Devil in a Kilt (35 page)

"Indeed?
I have observed your gaze following Duncan, and I have seen how he watches you
when he thinks no one is taking notice of him," he said, his voice seeming
to come from a great distance.

Linnet
strained to hear him over the unusually loud crackling of the fire. Shaking her
head, she tried to rid her ears of the noise, but the popping and snapping of
the fire only grew louder.

The
wind, too, had become deafening, whistling past the windows with an unearthly
howl, rattling the shutters in its wake.

As
the din increased, the skin on the back of her neck prickled and her hands grew
damp. Still staring into the fire, she fought the uncomfortable sense of
ill-ease creeping up on her and concentrated instead on making herself heard.

"You
are mistaken," she said, her voice sounding strange, hollow, even to her
own ears. "My lord husband has told me—"

"Lady?"
The Sassunach rushed forward, catching her as she swayed and began to slump to
the floor. "Sweet Mother of God, what is it?"

Linnet
felt herself collapse into his arms. She could barely make sense of his words,
so shrill was the buzzing in her ears. Her head fell back against his chest,
and she tried to look up at him but saw only flames.

A
dancing wall of fire surrounded her, its heat searing her, its roar drowning
all other sound. Through the flames, and as if from many leagues away, she
thought she heard someone calling her husband's name, but she was too weary,
too deafened by the raging fire to tell for sure.

With
great effort, she forced her eyes open, only to recoil in horror at the
terrifying sight before her. Cringing, she cowered against the hard chest of
whoe'er held her so securely. But she kept her eyes open, bound as if by a
sorcerer's wand to stare at the figure standing in the flames.

‘Twas
a two-headed man.

A
monster.

An
abomination of nature.

Tall
and powerful-looking, he stood with his legs apart, hands braced on his hips. His
two heads were cowled, shielding his features from view, but she knew
instinctively one of the heads smiled benevolently at her whilst the second
wore an evil grimace.

A
horrifying mask of fury aimed straight at her from the gates of hell.

And
all the while, the other head smiled, benignly enjoying her terror.

Linnet
screamed.

Wild
shrieks ripped from her throat, torn from her very soul, straining her lungs
and bursting forth until her cries grew louder than the roar of the flames.

Then
all went still.

The
flames vanished as if they'd never been there, mercifully taking the two-headed
man with them, leaving her floating in a sea of darkness where all was quiet
and still.

And
black.

A
blackness deeper and more impenetrable than the dark waters of a bottomless
loch on a cold December night.

Through
the darkness she heard the muffled sound of running feet and loud cries. A
man's agitated shouts, peppered with curses and tersely barked orders. But despite
her efforts, it was impossible to fully decipher the words or place the
direction from which they came.

She
heard mumblings, too. Softly uttered words, unintelligible murmurs.

Sounds
of concern.

Then
other arms took hold of her. Arms equally strong and powerful, perchance even
more so. And her aching head was held against something hard and firm yet
undeniably comforting.

Comforting
and familiar.

Linnet
tried to open her eyes to see who held her so tenderly, to discover where he
was carrying her, for she could only tell they climbed round and round... in
dizzying circles.

But
her eyelids proved too heavy to lift and sleep pressed in on her with a
relentless, overpowering seductiveness she couldn't resist.

Then
she was floating again. No longer held and coddled, but on her own and resting
upon a bed of such exquisite softness it could only be a cloud.

‘Twas
surely a dream.

But
a nightmare, too, for the ghastly figure of the two-headed man appeared again,
albeit only in the darkest recesses of her mind.

Hoping
to will away the frightening image, she curled herself into a ball and kept her
eyes tightly shut. Someone's gentle hands touched her, at times stroking her
forehead, then pressing something cool against her cheek.

On
occasion, whoever it was, would lift her head and carefully dribble fresh water
onto her parched lips, or help her take small sips of cool water until sleep
claimed her once more.

Then
she'd drift deeper into the darkness, unaware of those around her.

Gone,
the roaring flames. Vanquished, the fiendish two-headed man. Silenced, too, the
shouts and curses.

Faded
to nothingness, the hushed and guarded whisperings.

Naught
remained but an all-encompassing quiet and the dark.

And
the comforting feel of her hand, limp and cold, held tenderly between a pair of
larger, warmer hands.

Strong
hands, gentle and sure. Familiar, too, yet strange as well for their touch
conveyed without question that, whoever it was, cared.

Cared
deeply, for each time the fog thinned, the hands were always there. Oft simply
holding hers, sometimes heartily massaging her fingers as if to chase away the
cold.

Once,
when the dark receded a bit, she stole a brief glance at the owner of the
hands. ‘Twas Duncan, her husband. But when she looked again, to make certain,
the haze blurred his face, and she couldn't tell for sure.

With a sigh so weak she barely heard it herself, she
gave herself up to the darkness. It was safe and pleasant to drift through a
dreamworld where her husband watched o'er her.

A
world where he held fast to her hands, caressing them.

As
if they were cherished.

As
if
she
were cherished.

Aye,
for a while at least, she'd tarry in the netherworld between the place whence
her visions came and the cold, unforgiving world in which she was naught
more than a wife desired but not loved.

That
decided, she let herself sink into the soft feather mattress of her bed—for she
knew the bed was not truly a cloud—and savored her husband's gentle
ministrations as he sat beside her, tending her as if he cared.

As
if he loved her.

A
tiny, contented sigh escaped her when he suddenly began massaging her fingers
anew. She'd warn him of the two-headed man on the morrow when her head was no
longer fuzzy.

