building. “And so it is, when a man loses his heart to a dream.” His tone was uncharacteristically thoughtful, but before Malcolm could ask him to explain, music floated through the stables. It was beautiful music, more skillfully played than any Malcolm had heard before. He turned to look toward the back of the stable, where the music seemed to emanate, and saw a golden glow of light there. How could this be?

To his relief, Rafael saw it as well. The other man turned silently on his heel, drawing his knife and sparing Malcolm a nod. His posture indicated that he also believed there was an intruder. The weather, after all, was most foul and any unfortunate would seek shelter where it could be found. It made little sense that a trespasser would play music, though.

At Rafael’s gesture, they slipped into the shadows silently, one on each side of the great corridor, and worked their way steadily toward the sound.

The last stall was empty, a gaping hole in its back wall.

Malcolm’s mouth went dry. The caverns.

He entered the stall and peered down into the hole. A rough passage led down, the route hidden from view. There was only the light and the music to beckon them onward. He tested the rocks but they seemed to be stable.

“The hidden passages beneath the keep,” Rafael murmured, his words almost soundless.

Malcolm nodded. “They used to lead to the sea,” he said just as softly.

Rafael considered the light and the music, his eyes narrowing.

Malcolm pointed to himself, then down into the caverns. Rafael’s lips tightened, then he nodded as well. They both tightened their grips on their knives and squared their shoulders.

Then Malcolm Lammergeier, Laird of Ravensmuir, descended into the abandoned tunnels beneath the castle he had returned to claim. He had not gone a dozen steps before a gust of cold wind blew from below. The golden light was extinguished and they were plunged into darkness.

Rafael swore, even as he gripped Malcolm’s shoulder.

Malcolm froze in place, willing his eyes to adjust, smelling the salt of the sea. He took this as a sign that the passage to the sea was not blocked the entire way. The music became louder, the tune so merry that his feet itched to dance.

“Some festivity would be most welcome,” Rafael said, his eyes alight. “It would warm me body and soul.” He then pushed past Malcolm.

“Wait!” Malcolm protested, fearing that he knew exactly what kind of music they heard. It was too late, though, for Rafael had plunged ahead. His silhouette had almost disappeared into the tunnel ahead.

Malcolm could not abandon his comrade, not now. He spared but one backward glance, ensuring that the stable was secured and the horses at ease, then descended into the earth after Rafael.

He could only hope they both returned to the stable unscathed.

He feared, though, that it would not be so.

Thursday, June 17, 1428

Feast Day of Saint Botulf and Saint Joseph of Arimathea.

* * *

Chapter One

South, south, ever south.

Blackleith had been good, but Kinfairlie would be better. The more distance Catriona could put between herself and her past, the better. Inverness grew more distant by the moment and she would have it no other way.

She would return there only when her child was safe.

Her decision to ask the aid of the Lady of Blackleith had proven to be more right than Catriona could have known. With Lady Vivienne having family near the borders, they would nigh be in England when Catriona’s child was born.

Surely she would find a haven there for the babe. Her grip tightened involuntarily on her lady’s daughter and that infant awakened, as if something were amiss. There was naught amiss, save what had been done nine months before. Catriona refused to think any more of giving away her child, for it must be so, and bent to soothe little Euphemia.

Perhaps there would be guests from England at Kinfairlie. Lady Vivienne had said her older sister lived in Wales. She had also said that her uncle lived in Sicily. Catriona dared to dream that her child could be accepted into another household, one far from harm’s way.

Indeed, as she accompanied the Laird of Blackleith, his wife and children, southward in safety and comparative comfort, Catriona dared to believe that Fortune finally smiled upon her. Not only had the lady welcomed Catriona into the hall at the Yule, saving her from the brutal cold of the night, but she had given Catriona a place in her household. Even though the lady Vivienne’s gaze often dropped to Catriona’s rounding belly, she suggested only that she could let Catriona’s family know of her location. One cold insistence that her business was her own had been enough to silence any more questions, though it had sparked a considering light in the lady’s eyes.

Ruari, the laird’s faithful servant, drove the cart Catriona occupied with the children and the baggage. The older man’s chatter and complaints were both ceaseless and reassuring in their familiarity. He had a good heart, did Ruari, but Catriona knew her lack of a husband while her belly was so ripe was a sore point with him. His was a firm moral code and even though Catriona found herself on the wrong side of his line, she admired that trait. That plus his age meant she felt comparatively safe in his company.

It did not hurt that she alone could provide respite from his aches and pains, with a salve she had learned to make from wolf’s bane years before. Her treatment encouraged a tolerance from him that might not have been readily won otherwise.

“My lady is a marvel, to be sure, but she believes herself more strong than any woman can be, Catriona,” Ruari groused now and shook his head. “She should not be in the saddle, not any more than you should be, but there is naught a man can say to change her thinking.” He shook a heavy finger. “My lady has a will of iron, to be sure.”

“Lady Vivienne is not so close to her time as I am, Ruari.” Catriona spoke mildly, knowing that her companion’s complaints were born of affectionate concern.