Chapter 25
“My lord, my lord!” a round woman burst through the crowd and began dogging them across the bailey.
“In a moment, Mrs. Beaton. I’ll be with ye directly,” Rob said then lowered his voice to Elspeth as they continued toward the smith’s determined clanging. “My housekeeper. She’s been with us since my mother died. A wee bit tetchy, she is, but a terror with a scrub brush.”
“Rob! Ye’re alive!” The smith laid aside his hammer and came away from the anvil to enfold Rob in a hug. A great giant of a man with a flaming head of hair, neatly tied back, and a round, smooth-shaven face, he was a younger version of Angus Fletcher. “There’s been no word. When ye didna come, we feared the worst. ’Tis glad I am to see ye.”
He cast a shy smile in Elspeth’s direction. “Ye must be the Lady Elspeth. We didna have time to be properly introduced last time I seen ye, ye being in a hurry and all, and—”
“And ye must be Hamish Murray.” When his eyes rounded with surprise, she whispered, “Ye have the look of your Uncle Angus.”
“How long have Drummond and Stewart been here?” Rob asked.
“On the morrow, ’twill be a week.”
“Did they parley?”
“Aye, I spoke to them from the walls,” Hamish said.
“Their demands?”
“The return of the Lady Elspeth.” His massive shoulders cringed. “And yer head.”
“Well, I’m no’ inclined to give them the first, and assuredly no’ the last,” Rob said with a snort. “Did ye tell them we were no’ here?”
“They seemed to know already,” Hamish said. “They said the Clan MacLaren were all prisoners in their own keep till our laird gives up his hostage.”
“The first deep freeze will send them scurrying home to their own hearths.”
“Ye didna see their faces, Rob.” Hamish shook his head. “Foul weather willna turn them from their purpose. Drummond and Stewart are set on this.”
“Guess I’ll have to talk them out of it, then,” Rob said, turning to his housekeeper. “Mrs. Beaton, I believe ye have a room ready as I ordered. Will ye see to the Lady Elspeth’s comfort?”
“But, my lord—” the housekeeper began.
“She’s to be given the best chamber and every honor due the daughter of a laird, as ordered. D’ye hear me? Now, see to it.”
Mrs. Beaton puffed up like a wren fluffing its feathers against the cold. “But, my lord, I have somewhat of great import to say to ye.”
“Important or no’, whatever it is, it’ll have to wait till a time when I’ve no’ got an army at my gate, aye?” He gave Mrs. Beaton his back and turned to Elspeth, taking her hand. “Go with her now, leannán, and if ye need aught, all ye have to do is ask.”
“Ye’ll let my father know I’m well?”
“Aye, and I’ll send for ye to show yourself, so he can see ye with his own eyes.”
“Tell him…I’m sorry—”
“Hush. Ye’ve naught to be sorry for,” Rob said with a finger to her lips. “’Tis my error. I’ll fix it. Go ye now, and I’ll see ye at supper.”
***
Elspeth Stewart has a good deal to account for, Mrs. Beaton thought furiously as she led the way back across the bailey to the laird’s keep. The lass has so witched the laird that he willna even hear her begin to take blame for the way she’s thrown him into confusion.
The laird was cagey about it, but Mrs. Beaton was sure he’d begun to look with favor on her niece Margot before this wild venture. He’d danced with Margot a couple times when the whole castle was trying to make merry to cheer him. Margot’s father wasna a laird, but he was a man of stature among the Beatons, rich in cattle and land.
Margot was young and healthy, and her mother had birthed nine live bairns. She came from fertile stock, did Margot. She’d be a good match for the MacLaren.
In fact, Mrs. Beaton’s brother-in-law had sent an offer for the MacLaren. He promised a truly princely dowry for Margot, hoping to form an alliance between their clans. And the laird wouldn’t even let her tell him about it.
Lord MacLaren’s heart was beginning to mend before this scheme to steal Elspeth Stewart took shape in his mind. The timing of the abduction and the laird’s obsession with it all smacked of witchery.
And if the Stewart wench witched him once he saw her, she might actually have put the thought to steal her in his head. Through some weird incantation, reaching across the distance to call him to her, like a siren on the rocks. Such things were known to happen.
It was the only explanation for her laird’s odd behavior.
And Mrs. Beaton hadn’t missed the fact that Elspeth Stewart divined Hamish’s name out of thin air. An uncommon skill, that. Some might say unnatural.
Mrs. Beaton glanced back at the Stewart girl. Aye, her father was cousin to Queen Mary, but everyone knew the queen was so tainted by her time on the French throne, she couldn’t hardly be named a good Scot except by birth.
Night was falling fast. Elspeth Stewart was looking around at the half-timbered buildings ringing the bailey in Caisteal Dubh as she trailed Mrs. Beaton.
No doubt imagining yerself chatelaine here! Well, may God strike me blind before I hand over the keys to the likes of ye!
“Wipe yer feet,” Mrs. Beaton said sharply when they entered the Great Hall. The rushes she’d strewn on the flagstone floor a few weeks ago would have to last till spring. As she mounted the steps to ascend to the chamber she knew her laird would want for Lady Elspeth, she noticed the girl limping.
