Fairy Tale (5 page)

“God.” He drew a breath, staring at the portrait. “God. Somebody take that thing off the wall and have it burned.”

“It doesn’t look a thing like you,” Marsali said quietly behind him.

He turned on her, startled from his thoughts and enraged
at having been caught in a moment of unguarded vulnerability, the pain of the boy in that painting as raw as if it had been only yesterday. For an instant he was tempted to shove her aside and run, as he would have done years ago, shame threatening to overshadow the man he’d become.

“Look harder, then.” He grasped the crook of her elbow and drew her over to the dim light filtering through the window, his voice deliberately cruel. “Why, I could sprout horns at any second. I could abduct you to my underground kingdom and devour you, little girl. I’ll wager you could find any number of men in the courtyard below who will swear I’ve been seen prowling the hails with smoke pouring out of my nostrils.”

She eased her elbow free of his bruising hold, more sorry for his pain than afraid of his anger, which she sensed was not directed at her. “Isn’t that what you wanted them to think?”

“I don’t give a damn what they think.”

“Yes you do,” Marsali said with infuriating certainty, remembering the stricken lo
ok in his eyes when the stable-
boy had rebuffed him. “You owe them your help.”

“No, I—” He smiled reluctantly, realizing in amazement that he was arguing his personal affairs with a maidservant. Who was she to remind him of his guilt, his need for atonement? “Ah, we’re forgetting your place in this castle, aren’t we, Marsali? You are to serve me and see to my comfort. You are
not
to give me advice.”

She shook her head in chagrin. “But you need advice, my lord. In fact, I have never seen a man in more dire need of advising than you.”

“Marsali, hear me well.” He walked her back against the window embrasure, his face pressed to hers. Her eyes widened. She lifted her hand to the black cord at her throat, but she held her ground. Duncan gave her credit for that.

“I can hear you quite well, my lord, as probably can the rest of the castle.”

“Good. Because I want you to know that I have
paid
advisors to advise me. Men who are mathematical geniuses, historians, military strategists, former soldiers, and ministers of state.”

“You see,” she said with a knowing smile, “that’s the problem right there. All your advisors are men, and all
men
can think about is fighting wars.”

He had to laugh at her irrational reasoning. “That is what they are
paid
to think about.”

“Wars and money,” she said with a sigh.

Suddenly Duncan could not decide if he wanted to throttle her or take her in his arms. Now that she had finally stopped lecturing him, he could enjoy staring at her up close, smelling the elusive honey sweetness of heather in her hair. For the first time he noticed the tiny mole at the co
rn
er of her mouth. The pulsebeat at the hollow of her throat drew his gaze downward to
a black silken cord that disap
peared into the cleft of her breasts. One way or another, either with her convoluted arguing or her beguiling presence, she was going to drive h
im up the wall. Hungry, travel-
weary, disgusted at his homecoming, he had allowed the girl to penetrate his guard.

Marsali moistened her lips, fascinated by the conflicting emotions that crossed his face. The angrier he became, the more she realized she had to be patient with him because her father had taught her that great outward displays of anger usually came from deep internal pain. Men like Duncan did not reveal themselves easily. It behooved her to help him become the great chieftain the clan needed, even if it appeared an impossible task. She would have to call upon all her courage.

“Why are you looking at me in that way?” he asked in a suspicious voice.

A blur of movement in the courtyard below caught his attention before she could answer. His clansmen were playing golf with broadswords and a basket of hard-boiled eggs. The sight wrenched him back to the restrictions of reality. He had an objective, a promise to the Crown, and only a limited time to achieve it. Seducing a bedraggled little baggage who did not know her place was not part of his plans. Perhaps she would even run away during the night. It might be easier for him if she did in the end.

He drew back from the window, noticing the involuntary shudder, most probably of relief, that passed over Marsali.

All the better. He frightened her. That showed the beginning of respect, although he doubted she understood what the word meant, obviously having been allowed to run unsupervised for too many years.

“I’ve wasted enough time,” he said, moving past her but deliberately not glancing at the portrait. “What am I going to do with this place?”

She touched the pendant around her neck. “When
I
didn’t know what to do about a problem, my mother always read to me from the Bible.”

He almost laughed at her incredible naivete. “I suspect this castle is beyond even the Almighty’s help.”

Marsali stared at his broad, sun-burnished shoulders in annoyance. She had her work cut out for her, all right, turning this hard man into a wise and compassionate ruler. She couldn’t decide if she should question her uncle’s vision on the matter. After all, Uncle Colum had gotten the timing wrong for the ambush on the captain of the dragoons. Her own intuition on the m
atter had apparently become mud
dled by her embarrassing preoccupation with Duncan’s physical presence.

