Warrior and the Wanderer (14 page)

He had about two weeks and no plan to help Bess achieve her goal. To avoid existing “in nothing short of a living death” he would have to gather his wits and improvise.

* * * *

Bess and Alasdair stood side by side in the great hall of Edinburgh Castle. No one there could help them. Not even her beloved friend, the Duke of Argyll.

“Come, come, Dear Bess,” the Duke said waving his hand and a greasy goose leg, beckoning her to join him at the bench with the rest of Scotland’s elite.

Of course she would. She, Bess Campbell, would rightfully join them. She willed one leaden foot forward. Then why did she feel as if she didn’t want to join them?

Could it be the way they looked to the dark hammer beam roof high above and bellowed out deep laughs, between large bites of goose, mutton, and sweetmeat? Or was it the way they consumed large swallows of wine and ale as fast as the servant lads could fill their goblets? She shook her head. It was none of those things, none of those things even though they reminded her vividly of the great hall in Duart Castle, the home of her husband. She hated the real reason she found these people strangers to her and why she was reluctant to join them. It was because Ian was in this castle, a condemned prisoner, because of her.

Alasdair stopped short of the table and turned around. “Are ye coming, m’Lady?” he asked. He was practically drooling at the anticipation of joining the supper.

She nodded at him. “Aye.”

“Dear Bess,” the Duke squawked, “I have you a place beside me. Come, come.”

She had not seen him for several years, not since her brother had been victorious in securing more land to the north of Inverary. The Duke had delivered the queen regent’s royal edict to her clan. It stated that the Stuart Monarchy was in debt to Clan Campbell of Argyll for expanding royal interests in the western Highlands. The monarchy was in debt to her clan. Yet, just how deep did the debt go? The Duke would advise her

She took a seat next to him.

The Duke smiled at her over the ruffled collar about his neck. It was decorated with bits of meat, vegetable, and a splatter of grease or two. His grey chin whiskers, trimmed to a sharp point held a few of their own decorations as well.

“I know that you’ve come to see our good Queen Maggie,” he whispered.

Bess removed her
sqian dhu
from the sheath under her arm and reached for a piece of mutton. “Maggie?”

“The queen regent. She’s not here at the moment.”

Bess stopped in mid-reach. “At this supper, ye mean to say.”

“She’s to Stirling to plead with the councilors to let her see her son, young King James. If successful, she will return within the week. What brings you to Edinburg?”

Bess stabbed a piece of mutton with her knife and dropped it on the empty plate a servant had quietly set before her. “A matter most dire. I know who murdered my brother.”

The Duke raised his brows. “Ye have brought a heavy load to this repast, Dear Bess. Tell me, whom do you accuse of this crime? I have heard that your brother let his temper and one too many ales get the better of his good sense in Stirling, and that’s how he met his untimely end.”

“’Tis a rumor. He died on a hunting party by the hand of my new husband, Lord MacLean.”

“Lord MacLean murdered your brother?”

“Aye, and he confessed it proudly as he tried to murder me as well, by drowning,” she replied. “We had been married but a few days. I fear ’twas his plan no’ to unite our clans but to take over our clan.”

The Duke shook his hoary head. “My Dear Bess, this is a horrid accusation. Have you any proof to both charges?”

“I have my word from what Lachlan told me from his own lips and from the scars I bear from the shackles he put round my wrists and ankles.” She displayed her wrists to the Duke.

He winced. “Terrible, but Lachlan is your husband and his rights are to discipline you as he sees fit. Did you do something to raise his ire?”

“I am a Campbell, ’twas apparently enough for him.”

The Duke took a long swig from his goblet. “Lachlan was most sincere to me when he told me of his intention to unite your clans by marriage. He also said your brother approved the union.”

“’Twas but a ruse, m’Lord.”

“A ruse? Again, you would need proof.”

