Across a Dark Highland Shore (Hot Highlands Romance Book 2) (11 page)

“Lady Katherine has
many, many
admirers,” Rowena said. “Too many to count.”

“Isobel? Can I trust ye no’ to steal my jewels?”

Isobel laughed but there was no mirth in it. “Ye may think me many things, but I am no’ a thief.” She concentrated on the dress, even though she still felt like sticking pins in Lady Katherine’s eyes.

Lady Katherine and Rowena sauntered from the room.

“Mary Francis, wait,” Isobel said.

The girl turned at the door. “Yea?”

“I can help ye with that cough. I ken how to treat it with elder flower tea and honey. I will ask Maida if I can make ye the tea later.”

Mary Francis nodded her head shyly and disappeared through the door.

As she sewed, Isobel thought about poppets, the dolls that Hoodoo doctors believed could help them find and kill witches. Hoodoo was a Gypsy practice. The Hoodoo doctors made a doll out of wax and then stuck it full of hot pins. Then they wandered from house to house until they found a person covered in boils. The witch doctor took that person to the local magistrate, showed the person and the doll to the judge, and claimed the boils had been caused by the doll as proof that person was a witch. The town then gathered around as they killed the woman. Isobel shivered thinking about it.

As she stabbed at the fabric, she took perverse pleasure in imagining a wax doll of Lady Katherine stuck full of hot pins. She continued to sew and mend into the night, as the sounds of merrymaking and music drifted up from the great hall below.

Isobel wondered if the storyteller had begun yet to recall the high deeds of the past and faraway wonders. Had Leith danced with Lady Katherine? Had he pressed himself close to her, his rough cheek against her alabaster skin, his warm breath on her neck? Isobel realized with a start that what she was feeling was jealousy. She hadn’t felt it before.

She distracted herself by thinking about the times she’d stood in the shadows of the great hall at the MacKinnon keep and watched the dances. Sometimes the clan members danced elaborately, as in the Torch Dance, when each participant carried a lighted taper and tried to keep the others from blowing it out—a dangerous game if one had had too much whiskey. Once, while it was being played, a plump woman named Stella with a figure like a herring barrel dipped her torch too low and set her own dress afire. The men had to roll her on the floor, ignobly, to put her out. Fortunately, ‘twas only her pride that was hurt.

Isobel had also watched her father Brodie play dice many times as she cleared the old rushes from the floor and shook herbs over the new ones. She remembered Brodie talking with some of the men while he diced. They’d talked of Italy once, where communes licensed public dice shops. ‘Twas said that the game incited violence, suicides, and pacts with the devil. There were rumors that sore losers threw stones at pictures of the Madonna and that a man shot an arrow aloft against God and it returned covered with blood. Lady Katherine’s words rang in her head:
Italy. A place ye’ll ne’er visit, of course.

Finally, Isobel grew fatigued and put the needle and thread down. Her eyes were starting to close. She should return to Logan’s chamber soon. She unlatched the shutters and a gust of ice cold wind made her gasp. It was refreshing. She stared out the window at the softly falling snow and the darkened ben in the distance.

Finally, she pulled the shutters closed and moved to stand by the hearth. She caressed the pendant around her neck as she thought about Leith and Logan. What had Logan seen in this vain, pompous, cruel woman? Had he been so blinded by her beauty that he could not see her true nature? Many a man was blinded by beauty, by a fair figure and soft, inviting curves.

Although Isobel had given Leith a dancing lesson, she didn’t like the thought of Leith holding Lady Katherine intimately in his arms and dancing with her. Leith was a man of honor. He was strong, decisive, and seemed to be fair to his clan members. He was not a man to be toyed with
.
Lady Katherine was an empty-headed, spoiled brat who happened to be beautiful. She knew of Leith’s affections for her and would toy callously with his emotions.

She was all the things Isobel was not. Feminine, graceful, seductive, assured around men. She should not care that she was helping Leith to win her hand in marriage. She should not care that Leith wanted the vain woman in his bed, bearing his sons, or that like Logan, he could not see beyond her beauty. Isobel was only here to help him win her heart. But Lady Katherine had no heart.

Isobel did feel exhilarated in the Highland warrior’s company, but it was simply because he’d saved her life. She reminded herself that she disliked him heartily. And then she reminded herself again. 