After
she'd had her fill of his surprisingly gentle touch.

Then
would be time enough.

None
could fault her for indulging herself in a few scant hours pretending her
husband cared.

Linnet
woke to a room cloaked in semi darkness. Weak sunlight filtered through the
closed shutters, casting long blue-gray shadows across the floor and up the
tapestried walls, letting her know it was late evening. Faith and mercy, but
she'd slept many hours since her frightening vision in the solar.

An
empty chair stood next to the bed, mute testament someone had indeed sat
there, tenderly holding her hand, offering her comfort whilst she'd slept so
fitfully, plagued by nightmares of a two-headed man surrounded by flames.

Could
the compassionate soul who'd so lovingly looked after her truly have been her
husband?

Dare
she hope it?

Was
Duncan MacKenzie, the formidable and mighty Black Stag of Kintail, capable of
such great gentleness? Or was she deluding herself, adjusting her vague
memories of the dark hours following the ghastly vision to better suit her
secret desires?

Scooting
up to a sitting position, she rubbed her throbbing temples and tried to think.
Could Duncan harbor such concern for her or had she merely crafted a soothing
lie to sweeten what transpired after she'd lost consciousness?

A
sideways glance at the small table near her bed assured her the gentle hands,
the loving ministrations she remembered, hadn't been imagined. Someone had
cared for her, for atop the table stood an earthen water jug, a drinking cup,
and a small metal basin, empty but for a few damp cloths.

She'd
imagined naught, and it was indeed her husband who'd sat by her side, tending
her so lovingly.

It
had to have been him, for deep inside she knew his touch. A slow smile spread
across her face at the revelation. She would ken his caress, the feel of his
hands, amongst those of a thousand men. Mayhap more. He
did
care. Heat stole
into her cheeks, joining her smile, as warmth spread through her, filling her
with hope and banishing the lingering aftereffects of the disturbing visitation.

Slipping
from the bed, she crossed the room and flung the shutters wide, eager to let in
what meager light remained. But more than fading light and chill, briny air
came in through the opened window. The sound of men's voices, low and troubled,
entered as well, drifting down from the ramparts above.

Men's
voices raised in anger, the words carried on the wind turning her blood to ice
water.

"...
butchered every last one o' them, even the bairns. The laird'll carve the
bastard to pieces when he catches him..."

Linnet
snatched her mantle from the back of a chair and tossed its warmth around her.
With trembling fingers, she worked in vain to fasten the brooch at her
shoulder, gave up, and hurried from the room. Clutching the cloak about her
shoulders as best she could, she made her way to the great hall as fast as her
legs would carry her.

Deep
grumblings and furious shouts rose up to greet her as she descended the tower's
circular stair. Pounding noises and loud thumps, too.

And
the unmistakable hiss and clatter of steel.

The
nearer she came to the hall, the more fierce the ruckus sounded. It was as if
the entire assemblage were either slamming their fists upon the tables,
stomping their feet, or unsheathing their swords.

Mayhap
all three from the frightful din they made.

"Cuidich'
N' Righ! Save the king!"
The clan war cry erupted
suddenly, bursting forth, resounding and ferocious, from the lungs of what
sounded to be a legion of MacKenzie warriors.

Each
one filled with rage.

Nay,
rage was too paltry a word.

‘Twas
bloodlust she heard.

Bloodlust
pure: cold, unforgiving, and bent on revenge.

"Cuidich'
N' Righ!"
‘Twas a chant now, the fervent cry deafening as
it bounced off Eilean Creag's thick stone walls, echoing eerily in the stair
tower as she rounded the last curve, finally reaching the great hall's
arched
entrance.

There,
she stopped short, drawing back into the shadows to assess the sight before
her.

In
the center of the hall, her husband stood upon one of the trestle tables, his
powerful legs arrogantly spread. With both hands, he held his sword high above
his head as he led his kinsmen in shouts for justice.

Flickering
light from scores of lit torches glinted off his black mail hauberk whilst
little flames appeared to dance in the gleaming darkness of his wildly
disordered hair.

Linnet's
fingers tightened on the edges of her cloak as she stared at him. He looked
savage, fierce, with great waves of anger emanating from every taut muscle of
his warrior's body.

A
bloodthirsty, brutal warrior demanding vengeance.

Repeatedly,
he thrust his great sword upward, skillfully whipping his men into a frenzy. As
one, they repeated the war cries he roared from his lofty perch.

Unable
to move, frozen in place and transfixed by the spectacle before her, Linnet
stared at him in awe. Every inch of him exuded sheer power. Light from the many
raised torches reflected onto the steel mesh of his mail tunic, gilding his
muscles and turning the close-fitting hauberk into a glittering shirt of
flames.

Flames.
Her breath left her in a rash and her heart slammed against her chest.

She'd
near forgotten the two-headed man she'd seen standing in the flames! Terror
seized her, chilling her to the very marrow of her bones. The message had to
pertain to whatever vile deed had unleashed such havoc upon the Clan
MacKenzie.

She
had to warn Duncan, tell him about the two-headed man.

Mayhap
he could make sense of it.

Shaking
anew, Linnet forced herself to leave the shelter of shadows in which she'd been
hiding. On legs that felt too wobbly to carry her through the crowd of angry,
jostling men packing the hall, she made her way forward.

With
great effort, she pushed through the MacKenzie warriors to where Duncan loomed
heads above them, now brandishing his sword menacingly in the air, jabbing
ferociously at an unseen enemy. "Let none among us rest until the lives of
those taken from us have been avenged," he swore, his outraged voice
reaching even the farthest corners of the massive hall.