Bess swallowed. Were it that she was a man, her words would hold more muscle. There was one man, one of Lachlan’s who had shown no reluctance to help her in his own odd manner. “I was rescued by one of Lord MacLean’s clan. A warrior with uncommon…understanding. He is my witness and will testify to the royal councilors against Lachlan.”

The Duke looked around the great hall. “Where is this man?”

Bess bristled. “He was taken by the royal guards into the gaol this morning,” she replied.

“Why?”

“For standing up for me.”

The Duke lifted his goblet and one brow. “Is this stranger one of the Templar? He sounds like he has a penchant for rescuing the ‘fair damsel’, namely you, my dear Bess.”

She blinked. “D’ye no’ believe me, m’Lord?”

“I wish that I could, Dear Bess,” he said around the rim of his goblet. “I have yet to meet this mysterious stranger you claim is in the goal”

“If ye got his release, m’Lord, then ye could meet him.”

“Somehow, I feel your witness has influence of his own,” the Duke said. “For here comes a man cutting a direct path toward you, my dear.”

Bess shifted her attention from the Duke of Argyll, and dropped her goblet.

Ian took long strides across the stone floor from the vicinity of the servant’s door. His doublet flapped open exposing a stained, dirty tunic. The undone lacings exposed an equally dirty chest. His plaid molded to his powerful thighs with each stride forward was as dingy as the rest of him. His bronzed flesh was covered in streaks of dirt and other unknown filth. He looked as if he had followed a mole up from the pits of Hell. Bess could not help but grip the edge of the table, her fingertips dipping into the puddle of wine that had flooded from her fallen goblet.

Ian’s well-cobbled boots left large dirt-packed prints on the stones. He stopped and stared down at her. Her gazed locked onto his. Suddenly, the great hall only held the two of them.

“Blaze,” he said, wiping his forehead with the dirty sleeve of his doublet. His face was only made grimier by the action.

He did not say anything else, just stood there, chest rising and falling behind the leather and unlaced linen.

Was it her turn to speak?

“Blaze?” Ian repeated.

She nodded. “Aye?”

He looked over his shoulder to the servant’s door from which he came. Nervousness did not wear well on him. Was he being pursued?

He glanced back at her then slid his gaze to the groaning board laden with supper. “I could use a bite of that meat.”

She could not believe that he was ignoring everyone present.

He took in a deep breath as he looked down at himself. “I need a bath.”

The only person Bess knew who bathed as much as Ian MacLean was Lachlan. He was reputed to bathe once a month whether he needed it or not. She had to admit that Ian needed a bath. He smelled as ripe as the streets of this fair city.

She looked to the Duke of Argyll who, along with everyone present, was staring at Ian.

“This is the man who saved me from Lachlan’s evil hand,” she said. “He can bring proof against him to the queen regent’s councilors. Will ye give him a your generous hospitality until she returns?”

The Duke of Argyll looked Ian up and down. “What is your name?”

“Ian MacLean?”

“And how do you know Bess of Clan Campbell?”

“She was chained to a rock when we first met. I am here to see that doesn’t happen again.” He shot Bess a grin. She flinched.

“And how to you plan to do that?” the Duke asked.

“Good question,” Ian said. “I need to think on that. But first I could use some of that food there and maybe a bath.”

“A brazen request from one who was reportedly in the gaol. How did you leave its confines?”

Bess leaned forward anxious to hear Ian’s reply. What had he done to escape? Whatever she found out, she knew, it would not surprise her. That was how things with Ian MacLean were. And she was finding that, bit-by-bit, she was growing used to his strange behavior.

“I can’t very well protect Blaz—Bess Campbell while I’m locked away, now can I?” Ian replied. “I made the guards see that reasoning.”

“A man of influence?” the Duke said holding up his goblet. “Well, dear Bess, it looks like you have a worthy champion in this Ian Maclean.”

Alasdair grunted.

“And a witness,” she said looking at Ian.

