The Laird's Daughter (12 page)

“The Laird’s nephew has returned,” Cerra relayed. “He’s searching for Annie, and he’s all out of sorts, he is.”

“I’ll come at once,” she answered and cast a final glance at Alyce. “Take the dead men out and do as we said. Hide the wounded who can’t sit, and tell those who can to return to their cottages in case the Laird’s nephew comes to visit.”

“Aye, m’la—Annie.”

Quickly, she left the hut and hurried after Cerra. The bailey was filled with tired horses who stood with drooping heads, their muscles twitching. Their riders, some of them dazed and bloodied, sat on the ground, gazing dull-eyed at the darkening sky. When she got to the castle, Annie crept into the hall and stood against the wall, taking in the crowd of men who’d gathered at the trestle tables. Rafe and Aindreas stood near the great hearth, holding goblets of ale and chatting with Sir Archibald, their voices filled with rage.

“I tell you, uncle, they were not regular fighting men. They were poorly armed and without uniforms, but they fought like madmen, like the Picts of old.” He spun and paced from one side of the mantel to the other. “I don’t think it was Baen.”

“Then who? Surely not the MacDougall,” Archibald demanded plaintively. “The devils who’ve tormented us could not wipe out a patrol. It couldn’t have been them.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “Something has made them bolder.” His gaze fell on Annie leaning against the wall. “Lass, where have you been all day?” He strolled toward her, took hold of her shoulders and shook her slightly. “If only you could speak. You’d be such help to me, lass.”

Annie ducked her head, hiding her gaze so he might not see the anger there. Did he truly believe she’d betray her kinsman for him?

“Nay, lass,” he said softening his voice. “I can’t expect you to go against your own. ‘Twas anger that made me speak thus to you.” He paced away from her, rubbing the back of his neck, then whirled and fixed her with a stern gaze.

“Where were you today, lass? And your friend, Bryce? Where did he go?”

Annie shook her head, edging back toward the door. He followed, his face grim. “You know who’s done this, don’t you?” he demanded.

She shook her head vigorously, displaying a panic that had become all too real.

“Tell them, in whatever way you communicate, that they must stop this. We have real enemies at our gates. We don’t need to be attacked from within. Tell them I’m trying to do my best for your clan.”

His words were a near shout now, alarming her even further. He suspected they were behind the attacks. Damn Bryce and his impatience. What had he hoped to obtain with such an act? He’d put them all in danger.

Rafe’s eyes were black, staring into hers until she wanted to look away, but knew she mustn’t. He was giving them a warning. There would be no retaliation this time, but the next they might not be as fortunate. He’d fallen silent, his gaze holding hers, his towering figure hard and unyielding. This was a side of the Campbell warrior she’d never seen before. This was the side he presented to his enemies, ruthless and pitiless. Her heart pounded in her chest. The wide hall doors lay open behind her, and she turned and raced through them and down the steps to the bailey, not bothering to affect a hobble. Only when she’d reached the grassy courtyard, did she remember to limp.

She hurried back to the smithy and found Bryce looking much better. His face had regained some of its natural ruddy color, and he’d donned fresh clothes, which covered most of his bruises and wounds. Although he moved stiffly, he’d managed to rebuild his fire and stood tapping lightly on a piece of iron. He stopped with obvious relief when he saw her.

“You didn’t bring the Campbell whelp with you?” he asked scathingly.

“Nay, but that is not to say he won’t visit you yet this evening. He suspects you and the rest of the men for the attack.”

“Bah, he has no proof. For all he knows, it could have been Baen.”

“And that could be why there will be no retaliation against us, but he’s no fool, Bryce. He’s guessing the truth of it, and when he knows for sure, he’ll punish those who’ve killed his men.” Angry at Bryce’s careless attitude, she glared at him. “Have a care, for you risk not only your life, but the rest of us as well.” Turning, she stalked away.

“Where have you been, lass?” Father Cowan asked when she returned to their hut. “I’ve worried about you. Did you hear about Bryce?”

“Aye.” She told him all she’d heard and the decisions she and the midwife had made to protect the identity of their clansmen.

“’Tis a wise plan, lass,” the old priest said. “Bryce must listen to you. I’ll tell him so. We can’t lose any more men.” He put an arm around her in a rare show of emotion. “Put it behind you tonight. Rest.”