She resumed her sewing, working until her fingers ached, wondering if the women in the great hall had, by now, faded to their hearths with their children, if the men were bragging of who fought the best, who sang the loudest, or who had robbed the most Campbells, MacKinnons, or Camerons. Then she put her head down and drifted to sleep atop the sea of soft green material she’d been sewing.

12

Isobel was dreaming.

Everything was dark. She felt as if she were falling. Falling, falling....

And then in the dream she was caught up by a pair of strong arms, lifted from the blackness into an incredible warmth. Her head was cradled against a wide chest and she relaxed into the dream, realizing it wasn’t to be one of her nightmares, but something altogether different.

The dream was so real she could feel the heartbeat in the man’s chest beneath her fingertips, warm, and stronger than anything she’d ever felt before. She knew the man she was dreaming about was Leith Maclean.
The Black Wolf.
It didn’t make sense. She was being cradled, carried, her knees looped over one of his muscled arms, her arms around his neck.

In wonder, she let one of her hands drift down so she could run her fingertips over the broad expanse of chest she was pressed against, wishing the saffron shirt he was wearing was not between her fingers and his skin.

A noise seemed to reach her from faraway, a sigh, a masculine moan, an admonishment. She laughed softly, ignoring it, letting her fingertips roam further, this time trailing them slowly over the hard muscles in his arm as she buried her face against his neck.

She wanted to touch him, to taste him. It was a dream, so she let herself. Her fingers found the softness of his midnight-black hair next, twining their way up from the nape of his neck to luxuriate in its richness. Then she caressed his hair-roughened cheek, his scar, and traced the lines around his sensual mouth, wondering who had made him laugh and who had caused those lips to deepen into a frown, for the person who had the power to make him feel was a powerful person indeed.

“Leith,” she breathed in the dream as she pressed her lips against his neck, inhaling his scent, tasting the salty, male tang of his skin. “Lady Katherine isn’t the woman for ye.” Her lips next touched his cheek and came dangerously close to his lips. The dream was so real she could feel his warm breath, just as she had in the chapel when they’d danced.

She barely registered a deep, masculine growl as those lips turned and claimed hers in a hot kiss. The kiss was softer than she thought it would be, given that he was a hardened Highland warrior, but thoroughly possessive. Her heart beat madly in her chest and warmth flooded her being as he deepened the kiss.

Heat began to spiral in her body as his lips pressed her mouth open and his tongue ran along her lower lip before darting inside. She felt a sharp ache for something more and moaned into his hungry mouth, feeling the roughness of his square jaw slanting across her own.

Despite who he was…
the Black Wolf…
there was no fear…she was not frightened. She felt only a warm rush flowing through her. As his tongue explored her mouth, she felt him set her down slowly, so she stood pressed against the length of him. His lean fingers caressed her cheek, moved along her neck, and then his hand cradled her head, pressing her more deeply into his kiss while one arm remained behind her back like a band of iron.

“Isobel?” he breathed.

His voice, no more than a breathless whisper, a deep, masculine questioning, the rich, male timbre of it, brought her fully awake.
This was no’ a dream!

Leith had found her alone and asleep in Lady Katherine’s bedchamber and had carried her to Logan’s room, and he still held her in his arms. They stood against the edge of the bed, where he’d sought to put her down.

Frantically, she pushed against his chest and fell onto the bed, sprawling ignobly backwards. She sat up and was greeted by what seemed like a dark, leering satyr. Deep topaz eyes regarded her hotly and a smile threatened to crest his seductive mouth.

“Ye feel asleep atop yer sewing in Lady Katherine’s room. Ye missed all the festivities. I thought ye would come downstairs. I came looking for ye. Why did ye hide in Lady Katherine’s room all evening? Ye missed….”

“Yer dance with Lady Katherine?”

He nodded, regarding her with curiosity. “And other things. I want ye to experience the festivities, Isobel. To be part of it. No’ just the dancing.”

“Why?” When he didn’t answer her, she cleared her throat and inched further back along the bed. She felt her cheeks flame, remembering the kiss, the way his mouth had commanded hers. “I was dreaming,” she fumbled with words. “I thought it was merely a dream….”

He arched a dark eyebrow. “So, ye were dreaming about me? Again?”

Now she wanted to hurl something at him.

“It was a vision, Isobel?”

“Nay. ’Twas simply a dream, in which I was showing ye how a lady would like to be kissed, how Lady Katherine would like to be kissed,” she stammered. “Like I showed ye how a lady would like to dance. I felt nothing. ‘Twas merely instruction.”