He nodded. “Aye, and I’m her witness.”

The Duke narrowed his eyes. “And you would bear witness against your chief, Lord Lachlan MacLean, in order to protect Bess and her clan?”

Ian nodded. “Whatever it takes to bring on the justice.” He looked hungrily at the table laden with food.

The Duke looked at Bess. He was clearly intrigued by Ian’s odd confident manner. Was he curious enough to let Ian stay in his company or to send him back to the gaol?

The Duke raised his goblet to Ian. “On behalf of her majesty, the regent queen, I offer you hospitality.”

Instead of offering the Duke a bow, Ian extended a hand to him.

The Duke remained still, staring at him.

Ian blinked, and then offered the Duke a deep bow. “Thank you.”

Bess sighed in relief as the Duke took in Ian’s very strange manner. She feared that unless tempered it might be a problem. Problem was, she didn’t want Ian to temper anything.

Chapter Eight: We Have To Talk

B
ess peeked through the crack of the open door. She could only see Ian’s head and broad shoulders above the rim of the tub in his small bedchamber. He had not heard her turn the latch to open the door, because he was singing. She did not recognize the song. The melody was so unusual, full of lively rhythm, and an odd combination of words. She couldn’t help but stifle a laugh at the silly tune, which gave her spying on him away.

Ian looked over his wet shoulder as his song faded into a crooked grin. “Come in, Blaze.”

She entered the chamber and shut the door behind her. Averting her gaze at Ian in his bath, she carried a trencher of food in one hand and his bundled trews and crimson tunic under one arm to the table beside the large, four-posted bed with deep blue drapery. Ian’s chamber was cozily illuminated by a candle on the table beside the bed and a wood fire in the hearth.

Ian had refused the Duke’s offer to sit at the table in the great hall, protesting that he was “too ripe for polite company” and instead asked for a bath.

Bess was bringing his supper and his clothes that he had stolen from the abbey’s poor box. She was serving him with her own hand only because he had protected her from the goal and promised to bear witness against his chief, Lachlan MacLean, to the queen regent. She felt that was as far as her obligation to Ian had to go. A Highland chief did not serve anyone unless it was a point of honor.

“What was that odd song ye were singing?” she asked, turning her back to him. “Ye sang something like ‘she’ and ‘loves you’, then you sang ‘yeah, yeah, yeah’ as if ye were a spoiled wean. A most odd song.”

“My mother sang it to me,” he said, tone quiet.

“To express her love for you in her own way, no doubt,” she said willing herself not to turn and look at him in his bath. “I brought you mutton, turnips, and bread. And yer trews and tunic.”

“Thanks. I’m starved. Would you mind bringing the food over to me?”

Thunder rumbled as a storm raged outside. Rain lashed at the window, a muffled noise behind the swath of tapestry hanging from an iron rod. Bess took a deep breath and retrieved the pewter trencher.

“I’m bringing this to ye in yer bath only to express my gratitude for what you did for me in the tavern and no’ because I want to—

“—Join me?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes as she backed slowly toward the tub. “I kent ye would be so bold to ask me that, Ian MacLean. And ye should ken that my reply would be a firm ‘no’.”

“Am I that much of a forgone conclusion to you, Blaze?”

She felt the edge of the tub with the back of her thigh. She held the trencher in one had behind her back offering it to him.

“Turn around,” he challenged. “You know you want to.”

Still holding the trencher, she slowly turned around, forcing her gaze to stay forged to Ian’s smiling face.

“Thank you.” He held his arms out from the water, the firelight reflected the generous, taut muscles from wrist to shoulder and down across his chest. He had held her with those arms. She had never felt so secure or so much like a woman. Lachlan, her husband, did not have the capacity of making her feel even a hundred leagues away from the things she felt in Ian’s strong embrace.

She gave him his supper and quickly turned her back to him.

Ian chuckled.

“How did ye escape the gaol?” she asked.