The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (33 page)

“Exactly!
Madeline cannot be forced to wed him,” Elizabeth insisted. “You could ensure
that she is happy with Rhys!”

“
It
is not for me to change her life, to choose for her either wealth or strife.”

“That
is not true! I saw you knot Rosamunde’s ribbons! I do not doubt that you caused
the argument between her and Tynan.”

Darg
shrugged, though its expression was sly and it cast a glance toward Rosamunde
that spoke volumes. “
Every heart has its own key, the unlocking is not left
to me.
”

Elizabeth
grit her teeth and wondered what she could do to win the stubborn fairy’s aid.

“Rhys
surely must be planning to sail to Caerwyn,” Rosamunde said with conviction,
unaware of Elizabeth’s conversation with the spriggan. “There is no other
reason to have come to Dumbarton. He will not ride further, but arrange passage
on a ship. We must keep a vigil and watch the vessels in the harbor.” She
pointed at Padraig, who heaved a sigh.

“Might
I finish this cup of ale first?” that man asked. He looked longingly toward the
hearth. “A hot meal would also be welcome, before I spend another night in the
rain.”

Rosamunde
drummed her fingers on the table with impatience, even as Darg climbed to the
lip of Elizabeth’s cup. The spriggan gave a shout of glee, then bent
precariously and sipped of the ale. It drank like a hound, lapping from the
surface, though the ale disappeared with astonishing speed.

“I
would have you take a count of the ships in the harbor, note their colors and
the names of their captains, and then return for your meal. I apologize,
Padraig, but we must not lose Madeline when we are so close.”

Darg
hooted and danced around the rim of the cup while Elizabeth watched. There had
to be some way to persuade Darg to help, but Elizabeth could not think of what
it was.

Maybe
she would be more clever in the morning, after she had slept.

“As
you wish.” Padraig stood, drained his ale, granted Rosamunde a dark glance,
then left the tavern. He drew his cloak around himself, and a chilly gust of
wind swirled around the ankles of all as he opened the portal.

Elizabeth
shivered, flicked Darg from the rim of her cup, and took another swig of the
ale. It warmed her innards in a way that was not displeasing, and even the
smell of the peat fire did not trouble her on this night.

Darg
meanwhile tumbled across the table, coming to an ungainly halt against
Vivienne’s cup. The spriggan was on its back, legs askew, a vexed expression on
its small sharp face.

“But
where is Caerwyn?” Vivienne asked Rosamunde. “Is it a castle with high towers?”
The spriggan pulled itself up onto the rim of Vivienne’s cup, then drank
heartily of that cup’s contents.

Could
fairies become drunk? Elizabeth was not certain.

Rosamunde
smiled. “It has a single tower and faces the sea. When Rhys and I crossed paths
before, he was in service to his uncle, who is lord there. He undoubtedly has
returned to that abode.”

“But
where is it?” Alexander asked. “It cannot be on the west of Scotland.”

“It
is in Wales, in the very shadow of Snowdonia.” Rosamunde sipped of her own ale,
her gaze slipping over the other people gathered in the tavern as if she
assessed a threat. Elizabeth supposed her aunt had become accustomed to always
being observant of her surroundings.

“Caerwyn
was fortified by the English king Edward I. He defeated the Welsh prince,
Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, and made a statement of his suzerainty by building a ring
of stone fortresses around Snowdonia and reinforcing the existing ones he
captured. Rhys’ uncle and the Welsh rebel Owain Glyn Dwr captured Caerwyn and
another keep, Harlech, from the English forces some years ago.”

Vivienne
picked up her cup and frowned, apparently surprised to find so little ale
within it. The spriggan shook a fist at Vivienne for so rudely interrupting its
drink, then strutted toward Alexander’s cup.

“A
fortress?” Alexander sat back and shoved a hand through his hair, leaving it in
a dark tangle. “You do not suppose that we will be kept from seeing Madeline,
if they reach there before us?”