“Have ye damaged yourself?”
“No, ’tis nothing,” the Stewart girl said.
Mrs. Beaton led her to the chamber that had stood empty since the laird’s mother died. It was a fine chamber once, with a sturdy bed and a heavy trunk for all a lady’s things, but disuse had rendered the air stale and the linens musty. She bustled over to the window and pushed it open.
“I’ll have the girls air the room now and turn the mattress,” Mrs. Beaton said. She ought to have done it before, as the laird ordered, but she’d been so certain this whole scheme would end differently, she neglected preparing the room. “We were no’ given notice of yer arrival, ye ken.”
“I thank ye,” the lady said with every appearance of meekness while she ran her fingertips along the footboard of the bed.
Well, o’ course, a body will find dirt if she looks for it.
“I suppose ye’ll be wanting the braziers lit to take away the chill,” Mrs. Beaton said.
“If it isna too much trouble.”
Everything about this lass screamed trouble, but there was no help for it.
“I wonder,” the Stewart girl said softly, “if I might have a bath as well. The road was a weary, long way, and I’d like to wash before my father sees me.”
Demanding already. “As ye wish, my lady,” Mrs. Beaton said. “I’ll send a couple girls up to set ye to rights.” She turned to go.
“Oh, Mrs. Beaton, one more thing. If I might ask, whose chamber was this?”
“The chatelaine’s.”
“Fiona’s room,” she said softly.
“Nay, this room belonged to the laird’s lady mother. Young Lady MacLaren and the laird were no’ married long, ye ken. She bided with him in his chamber. Verra fond, they were.” When she saw the words pained Elspeth Stewart, she felt obliged to repeat and embellish them. “Verra fond beyond the common.”
***
Later, Mrs. Beaton was checking the store of apples in the cellar, making sure none had gone bad. Only one with a soft spot was all it took to ruin a whole barrel.
“Auntie?” Her niece’s voice echoed down into the stone vault.
“Aye, come and ye can help me, Margot. Mind the steps.”
Margot was pretty enough, but she needed directions to pull on her own stockings.
The lass came down, her comely face drawn into a frown. “Did ye ken the laird brought her back here?”
“Aye, I settled her in her room, did I no’?”
Margot’s green eyes flared. “Oh! Did ye hear what one of the girls who helped her at her bath said?”
“Nay, I didna.”
“Something verra odd,” Margot said. “It was Nessa who told me.”
“I dinna care who it was who said it.” Honestly, the girl’s head was full of nothing but husks. “What did she say?”
“She says Elspeth Stewart has a particularly odd wound on her thigh,” Margot’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Up fair high too.”
“Hmph! I kenned she was limping, but it struck me as a way to gain attention,” Mrs. Beaton said under her breath. “A wound, ye say. What sort of wound?”
“Well, it’s on both sides of her leg, as if something went clean through it. Just as big coming out as going in, Nessa says.”
Margot picked up an apple and crunched into it with her strong young teeth. Mrs. Beaton slanted a disgusted glance at the girl. It wasn’t because she didn’t have enough teeth left in her head to strain sauced apples. It was because so many gifts were wasted on the young, who didn’t have sense to appreciate them.
“Was the flesh around the wound dark? Any red streaks perchance?” Mrs. Beaton asked. That’d fix matters right proper.
“Why?”
“I thought perhaps the wound had gone bad. They do sometimes, ye know.”
“Nessa didna say anything about that. What d’ye suppose would make a such wound?” Margot wondered aloud.
Mrs. Beaton had tended men who suffered such wounds in battle from swords or arrows. But she’d never seen the like on a woman. An idea struck her.
“A pitchfork run clear through would make such a mark.”
Margot nodded. “I suppose it might do. Just one tine, o’ course. But she’s a lady and no’ likely to be spending her time in a stable. How d’ye think Elspeth Stewart got a pitchfork through her leg?”
“Well, there’s a simple explanation, if ye think on it.” Mrs. Beaton pursed her lips in satisfaction. “I dinna know for a fact, ye ken, but I’ll warrant the devil marks those he traffics with. What better way than with his pitchfork?”
“Elspeth Stewart is in league with the devil?” Margot’s eyes grew wide. “D’ye think?”
“Aye, ’tis most likely,” Mrs. Beaton said. “Ask Nessa. See what she makes of it.”
Margot turned to go, but Mrs. Beaton stopped her with a hand to her arm. “Wear yer best gown to the supper this night. The blue one, aye? And make sure ye tune yer harp. I’m thinkin’ ye should sing a bit.”
Margot might have the brain of a peewit, but she sang like a lark. A man could forgive a girl for being a bit simple if she had lovely tits and a presentable talent or two. Margot was amply blessed in tits and talent.
As the girl scurried off, Mrs. Beaton pulled a wormy apple out of the barrel. “Ye’ll no’ be spoiling what I’ve laid by so careful-like,” she muttered.
And Elspeth Stewart wouldn’t trouble Caisteal Dubh for long either. Given a few days and a few juicy tidbits in the right ears, and Mrs. Beaton would have the entire castle clamoring to send her away.
If they didn’t decide to burn her themselves.