“Will you not do the same, Father?”

“Nay, lass, I’ve my prayers to do. We need them now more than ever. And I must tend to the dead.”

She went to her side of the hut and pulled aside the curtain that gave her an illusion of privacy. She was tired, she thought despondently, as she unbuttoned her gown and crawled into her pallet, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever sleep again.

* * * *

Unease settled over Dunollie in the days that followed. If some of the men went about their chores a little sluggardly, no one seemed to notice. Jaimie Dougall’s body was found at the bottom of the steep precipice. The general consensus was that he’d stumbled off the edge in a drunken state. His wife, who’d been skulking between castle and village, red-eyed and somber, upon hearing of her husband’s demise, threw her apron over her head and wept copiously with grief.

Later in the week, Logan Murray slipped into the burn up near the shieling huts and drowned. His body washed downstream for several miles before he was recovered, all battered and bloody. Both men were buried immediately. Then just as the village was recovering from these tragedies, Duncan Lumsden was trampled to death by a high-spirited mount. The horse was put down, and there were some in the village who thought Duncan got what he deserved. Two fresh, unmarked graves went unnoticed in the high meadow burial ground.

Annie stayed close to the castle, minding her geese and her wayward clansmen. Bryce was regaining his strength and once again his hammer rang out from the smithy. People began to relax a bit. Fear of discovery slowly faded.

Finally, even Annie eased her vigil, and although she wouldn’t be so foolhardy as to spend the day in the mountains again, she roamed the meadows, letting the fragrant wind blow away her anxiety. As she wandered, she began to sing, finding solace in her outpouring. One day, as she sat beside a rill, trailing her fingers in the cold stream, a footstep sounded behind her. She ceased singing and turned. Jean MacIntyre stood with a look of wonderment on her face. Her dark hair was unbound, and the wind had whipped color into her cheeks, so she looked pretty and high-spirited.

“Annie, you can sing,” she said breathlessly. She hurried to sink to her knees beside the girl. “Your voice is like an angel from on high.” She paused. “Can you not speak as well, lass?”

Annie shook her head and leaped to her feet, ready to flee across the meadow. Impulsively, Jean caught hold of her hand.

“Nay, Annie, don’t run away. I want to be yer friend.” She paused, waiting and when Annie made no response, she held out the bundle of brightly colored cloth she carried.

“I have these extra gowns. I thought you might like them.”

Startled, Annie looked from her friendly face to the clothes.

“Let’s go try them on,” Jean said eagerly. “I’ll show you how to wear them.”

Annie wanted to say no, to refuse the gowns, but she couldn’t. She felt the smooth satiny finish and saw the intense colors that seemed to spill right into her very soul.

“Come on,” Jean urged and Annie led the way to the hut she shared with Father Cowan. Inside, the MacIntyre noblewoman looked around, taking in the dirt floor and poor plenishing, but her smile never wavered.

“You keep everything clean and neat,” she said magnanimously.

Annie made no answer, too intent in sliding a gown of peacock-blue silk over her head.

“Let me help. Hold your hair out of the way,” Jean offered and hurried to guide the shimmery material into place and fasten the loops of metallic gold braid.

Smoothing the drape of the skirt, she moved back, smiling as Annie, her golden hair clasped high in one hand, turned this way and that.

“Oh, Annie, you’re a bonnie lass,” Jean said in awe. “You fair take my breath away. Wait until Rafe sees you.” She stopped abruptly then continued.

“He’ll think you’re beautiful, as I do,” Jean said firmly.

“You’re the maiden at the pool, aren’t you? The one that Rafe is in love with?” she asked softly.

Annie’s eyes widened for a moment, then she slumped and rounded her shoulders, her head lowered, her hair sweeping across the rounded cheeks, hiding the beauty and intelligence. Jean drew in a breath and crossed to her.

“Don’t pretend, Annie. I know who you are. ‘Tis too late to try and fool me.” Annie moved toward the door and threw it open, gesturing for her visitor to leave.