“Who
can say?” Rosamunde spared a dissatisfied glance for James, who had closed his
eyes and thrown back his head to listen to his own music. “It would be best if
we found them first, would you not say, James?”

Rosamunde
had to say his name twice more before James became aware of her voice. “What
did you say?” he asked, then scowled at his stilled fingers. “I have forgotten
my place in the tune, thanks to your interruption.”

“Forgive
me for reminding you of the reason for our journey,” Rosamunde said tartly. “I
had thought you interested in finding Madeline.”

Annoyance
flickered across James’ features and was quickly gone, though not so quickly
that the others did not note it. Elizabeth felt Alexander stiffen beside her
and saw Vivienne’s lips thin. “Of course I am determined to find Madeline,”
James said and summoned his most charming smile. “She is my betrothed and my
beloved.”

“You
do not seem overly concerned with her welfare,” Alexander said.

“You
do not seem fearful that she has been injured, or that she might be unhappy,”
Vivienne charged.

“Indeed,
you seem more besotted with your lute than your betrothed,” Elizabeth
concluded.

“Me?”
James looked between the three of them with astonishment. “I only compose a
love song, that I might salute my lost lady appropriately when we are united
again.” He placed his hand over his heart. “My days have been dark since we
parted and I can think of nothing else but seeing her sweet countenance again.”

Vivienne
snorted. “Then why did you let her believe you dead for the better part of a
year? That is no kindness to inflict upon a beloved.”

“I
thought she knew! I never would have granted her a moment’s anguish, had I
guessed she did not know the truth!”

“How
would she have learned the truth,” Alexander asked carefully. “Since every man
who fought at Rougemont was killed, but you?”

James
colored and averted his gaze. “Oh, I was not the only one. You have heard an
exaggeration, to be sure.”

Alexander
snorted and refrained from saying more, though it was clear he had more to say.

Elizabeth
did not believe James, not at all. She wondered if he had even been at
Rougemont. She gave Darg a stern glance, but the spriggan defiantly climbed the
lip of James’ cup. Darg was somewhat less steady on its feet now as it danced
around the rim and chortled over the merits of mortal ale.

Alexander
picked up his cup, frowned that it was empty, then put it down heavily on the
board. “When did you return home from France?” he asked, his annoyance barely
disguised. “Where have you been since the battle at Rougemont?”

“Listening
to music!” James cried, his eyes alight for the first time. “I heard the music
in the cathedrals in France and it was so wondrous that I had to learn more.
Madeline will be appreciative of this, I know for certain, for the love of
music is a bond she and I share. Listen!” He lifted his lute and plucked his
tune again.

Darg
put its fingers in its ears and grimaced at the sound. Elizabeth stifled a
laugh at the spriggan’s antics, for she shared its view. Vivienne and Alexander
exchanged a rueful glance.

The
spriggan finished James’ ale, then mimicked his crooning manner as it eased
closer to Rosamunde’s cup. It considered the woman for so long that Elizabeth
feared its scheme. She could do little, though, when it climbed to the rim of
the cup, then dangled its feet in the ale.

The
spriggan kicked its feet with vigor. A spray of ale rose from the cup and drenched
the front of Rosamunde’s tabard. “What is this?” that woman demanded, unable to
discern why the ale was flying. She leapt to her feet, wiping the ale from the
rich embroidery. “My garb will be ruined!”

Darg
laughed with wicked glee. Vivienne leapt to her feet and wiped at the ale with
her napkin, even as Rosamunde tried to brush the wetness away with her hands.

“There
must be an insect in the cup!” Alexander cried and reached for the cup. Darg
leapt with unexpected agility to the lip of the jug as Alexander lifted
Rosamunde’s cup, shook it and poured its contents into his own.

James
halted his playing and regarded them with irritation. “I beg you heed my song.
It is a compelling and beauteous tune that only a barbarian would not
appreciate.”

Darg
laughed so hard and so raucously at this assertion that Elizabeth was shocked
none could hear it. The spriggan threw back its head and crooned in perfect
mimicry of the lutenist, laughed again, then fell backwards into the jug of
ale.