He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “I see. Ye were teaching me how to kiss properly? Ye think I dunna know how to kiss a woman properly?”

“I didna mean to imply that ye dunna know how to….” Nervously, her hand sought the pendant at her neck and she began to caress the stone.

“So ye felt nothing.”

She averted her eyes. “Yea. I felt nothing, Highlander. Ye’ll be glad to know, though, that I dunna think ye need
improvement
.”

He laughed. “Truly ye felt no excitement? No lust? Ye didna feel yer own chest rising as ye breathed, the heat between us? Ye didna feel an ache between yer legs for something more?”

She met his eyes. “Those are all things Lady Katherine will feel if ye kiss her the way ye just kissed me. Ye’ll be married and she’ll be bearing yer sons in no time.”

He laughed again, his eyes dangerously hot with triumph. “We werena talking of Lady Katherine, and I think it was ye who kissed
me.
”

‘Twas true that she’d never felt a man’s heartbeat that way before, that no lips had ever met hers with such warmth and possessiveness. His mouth fit hers perfectly. She felt like she belonged in his arms. And when she’d touched him intimately, it was as though she’d caressed his cheek a hundred times before. Sliding her fingers through his dark, silken hair, tracing kisses along his neck, set her body afire. No one had ever made her forget her fear before, making her body yearn for more. But he did not need to know it.

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then his seductive mouth curled into a smile. “Ye wouldna be the first woman to dream about me. Goodnight, Isobel.”

“Highlander!” she croaked, for her voice seemed to be caught in her throat and that was the only word she could manage to utter.

His laughter could be heard down the corridor.

1
3

The next morning Isobel rose, reluctant to leave the silky covers of the warm bed, and used the adjoining privy. Then she removed her nightdress, hanging it on the wooden peg beside the bed.

There was a small pot hung over the fire with heated water in it, and she poured it into a jug. Then she poured the water in the jug over her hands, where it splashed into a basin beside the bed. She washed her arms and face too, and dressed quickly in hose, a tunic the color of a stormy sky, and soft leather boots.

Maida had thought to provide her with a comb and she made use of it, freeing the tangles in her hair as best she could. Isobel had requested fresh marjoram and mint and Maida had also thought to bring her the supplies and tools for mixing it into a paste. When she’d finished making the paste, Isobel used it to freshen her teeth. It was something her mother had taught her to do as a child; she preferred using the paste to chewing on a hazel stick.

She stepped cautiously into the hall, hoping that Leith was not about. It was quiet, and she descended to the first floor, finding a torch light, and then she found her way to the ground floor, searching for a pantry where herbs and spices might be stored. She wanted to show Mary Francis how to make the elder flower tea that would give her relief from her coughing fits.

The ground floor was deserted at the early hour, the passageway damp and drafty. Isobel shivered, all too aware that the infamous Maclean dungeons were nearby. She rubbed her arms, thinking of the stories she’d heard about Maclean prisoners being tortured or drowned there, and continued along the stone passageway.

She opened the first door she came to and discovered it contained only extra stores of firewood. Moving further down the corridor, she stopped suddenly, staring at the back of a darkly robed figure. A gust of cold air lifted the hair at her nape and an icy tingle raced along her spine.

“Who’s there?” she called. The figure turned to look at her and Isobel gasped—over its face was a queer mask. There was no mistaking the kind of mask—it was a
plague
mask.

The figure quickly disappeared, and without thinking, Isobel raced down the corridor after it. When she got to the door at the end of the corridor, the one she thought the figure had entered, she was puzzled. The door was dusty, and wedged firmly shut because the wood was swollen. Obviously, this room hadn’t been used in a long time.

She placed her palm against the door and pushed mightily, disturbing only dust motes, which floated around her in a dizzying array. She held the torch light away from her and with her right shoulder, pushed against the door a little harder. She nearly fell into the room as it finally opened.

She held the torch high. She was indeed in an undercroft that had not been used in a long time. And yet the air held an uncertainty, as if someone had disturbed it recently, someone who had been looking for something.

The room was bricked and vaulted and piled high with unused furniture, a broken harp, dusty tapestries, and wooden barrels. A pile of old clothing lay strewn across a crooked foot stool. Her eyes fell on an old, painted rood screen, such as one might see in a chapel, some plates, and a chest. She gazed next into the corner and caught her breath. Hanging on the high, straight back of an ornate, armed chair was a
mask
…a plague mask like the robed figure had been wearing, a figure who was clearly not of this world.

