Devil in a Kilt (24 page)

"‘Twould
please Mauger if you'd tell me what's amiss," she tried, resting one hand
upon the dog's shoulder. "There's no one here but he and I, and you know
how much we both love you."

Fresh
tears sprang to Robbie's eyes, but he nodded and began to speak. "I went
to the kitchen 'cause Fergus said Cook was baking spiced cakes and ... and
..."

"And?"

"A
few of Cook's helpers were lighting the fires and I heard them talking. They
said you would give Papa a new son and then ..." Robbie drew a great,
shuddering breath, then seemed to crumple in her lap. His next words came out
in a rush, "... and then he'd ne'er want me at all."

Linnet's
heart twisted, his fears lancing her very soul. Taking his face between her
hands, she forced him to look at her. "Hear me well, child, for what I say
is true: Your father loves you more than his own life. Do not ever doubt it,
nor that you
are
his son. Have you forgotten what I told you the day we
met his half brother in the woods?"

Robbie
shook his head but looked far from reassured.

"Good.
All ken you are your father's son. I saw it, too, when first I laid eyes upon
you, and I've told you ‘tis only the truth I see in such a way."

She
paused, getting to her feet and drawing Robbie up with her. She also searched
for the right words and when she found them, she placed her hands firmly on his
shoulders.

"
‘Tis hard, I know, but mayhap the saints wish to strengthen you so you'll be
better able to face the responsibilities of being next laird. Those above
ne'er give us heavier burdens than we can bear." Stepping back from him,
she crossed her arms. "If e'er I am blessed with a babe, ‘twould be a
brother or sister for you to love ... a child who would naught but love you.
And respect your place as future laird."

"But
why can't we tell Papa?"

For
the first time, Linnet doubted the wisdom of keeping such a secret. But her
sixth sense told her ‘twas the only way, and never had her instincts led her
falsely.

"Because,"
she began, hoping he'd understand, "your father must find the truth
himself. ‘Tis a powerful ache he carries within, and only he can heal it. If we
tell him, we'll be taking away the lesson the saints have ordained he must
learn. Does that make sense to you?"

Robbie
hesitated, digging at the hard-packed dirt floor with the toe of his shoe.
"Do you think it will take him long to learn that lesson?"

"Nay,
I do not, for your papa is a well-learned and wise man," Linnet assured
him, praying to the heavens above not to prove her wrong.

At
Robbie's age, a mere sennight ‘twould seem like forever.

"You
think Papa is wise?"

"Oh,
aye, I do," she agreed, pleased when the lad stood a bit straighter upon
hearing her words. Even Mauger's ears perked up as if the old hound understood
her. " ‘Tis well-known he's the mightiest of Highland warriors, too. The
most revered in all the land. I'd heard of his daring feats in battle, of his
valor, long afore he brought me here."

A
pink stain tinged Robbie's cheeks and he took his lower lip between his teeth.
Then, looking sheepish, he said, "But you're a MacDonnell. How would you
know?"

Her
heart swelled at the way the lad instinctively puffed out his chest, pride in
his MacKenzie heritage replacing his earlier distress.

"‘Tis
likely there are none who do not know of him," she said, gently tugging
his tunic into place over his hose. "A grievance, even a long-standing one
as betwixt our clans, doesna mean they hear naught of each other. Many are the
traveling minstrels who sing your father's praises, as they sang of his father
before him."

"Have
you heard them sing of my papa?" Robbie asked, his voice full of awe.

"More
oft than I welcomed," she told him, a wry grin curving her lips. "The
courage and spirit of the MacKenzie men is legend, and no matter what plaid a
man flings o'er his shoulder, ‘tis not a Highlander worthy of the name who
willna respect another man's valor, enemy clan or nay."

"Do
you think the bards will e'er sing about me?"