“Take me to Abercrombie, Marsali,” Duncan said, sounding impatient.

Marsali didn’t move, dreading what was about to happen.
She
wasn’t responsible for what had happened to Abercrombie, whose fate no one in the castle either knew or cared to admit. But Duncan would probably find a way to blame her all the same.

He glanced around, studying her worried face.

“Dear God.” He took an involuntary step toward her. “The blasted fools have murdered him, haven’t they? They’ve actually murdered an appointee of the Crown.” Marsali opened her mouth but no sound came out, leaving her in condemning silence.

“Answer me, Marsali.” His face became a study in darkness, unyielding angl
es, shadowed planes. The devil-
boy in the portrait full grown, in the flesh. “When was the last time you saw Abercrombie?”

“Well.” Her voice finally emerged as a nervous croak. “Well, that would have been on Hogmanay.”

“January.” He frowned. “Six months ago. Was he alive?”

She stared down at the tips of her scuffed boots. “You have to understand that he was a horrible little man.”

He came forward, forcing Marsali to stumble back until she stood directly under the portrait of him with all its insulting graffiti. Yes, he
was
that boy. Urges of a definitely demoniac nature were rearing inside him.

“He was walking the edges of the battlements blindfolded,” she said in a small choked voice.

“What? Was the man trying to commit suicide?”

Marsali put her hand to her heart again. It gave her palpitations when his voice dropped to that ominous baritone. “I was delivering some herbs to Cook at the time, so I never really knew the details. However, from what I could gather, Mr. Abercrombie wasn’t exactly walking the battlements blindfolded of his own free will.”

“Where is he now?” Duncan asked, his face grim.

Marsali dared draw a breath. “To be honest, the last I heard he was hiding out in the chapel.”

“In a coffin?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

He caught hold of her hand, crushing the feeling from her fingers. “The chapel. God help me. Heads are going to roll if they’ve killed a government agent.”

C
h
apter

5

D
uncan plucked loose a handful of the arrows embedded in the exterior of the chapel’s heavy oaken door and threw them to his feet. “It’s Duncan MacElgin, Abercrombie,” he shouted, kneeling at the keyhole. “If you’re in there, man, answer me.”

Silence. Then a shuffling so faint Duncan couldn’t tell if he was conversing with a man or a family of mice inside the chapel. “I’m a friend, Abercrombie. Open this damned door now!”

“Savages,” a muffled voice responded. “MacElgin is naught but another word for savages, and this castle the Devil’s playing field.”

Duncan glanced back at Marsali, catching her broad grin before she could wipe it off her face. “You find this amusing, Marsali?” he asked softly.

“Of course not, my lord,” she murmured, her lips twitching in a traitorous smile. “It’s a disgrace.”

Duncan banged his fist again, dislodging another spray of arrows. “This is General Duncan MacElgin, Abercrombie, and I will protect you. However, I cannot do so if you continue to cower behind that door.”

Silence again.

Duncan swung around, prepared to take his frustration out on Marsali. This time, however, she was ready for him, shaking her head in sympathetic agreement.

“A shocking disgrace, my lord.”

He got to his feet. “This is your last chance, Abercrombie. I swear to God if you do not let me in right now, I am going to get a ladder and order all those nasty children in the courtyard to climb up after you with their crossbows.”

The threat apparently worked.

The crossbar creaked from within. Duncan managed to jump back a fraction of a moment before the door flew open to reveal the diminutive figure cowering in the chapel.

Disbelieving, he stared down at the Lowland Scot administrator who hid behind a MacElgin medieval shield and whose head of unkempt white hair and suspicious face were overshadowed by the holy basin he wore as a helmet on his head. “You—
you’re
Abercrombie? The Crown sent you to manage my castle?”

“I am. They did.” The suspicion in the man’s hazel eyes hardened into fearful hostility as he in turn noticed Duncan’s half-nakedness and the dingy MacElgin plaid. “But you’re no distinguished marquess and general—you’re one of
them
.
”

Panic in eyes, he extended all his puny strength to slam the door in Duncan’s face. On reflex Duncan threw up his arm and sent the door crashing up against the wall, rattling the row of plucked chickens strung from the chapel rafters. Stepping over the threshold, he stared around him in amazement: papers, books, blankets, eating utensils. The chapel was a regular encampment.

“What the hell has been going on here?” he demanded, his voice booming in the confined space.

Abercrombie dropped his shield and grabbed the broadsword that lay across the pew behind him. “One more step and you’re a dead man,” he said in a menacing squeak, a mouse assaulting a lion.