Isobel had heard that during times of plague d
octors had worn sack-like bird masks over their heads. The protruding beak of the mask was filled with herbs to keep harmful vapors at bay, and so they would not have to smell the dead and decaying. The empty eye holes of the mask stared at her now, and Isobel quickly backed out of the room, into something solid and firm.

“Looking for something?” a deep, masculine voice said.

Isobel turned to see Leith standing behind her, his arms crossed over his chest.

He frowned. “Yer pale, Isobel. Are ye alright?”

She nodded. “I was looking for a pantry, for a particular herb. Mary Francis has a cough and I want to show her how to make elder flower tea. Lady Katherine does no’ seem to concern herself with the girl’s comfort despite all she does for Lady Katherine.” Isobel blushed, hoping he would not be offended that she’d openly criticized the object of his affections.

Leith peered over her shoulder into the undercroft. “Looks like ye’ve discovered a room that has no’ been used for a vera long time. What’s in there that has ye so frightened? Old chains and other implements of torture that ye’ve probably heard we Macleans are so fond of?” Amusement danced in his amber eyes.

He strode into the room, examining its contents. “A broken harp and some
vera
unfashionable clothing. I can see why ye were scared of that. That clothing
is
frighteningly unfashionable.” He turned to her, smiling devilishly. Then his eyes fell on the sharp-beaked mask and his smile disappeared.

“Oh. It appears ye’ve discovered something quite morbid.”

Isobel did not tell him about the ghostly figure she’d seen, nor of the feeling of malice that seemed to dance around it. “Why is there a plague mask in the keep?” she asked.

“I dunna know. Though I heard a tale when I was a child. The tale goes that one summer, long ago, a passenger from a plague-ridden ship was taken in here and cared for. Despite what ye’ve heard about us, the Macleans have often helped the sick, the downtrodden, the poor and pathetic….”

“Including pathetic witches about to be burned at the stake?”

“I dunna think yer pathetic, Isobel.” He studied the mask. “Logan told me the tale of the Bird Man,” he said, “usually late at night when I was trying to fall asleep. He took particular delight in describing the sharp-beaked masks the doctors wore and the effects of the Black Plague, such as blackened skin around the swellings that were red at first but later turned a dark purple or black. He’d try to make me squirm by talking about how, when a victim’s blood was let, the blood was black, thick, and vile-smelling with a greenish froth. I thought it was just a tale he made up to try to scare me. He was always trying to frighten me with his stories of ghosts and gruesome things.

“He was quite mischievous, and we often tried to outdo each other with our disgusting stories, as brothers are wont to do.” He smiled at the long-ago memory. “We used to spread a tale too when we were kids that the privies emptied into the dungeons as a special torture.”

“Do they?”

He frowned. “Ye think so little of our clan that we would be capable of such a foul thing?”

When Isobel just blinked, he sighed. “Of course it’s no’ true. But it appears there may be some truth to that tale about helping a plague victim because here’s the mask of the Bird Man. The ancestor who helped the plague victim eventually founded a monastery. I guess stormy, warlike keeps and bloody feuds were no’ to his liking.”

He smiled and there were dark gold lights in his eyes. “He is the only such pious ancestor I know of. The rest were a lusty, sinful bunch, not inclined to shut themselves away and sing matins for hours in the high gloom of wax candles and the outlines of carved saints.”

He moved to stand close to her. “The Macleans are more warrior than priest.” He moved his hand as if he would touch her face, and Isobel backed out of the room. He followed her, closing the door.

“Come with me.” He led her to a different room. “This is the room you seek.” He showed her the pantry containing the herbs and spices, which was quite impressive.

“Might I make use of this room if I should need other herbs for healing and such?”

“Of course,” he said. “Were ye thinking of making a love potion for Lady Katherine, one to make her fall in love with me? I dunna think it will be necessary, if ye were thinking of it.” He laughed.

“Of course a vera virile man such as yerself would say such a thing, but dunna mock it, Highlander. I have made love potions and they
have
worked their magic.” She caressed the stone pendant at her neck. “My father bought this pendant for my mum from a gypsy who swore it was a love charm. He gave it to me shortly before he died.”

“Did yer da believe the gypsy?”

“Nay. He said sometimes we don’t need magic stones to find love and happiness.”