"I
know they will." She tousled his silky dark hair, then slipped her hand
under his chin, lifting his face so she could glory in the hope she saw there.
"‘Tis a tall legacy you must follow, Robbie, but I dinna doubt you'll make
a fine laird one day."

He
seemed to grow taller before her eyes, but Linnet could see something still
troubled him. "I am sorry I cried," he blurted. "Men dinna
cry."

"And
who told you that?" Linnet peered intently at him. "‘Tis only a very
brave man who is not afeared to show he cares."

At
that, Robbie rushed forward and threw his arms around her legs. "I am so
happy you're here," he said, gazing up at her, the ardor in his words
melting her heart.

"‘Tis
glad I am too," she admitted, speaking the truth she couldn't deny.
Despite everything. "Would you like to help me sow a bed of cabbage
seeds?" she asked, changing the subject. "A future laird must ken the
workings of his castle just as he must learn to wield his sword and lance. So,
will you assist me?"

Robbie
nodded. "But... will you ..."

"Will
I what?" Linnet queried, gathering her supplies from the worktable.

He
shot her a shy look. "Will you teach me to throw a dagger the way you
threw yours at Uncle Kenneth?"

Linnet
laughed and plunked a small sack of cabbage seed into Robbie's hands.
"Aye, lad, I shall teach you that and more."

Then
she opened the workshop door, holding it wide so the boy and his dog could step
out into the morning sunlight. She followed close on their footsteps, the
flagon of Sir Marmaduke's elixir tucked away in her purse, totally forgotten.

It
wasn't until after vespers and a light repast of pickled herring, bread, and
wine, that Linnet remembered the special herbal remedy she'd concocted for the
Sassunach.

He'd
never be soothing to look upon, but her remedies seemed to be working well, and
with a lessening of the swelling and a diminishing of the redness, traces of
the handsome man he'd once been were becoming visible.

His
gratitude had been immediate, and he'd been presenting her with flowers, or
ewers of the finest wine nigh onto every day since she'd first offered to help
him.

But
none of the gifts he'd showered upon her had pleased her more than when she'd
come upon him two days past, bent over the outside well, carefully examining
his reflection in the circle of water. Not wanting to embarrass him, she'd
slipped quietly back inside the keep, but not before the pleased expression on
his ravaged face had sent a warm glow spreading through her.

From
behind her, the unexpected sound of clanking metal made her spin around, and
she gasped in surprise at the sight of Fergus. The bandy-legged old seneschal
stood before her garbed in a rusty mail shirt much too large for his scrawny
bones. The much-used gear appeared more ancient than he himself.

He
carried a sword in one hand, a mace in the other. Linnet doubted he had the
strength to use either, but the fierce set of jaw warned that
he
felt he
could.

"Fergus,"
she cried, "whate'er are you about so armed?"

He
puffed out his chest as best he could under the ill-fitting hauberk. "‘Tis
on my way to make my round of the walls, I be, lady. With our laird and the
Sass—, I mean Sir Marmaduke, on patrol, ‘Tis my duty to see to your safety and
that of all within."

Linnet
couldn't bite back a smile. "Aren't the sentries keeping watch?"

"Aye,
and well they should be." He fixed her with a hawklike stare. "They
ken what will happen if I find them away from their posts."

"But...
I've never seen you armed thusly." Linnet tried to keep her voice earnest.
"Do you truly expect trouble?"

The
old man glanced furtively about, his sharp gaze probing the vastness of the
great hall as if he thought the apparition of Edward Longshanks and his mounted
knights would sally forth out of the shadows and fall upon them any moment.

"Nay,
milady, dinna fear. ‘Tis only"—his voice dropped to a whisper—"if the
bastard Kenneth discovered your husband and Sir Marmaduke be both gone, ‘tis
evil and daring enough he be to launch an attack."

"And
you want to be prepared to stand upon the battlements and defend the
castle."

"Aye."
He answered solemnly. '"‘Tis still a good sword arm I have."