The
splash made all at the table jump. “Perhaps it is a rat!” Vivienne cried.

“It
is in the ale!” Alexander agreed.

“What
piteous accommodation you have chosen for us,” James said to Rosamunde with a
sneer. “Rats in the ale! I have never heard the like of it.”

“Then
you are welcome to slumber elsewhere,” Rosamunde snarled. “I have paid for your
bed and bought your food and endured your dreadful music for long enough.”

The
pair leapt to their feet to argue heatedly about James’ manner and Rosamunde’s
demands. Elizabeth snatched for the jug of ale, then poured it on the floor to
better reveal the rat. The spriggan fell to the floor with a splat, then
coughed and gasped with vigor.

“There
is nothing there,” Vivienne said, staring at the spilled ale with astonishment.

“It
must have leapt out again,” Alexander said, peering around the floor of the
tavern.

“What
manner of heathens are you to cast good ale upon the floor?” the tavern keeper
demanded.

“There
was a rat within it!” James shouted.

“There
are no rats in my abode,” the tavern keeper retorted and when James might have
argued, he ensured the lutenist’s silence with his fist. James fell backward
into the rushes on the floor, and did not rise.

The
other patrons applauded.

“He
is besotted!” the tavern keeper cried to his guests. “There is a man unable to
hold his ale, for it is early to be seeing rats that are not there.”

The
company laughed and resumed their conversations. Rosamunde picked up the lute
and set to removing its strings with savage gestures. “At least we will not
have to endure his music any longer,” she said at Alexander’s inquiring glance.
She smiled at Vivienne. “Fear not, I would not destroy an instrument of such
value. I shall return the strings once he is reunited with Madeline.” Then she
dropped her voice to a growl. “May we have the good fortune that that should
occur soon. I would be certain that my goddaughter fares well.”

Elizabeth
bent and picked up the spriggan when no one was looking. She hid it in her lap,
struck it on the back while it coughed out the last of the ale, then wrapped it
in her napkin when it shivered. It sighed and leaned against her hand, then
prodded her with its long nose.

“
A
boon is owed, that much is clear, from me to you for another held dear. To your
sister’s aid I soon will come, though none can be certain what Fate will see
done.
”

Elizabeth
smiled in triumph, at the same moment that the man at the next table caught her
eye. She flushed anew, and looked down at her cup, but he did not look away
again.

She
did not doubt that he was enamored of her wretchedly large breasts and no more
than that. Perhaps Darg’s spells could be of aid in ridding her of these
unwanted curves!

But
first matters first. Madeline’s plight was more dire, to be certain.

* * *

Madeline
dreams of a thick fog pressing against the walls of the inn, a fog so thick
that it cannot be natural. The fog pours through the shutters and fills the
chamber like so much wool. It cannot be halted, but comes at a fearsome pace,
growing ever deeper and deeper.

And
Rhys sleeps like a dead man, despite her efforts to rouse him.

She
closes the shutters, to no avail. She opens the portal, but it flows in from
the corridor, as well. She turns back and finds Rhys lost to the fog, which now
rises to her waist. It surrounds her, too, engulfing her to the hips, and as it
rises higher and higher, she is less capable of raising a finger against it.

A
curious indifference seems to fill her. She feels boneless, weightless, and
wonders if this floating sensation means that she is dead.

Madeline
does not want to be dead. She is too young to die. She wants to bear Rhys his
sons, she wants to hear her husband laugh in truth. She forces her eyes open,
battling against the relentless press of the fog.

Rhys
stands at the window, looking over the town. He is no longer swallowed by the
fog, no longer sleeping, no longer abed beside her. His eyes are cold, and
silver in hue when they should be dark, as if he has been filled with the fog.
The town beyond the window looks different, too, more ethereal, though whether
it is simply that Dumbarton lies in darkness or whether they are in another
town, Madeline cannot tell.