“Put the sword down before you hurt yourself, Abercrombie,” Duncan said calmly, struggling not to laugh. “I am not one of them.”

“You’re dressed—or undressed—like one of them.”

Abercrombie poked his finger at Marsali as she sneaked in behind Duncan. “She’s one of them, to be sure. A wild thing, she is, with that bird of prey that follows her like a shadow and her uncle in league with the Devil. And—” Abercrombie broke off, glancing from Duncan to Marsali, as if suddenly wondering if she were the Devil’s handmaiden and this dark man her master.

“
I
am as much a victim of the clan’s anarchy as you are, Abercrombie,” Duncan tried to explain again. “They assaulted me on the moor and took my clothes. How long have you been locked in here, man?”

Abercrombie lowered the sword, tears of self-pity filling his eyes. “Two months, my lord. Two long months of fending off the wicked bastards.”

“You should not have ordered my cousin flogged your first day here,” Marsali interrupted, her eyes flashing. “It made a very bad impression on the others.”

“Hold your tongue, Marsali,” Duncan said, not looking at her. “Obviously this man has been mistreated, and I will see justice served.”

“Liam was only twelve years old,” she continued, her voice rising at the memory. “Twelve years old and flogged unconscious for a minor transgression.”

“What did the lad do?” Duncan asked Abercrombie.

“Threw a glass of goat’s milk in my face, my lord.” Abercrombie glared at Marsali. “An act of sheer defiance if ever I saw it, and this woman should have been whipped alongside him. Stripping grown men and forcing them to wander about that cold desolate moor. It’s an outrage, an insult to manhood, an—”

“Yes, I have my own opinions of her conduct,” Duncan said in an ironic tone. “But where are the soldiers the Crown sent to remain here and see your orders executed? Don’t tell me they’re holed up in the dungeon?”

“They disappeared their first night in the castle, my lord,” Abercrombie answered, blinking furiously beneath the basin. “I suspect they were chased off by your clansmen. Possibly even murdered.”

“Untrue.” Marsali pushed between Duncan and the other man, no longer able to control her anger in the face of the
blatant lie. “The big cowards ran off during the night and no one has seen them since. And they stole a month’s supply of provisions.”

Duncan gently nudged her aside and wrested the sword from Abercrombie’s trembling hands, his voice revealing none of his deep contempt. “Whatever has passed before is past, and Mr. Abercrombie and I will be putting our heads together to make a great many changes.”

“I am not staying, not another day.” Abercrombie’s voice quavered at the prospect. “No, now that you are here, my lord, I shall collect my things and
…”

His protest died away into a whimper as Duncan lifted the sword a little higher, his face set like flint. “You are going to stay here and help me, Abercrombie, as you have been ordered to do.”

“Please, my lord.” Abercrombie looked pathetic, his holy-basin helmet sliding down over his forehead. “Cleave me in half wi’ that sword if you
will, but don’t make me stay. I
cannot face these heathens again.”

“Compose yourself, Mr. Abercrombie. You’re an embarrassment, begging like a dog for a bone, and in front of a woman, to boot. Where’s your pride, your dignity to behave like this?”

Abercrombie answered with a loud sniff, sinking back down onto the pew in abysmal dejection at the prospect of remaining inside the castle. “Please, my lord,” he whispered again, only to jump to his feet as Duncan took a menacing step toward him.

“Pull yourself together, Mr. Abercrombie. Remove that ridiculous bowl—it makes you look like a toadstool—and take me on a tour of the castle.”

“A t-tour, my lord? We’ll be taking our lives into our hands.”

“Yes, a tour.” Duncan started to lay down the weapon, then decided it couldn’t hurt his image to be seen walking his domain adequately armed. Besides, Abercrombie had a point: He might damn well need the protection.

He strode to the door, st
opping briefly to consider Mar
sali, the fading afternoon light picking out wine-red glints in the tumult of her long curly hair. Again he was struck by her fey loveliness, the illusion of fragility that hid a quick mind
and feral heart. Again he felt that tug of haunting familiarity as he stared into her face.
Did
he know her?

She gave him an impudent grin. He glanced away before he could grin back.

“Make yourself useful there, lass,” he said gruffly. “You can start by working on washing my clothes. Come on, Abercrombie. Help me find something decent to wear.” He paused, staring above his head. “By the way, is there a reason why you have five plucked chickens strung up from the rafters?”

Abercrombie squared his stooped shoulders and followed Duncan to the door. “They were my sustenance, my lord. I fished them out of the moat when the guards were drinking and playing cards, which fortunately for me is the majority of the time.”

Duncan managed to keep a straight face, hearing Marsali succumb to muffled laughter behind them. “Ingenious, Abercrombie. But you don’t expect me to believe you’ve survived on raw chickens for two entire months?”