“Nay, I won’t go until you tell me the truth of it,” Jean said. “I heard you sing today, and I know you can answer me.” She gripped the younger girl’s shoulders. “You’re Rafe’s lady at the pool,” she said with certainty. Her eyes widened. “The night Rafe and the blacksmith fought, a woman cried out. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Her gaze was so direct, so sure that Annie couldn’t deny it. Her cheeks flushed with distress, and the truth was there for any to read. She gazed at Jean, wanting to trust her, wanting to have her as a friend, yet understanding that the safety of others depended on the decision she made at this moment. Jean waited expectantly.

“You must not speak of this to anyone,” Annie whispered, taking hold of her hands.

“Why not?” Jean breathed.

“I can’t explain it to you now, but will you trust me?” Annie asked urgently.

Doubt and suspicion warred in Jean’s expression. “I want to,” she answered. “But Rafe has many enemies and—” She paused, studying Annie. “But somehow I don’t think you’re one of them. I’ll keep your secret, Annie, for now.” The two women looked at each other, forging an unspoken bond that tied them more closely than blood itself.

Long after Jean left, Annie sat before the hearth in her fine gown and thought of all that had transpired. Could she trust the noblewoman? She had little choice. She wouldn’t worry about it so much, except for Bryce’s act of defiance in attacking the border patrol. If Rafe wasn’t suspicious of them now, he surely would be when he learned of her ruse. He would guess that she’d been the spy inside the castle. She must maintain her deception.

Wearily, she rose and removed the elegant gown and drew on her own coarse mantle and with it the hateful disguise that dogged her every waking moment.

Chapter Seven

The days that followed were peaceful enough. Rafe, Gare and Aindreas were preoccupied with insuring the safety of the borders, setting their men to patrol more tightly and in greater number while they, themselves, rode out often to check the outposts. At all times, a heavier patrol guarded the castle. The castle villagers breathed a little easier and went about their tasks, tending the fields and cattle with less concern than they might have.

Annie seldom went to the smithy to converse with Bryce on the state of things. He’d betrayed her trust and that of his clansmen who’d foolishly followed his lead. Now they drew back, blaming him more than themselves for the suspicions that surrounded them. Once or twice, Annie had come upon a group of MacDougall men, huddled with Bryce, whispering and bickering, but when she stood glaring at them, hands on her hips, eyes flaming, they quickly dispersed.

“Dam’ me, Annie. Do you mean to hound me for the rest of my life?” Bryce demanded.

“Until I’m sure I can trust ye again,” she snapped.

“Now would be a good time to strike,” the blacksmith cried in frustration. “The young Campbell and his men are worried about the borders and are often out of the castle. We’ve men enough to take the guards they’ve left behind.”

“And then what would you do, Bryce?” she demanded. “Would you be able to hold the castle against the combined forces of the Campbells and the MacIntyres? And do you think they might guess who’s been attacking them behind their backs and retaliate? Rafe knows it’s you, and he’s given you his warning. Next time, it’ll be a hanging for you and those who follow you. Do you want that for our men?”

He glared at her but made no argument. Instead, he slunk away to his anvil and the industrious ring of his hammer could be heard the rest of the day.

After Rafe and Captain Aindreas set out on their rounds each morning, Jean would wander down through the village to find Annie scattering grain for her geese. The two women would stand visiting, Jean doing all the talking and Annie nodding her head now and then. But later in the day, the two girls would walk into the highlands and sit plaiting fragrant wild flowers into circlets, which they wore on their heads as they sat in the sun and chatted. Here, away from any possible spies from the castle, Annie spoke in a quiet, shy voice, still unsure of her freedom to do so. Many confidences were shared. Annie revealed that only a few people knew she was not mute.

“Why didn’t you let them know the truth?” Jean asked in disbelief. “The life of a goose girl must be very difficult after the comforts of a laird’s daughter.”

“I’m not sure,” Annie hedged. She knew full well why her true identity must be kept hidden, but she couldn’t explain it to Jean, much as she might want to.

“After the old Laird was killed and the Campbells took over, there was purging. Many innocent men and even women and children were killed. We didn’t know who to trust, so we did what we felt we must in order to survive.” She tilted her head so the broad brim of the woven grass hat she’d donned against the sun’s hot rays hid the top half of her face.

“You poor child,” Jean said softly. “I remember my father speaking of some of the atrocities. He was outraged, but his father, my grandfather, was tied to the Campbells and his allegiance with Robert the Bruce. Still, even my grandfather felt the punishment had been too severe.”