“Yer da was a wise man.”

Isobel looked at him. “He was practical. He didna believe in enchanted stones and wasna usually prone to such romantic gestures.” Isobel turned her attention to the stores. “I could make ye a love potion using one of the herbs ye have here, but a more powerful love potion is the kind made with a plant that appears in yer path unbidden or unsought, something ye werena looking for or expecting to find.”

“Hmmm. I think I would rather have a potion made with one of those plants, the kind that appears unbidden or unsought. Again, no’ that I
need
one.”

Isobel smiled. She rubbed her lower lip with her finger, deep in thought. “Perhaps some wild lettuce for you, my laird.”

“Wild lettuce? For the love potion?”

“Nay. For lust. I’ve heard it said that w
ild lettuce
extinguishes
lust. A man who has an …overabundance shall we say…of lust in his loins should cook wild lettuce in water and pour that water over himself in a steam bath. He should put the warm, cooked lettuce around his loins, while still in the bath. Likewise, if a woman's womb is throbbing with unquenchable lust, she should take a similar bath with the wild lettuce. She should place the warm, cooked lettuce over her belly.”

“Braw! That is the most ridiculous, gormless thing I ha’e heard in a vera long time,” he said, laughing heartily. “And a perfectly good waste of cooked wild lettuce if ye ask me. Besides, nothing can dampen a Maclean’s lust. Certainly no’ wilted lettuce.”

Isobel smiled to herself as she continued to study the array of herbs and spices. She felt his eyes on her as she gathered the elder flower stores she would need for Mary Francis’ tea. Then Leith escorted her to the kitchens, which were bustling with activity. The cook supervised the undercooks and bakers. Poulterers worked at preparing plump birds for the evening meal. Feathers were hurriedly plucked, floating briefly in the air. Bread was being baked in huge ovens, and meat roasted and sputtered on spits. Pots were stirred; broths sloshed and bubbled. The pantler and the butler nearly collided several times as they moved back and forth between the pantry and the buttery in a frantic state.

“I’ll leave ye in Maida’s good care in a moment,” Leith said. “My Uncle Rolph and his scouts have returned and I need to meet with him. But Isobel, ye will join me later at the table. Ye willna sit upstairs sewing all night. Ye will no’ sew that mountain of clothing Lady Katherine set aside for ye. A few garments if ye want to, but asking ye to sew that pile of clothing is cruel and unconscionable.”

He looked at Maida and the corners of his mouth threatened to curl in amusement. “Dunna let Isobel near the wild lettuce.”

Maida arched an eyebrow in confusion but Leith left the kitchens without explaining.

Isobel felt disappointed. Was she merely an amusement to him? Perhaps he’d already put the unexpected kiss they’d shared last night from his mind. ‘Twas best she put it out of
her
mind as well. After all, she hadn’t meant to kiss him, or to run her fingers through his dark hair, or to explore the hardness of his chest with her fingertips….’twas simply a dream. She hadn’t been fully awake. She almost wished she had not touched him that way, because now she only ached to do it again.

Mary Francis joined Isobel and Maida, looking exhausted. She coughed into her fist. “Lady Katherine says I’m no’ to be away from her for long.”

Maida frowned.

Isobel began to show Maida and Mary Francis how to prepare the elder flower and honey tea that would calm her cough. “I will need a dirk.”

Maida brought her one.

“It is customary to cut the herb and ask its permission to use it, and also to explain how it will be used for healing. Since someone else cut this herb, I need to do this.” They watched Isobel prepare the tea and speak healing words. She smiled. “And I always include a wee dram of whisky.”

“And I say ye should always include more than a wee dram!” Maida said, giggling.

“I fear the whisky will make me sleepy,” Mary Francis said. “I canna afford to be sleepy. I have to attend to Lady Katherine all day and all evening. I imagine it’s like waiting on a Queen. We must rise early when the stone floors seem the coldest and most inhospitable to one’s feet, attend to her fire, ready her clothing, wash her basins, and tidy her room. Then we must help her to dress for the day, which is always a chore, because she canna make up her mind about which gown to wear. Then we must prepare her hair and anoint her with jewels, as if she were at court. We follow her around during the day and then later we must help her prepare for bed, ready her clothing, tidy her room again, brush her hair, and position her pillows just so. And if the food or drink is no’ to her liking, we must send it back to the kitchens and await its replacement.”

“Ye should get some rest,” Isobel said.