“Och, no, sir.” Abercrombie gave Duncan a smug look. “I roasted them late at night in the sanctuary lamp wi’ a bit of holy oil.”

Marsali snorted. “And here everyone was wondering where all those delicious smells were coming from in the wee small hours.”

Duncan shook his head in mock admiration. “My, my, Abercrombie, aren’t you the resourceful one? But what did you drink, man, those two long months?”

Abercrombie puffed his chest out like a pigeon. “Eucharist wine, my lord. What else?”

“Why, you crafty old fox. I’ll not turn my back on you.” Duncan chuckled dryly and clapped the little man on the shoulder, practically driving him to his knees as a hammer would a nail. Abercrombie staggered but pretended to laugh too, and the pair of them headed toward the door, the sound of their shared amusement grating in Marsali’s ears, excluding her.

She trailed slowly after them, a troubled frown creasing her forehead. Had she misjudged the MacElgin then? For certain he had failed a crucial test: He should have tossed the miserable little traitor out the window when she’d told
him about the flogging of a child. As chieftain, Duncan should have displayed deep anger toward Abercrombie, compassion for his victim, and then at the very least he should have put the pompous Scot into the finger pillory for a fortnight to be pelted with rotten produce.

She stared down the shadows of the spiral tower stairs at Duncan’s big receding figure, disappointment weighing like a stone in her chest. Perhaps she was too impressed by the man’s air of authority to perceive his deeper flaws. Perhaps she was blinded by the beauty of a man who looked like a medieval knight commissioned by the saints to save his people. She wanted to believe he had been sent as an answer to her prayers because she was heartsick with burying brothers and cousins, not to mention a father.

Someone had to take the clan under control. But was the cost of salvation a pact with the Devil? Someone had to show the chieftain fealty. Why did it have to be her? She sighed, shaking her head as she hurried to catch up with them, not wanting to miss one moment of this exciting day.

She would give Duncan one more chance, although it concerned her that he had failed a very critical test of his character. It concerned her almost as much as the fact that she wanted to believe in him for reasons she suspected had nothing whatsoever to do with the clan.

B
y nightfall the news of Duncan’s arrival had penetrated every nook and cranny of the castle. His presence had cast a somber pall over the usua
l nightly activities. The much-
enjoyed running naked in and out of the great hall had been canceled, as had the dropping of young frogs into drunken clansmens’ trews at dinner.

Duncan had not exactly won friends with the curt demands he had barked out during his “tour.” His most dramatic run-in had come when he and Cook had butted heads during supper. They had never shared a warm relationship, even in their earlier years, and Duncan had not further endeared himself to the woman by summoning her to the hall to criticize her supper as he handed her a list of suggested French menus with a purse of coins to buy more palatable supplies.

“I do not
ever
want to lay eyes upon, let alone eat, another
one of your stringy overcooked chickens again,” he announced over the woman’s spluttering protests.

Cook’s face empurpled like an eggplant. No one had ever dared to complain about her cooking within her earshot. Several clansmen even ducked under the massive table for fear a violent battle would ensue.

Marsali was aghast at Duncan’s tactless tyranny, challenging the heretofore most important woman, if not person, in the entire castle. And he’d done it publicly. At the table. Reduced to acting as serving maid as part of
her
punishment, Marsali had been severely tempted to empty a flagon of wine over his insensitive head. In fact, the force of her anger had driven her to storm out of the hall, defying him to stop her.

Which he did.

She had just reached the door when he’d half-risen from his massive Jacobean chair on its bulbous lion’s-claw feet to summon her back.

“I do not remember giving you permission to leave, Marsali.”

Hell’s bells, the man had eyes like Eun, she thought in resentment, pivoting slowly as total silence blanketed the hall. Her clansmen regarded her with varying degrees of embarrassed amusement, trepidation, and relief that their chieftain was temporarily, at least, overlooking them.

Word had spread through the castle like wildfire that the MacElgin was capable of
anything.
Only that afternoon he had ordered the men to rewash all their sweaty plaids, another grave insult to Cook, who had already supervised this month’s washing. He had forbidden women to pop bare-breasted out of herring barrels, and he had banished Effie’s pet piglets to the castle yard.

But the penultimate insult was the punishment he’d inflicted on brave wee Marsali Hay, making her his personal servant—Marsali, a blue-blooded descendant of Olaf the Black himself, King of Man and the Isles. Marsali, who had lost a father, lover, and two brothers in the space of three years. Marsali, with her easy laughter and
unwavering loyalty. It was an af
front to what piddling little the clan held dear.