"I'm
sure you do," Linnet conceded, her smile genuine, for she admired his
devotion and valor. Were Dundonnell faced with a siege, her sire would have
taken to his bed with a generous supply of ale.

He
nodded respectfully. "By your leave, lady, I shall be on my way," he
said, turning to mount the stairs to the battlements.

"Wait,
please, sir," Linnet stayed him, remembering the flagon she still carried
in her purse. "I've made an elixir for Sir Marmaduke and would like to
leave it where he'll find it when he returns. I've heard he has a chamber of
his own. Can you tell me where it is?"

"I
can, and ‘tis a new chamber he has." A gleam appeared in the seneschal's
eye, making him look years younger. "He's taken your liege husband's old
quarters ... now that our good laird sleeps elsewhere."

Linnet
thanked him, grateful the dimness of the hall shielded the blush wanning her
cheeks. She waited until Fergus disappeared around the first curve in the stairwell,
then hastened to Duncan's solar.

‘Twas
well she remembered the austere room where they'd had their unpleasant
altercation the night of her arrival. Her husband's former bedchamber had to be
beyond the closed door she'd noted in a corner of the solar.

Not
that she must deposit the flagon
there.
She needn't intrude into the
sanctity of her husband's former sleeping chamber. The adjoining solar would
serve as well.

A
short while later, upon entering the small room, she immediately noted the
changed atmosphere. That her husband no longer used the solar was glaringly
apparent. The air of grim severity she'd sensed upon her first visit was gone.

Now,
the chamber seemed warm and welcoming. A finely carved chessboard sat atop the
small table, and cushions adorned the window seats and single chair. Even the
colors of the wall tapestries appeared brighter, despite the grayness of the
damp night darkening the tall windows.

And
this time the oaken door in the far corner stood ajar.

Staring
at it, an irresistible urge to view Duncan's former bedchamber seized her,
curiosity propelling her forward. She withdrew the flagon from her purse as she
went, telling herself she could place it upon the bed, grasping any excuse to
sanction an intrusion into her husband's privacy, and Sir Marmaduke's.

At
the door, she paused to draw a deep breath. Although convinced of the
innocence of her errand, and the urgency of her need to see where Duncan had
spent a goodly number of hours, her knees shook and her heart knocked against
her ribs.

Then,
before she could change her mind, she eased the door completely open and
stepped into the dark chamber.

The
room's chill brought gooseflesh to her skin, and she rubbed her arms vigorously
to warm herself. But she attributed the cold to the stiff wind rattling the
window shutters and the rain pelting the tower walls.

‘Twas
unnaturally dark because of the storm raging outside yet here, too, the
Sassunach's benevolent presence had already left its mark. Still, something
bothered her. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the murkiness and her gaze was
drawn to the massive bed across from where she stood. ‘Twas the most
magnificent bed she'd ever seen. It boasted a great embroidered canopy and
heavy curtains of a sumptuous material she supposed was fustian.

Vaguely,
she became aware of other furniture, equally fine and noble, but the bed called
to her, not releasing her until she crossed the room and tested the thick
softness of its several feather mattresses with her hand.

‘Twas
like touching a cloud. At the thought, an image of her husband, naked and
laboring atop a dark-haired woman whose face she could not see superimposed
itself upon the richly embroidered coverlet. Crying out, Linnet snatched her
hand from the bed. Her fingers burned and tingled, smarting as if she'd thrust
her hand into a bucket of hot coals.

Anxious
to leave the bedchamber, and the unholy memories it housed, she wheeled around,
only to cry out once more.

Directly
before her, mounted above the hearth, was the painted likeness of a beautiful
woman.
The one from her brief vision.
With sickening dread, and even
though she hadn't seen the woman's face, Linnet knew the painting was of
her.

Cassandra.

Her
husband's first wife.

Linnet's
breath stocked, and her chest grew painfully tight, aching as if a heavy weight
pressed against her, squeezing the life from her.