Amanda Scott (10 page)

She dared not repeat what she’d heard, either, because she did not know Kenna well enough to trust her. She did not think she knew anyone well enough to trust them with such information, but Einar deserved to know.

Therefore, she said, “I would have gone to Sir Hugo, but I only heard two voices echoing in the stairwell. When I looked, no one was there.”

That, she decided, was near enough to the truth to salve her conscience.

“Aye, well, I’ll tell Einar ye would speak wi’ him, and if I canna find him, I’ll tell me brothers,” Kenna said. “I’ve nae need to tell them ye said aught else, m’lady,” she added reassuringly. “I’ve only to say ye want to speak wi’ Einar.”

“Thank you,” Adela said, as much in gratitude for the girl’s discretion as for her agreement to carry the message. “Sithee, he acted as my friend, and I need friends now more than ever before. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.”

“Aye, he’s a good man, is Einar Logan,” Kenna agreed. “Me brothers say that though there be bigger men about, there be none that be as good wi’ a sword.”

Her soft smile as she turned away made Adela wonder if the lass had an interest in Einar Logan beyond that of doing a kindness for her brothers’ friend.

When she left, Adela bolted her door again and was able to rest long enough that, by the time someone rapped, she knew the midday meal must be long over. Noting the dim light outside the window, she realized it might even be suppertime.

“Adela, are you there?”

Recognizing Sorcha’s voice as the rapping continued, and recalling that she had shot the bolt again, Adela got up hastily and opened the door.

“Sakes!” Sorcha exclaimed as she entered. “Why did you bolt it?”

“Because people seem to think I enjoy their company so much that they can just walk in and out at will. I wanted to rest a little and think,” Adela said.

“Are you angry with us?” Sorcha demanded. “I know it must seem as if we have all been pelting you with advice when what you must want more than anything is to keep yourself to yourself. But I agree with Lady Clendenen that—”

“I know you agree with her,” Adela said dryly. “You told me so at length whilst I was breaking my fast this morning.”

“I didn’t think you were listening then.”

“Well, I was. But you, of all people, should realize that I am not accustomed to so many people being so interested in what I choose to do. I might be more receptive,” she added, “if any of you seemed interested in
discussing
things rather than flinging advice at me and commanding me to accept it. Doubtless, the countess will be the next one to order what I must do.”

“Aye, she may,” Sorcha said. “But you are wrong in thinking she’ll be next, because Father sent me to fetch you. They’ll be serving supper soon, but Lady Clendenen persuaded Father to summon you now.”

“Mercy, why should she?”

“I don’t know,” Sorcha said. “She was most mysterious.”

“Who else means to sup with us?”

“Just the family. At least, that was my understanding, so you need not change your clothes. But do wash your face and tidy your hair.”

Adela obeyed, and if her sister’s understanding proved faulty, it was not Sorcha’s fault that, in Lady Clendenen’s view, the family was evidently more extensive than either of them knew.

When they entered the hall, it appeared as if, besides servants and men-at-arms gathering at two trestle tables in the lower hall—shorter than those for the wedding feast—only Hugo, Sir Michael, and Macleod were there. But as Sorcha and Adela approached the dais, the door to the ladies’ solar opened, and Isabella emerged with Lady Clendenen, Isobel, and Sidony.

Following Sidony was the handsome, green-eyed chevalier de Gredin.

Adela’s heart began to pound hard, stopping her in her tracks. “What is he doing here?” she asked Sorcha.

“I don’t know,” Sorcha said, stopping beside her. “He is Lady Clendenen’s cousin, the chevalier—”

“I know who he is,” Adela said, feeling heat in her cheeks as she remembered her encounter on the ramparts. “Lady Clendenen told me yesterday that he is a kinsman of hers, but his title is French.”

“I know little about him,” Sorcha said. “No one has presented him to me, but he must be staying with her at her house in Edinburgh. I’ll wager he is still here because she did not want him to have to return alone in the fog.”

“I suppose not,” Adela said, noting that the gentleman was looking at her, his gaze as intense as it had been the day before.

“Why is he staring at you like that?” Sorcha demanded, frowning. “I’ve a good mind to ask Hugo to speak—”

“Nay, don’t trouble Hugo,” Adela said. “He will not approach me here.”

She wanted to stare back, to see if she could detect any indication that he, too, was thinking about the meeting on the ramparts, but she dared not. Her conscience pricked her at the thought, reminding her that whether she had known her husband as a husband or not, she was nonetheless a widow.

She had been in Ardelve’s presence so few times that she might count them on the fingers of one hand. Still, she ought not to be thinking of another man little more than twenty-four hours after his death. What manner of woman was she that she even felt tempted to do such a thing? Perhaps …

She glanced at Sorcha, who said quietly, “What is it? You look … I don’t know how to describe it. But something is wrong, Adela. Tell me.”

Adela bit her lip. Of her six sisters, Sorcha was the most difficult to snub. Isobel’s curiosity was nearly as great, but Sorcha was more aggressive in her determination to satisfy hers. She was also more likely to say exactly what she thought, though, and Adela wanted reassurance—or affirmation.

“Do you think it possible that a series of horrible events might drive a person mad?” she asked her.

Any one of her other sisters would have told her not to be silly. But Sorcha regarded her seriously without saying a word. She was silent so long that a chill shot up Adela’s spine.

“Is that what you think?” Sorcha asked at last. “Is that why you have been so solemn and silent since your rescue? Do you fear you are going mad?”

Adela swallowed, realizing that she had wanted her sister to tell her instantly that she was doing no such thing. “I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes—”

“Do forgive us for interrupting you, Adela, my dear, and you, too, Sorcha,” Lady Clendenen said, appearing beside them as if a wizard had conjured her out of thin air. “But Countess Isabella grows impatient for her supper, and I want to present my cousin to you both before we all sit down at the table.”

Having focused all her thoughts on trying to explain her worry to Sorcha, Adela stared blankly at the plump little woman before collecting her wits enough to say, “You need not seek forgiveness for such a cause, madam.”

“Indeed, not,” Sorcha agreed. “We are eager to meet your cousin.”

“As eager as he is to meet both of you,” the handsome young man said with a charming smile, a twinkle in his eyes, and a noticeable French accent.

“I’m glad you do not mind,” Lady Clendenen said. “Pray, allow me to present him properly. He is the chevalier Etienne de Gredin, although I don’t know if I can bring myself to say anything complimentary to recommend him to you. He has been plaguing me to present him to you since his arrival here yesterday.”

The gentleman bowed, holding Adela’s gaze.

“Has he, indeed?” Sorcha said. “Then I wonder why he absented himself so soon after we dined today. I vow, I was in your company most of the afternoon, madam. You might have presented him to me had he been at hand.”

“You unmask me, Lady Robison,” the gentleman said, grinning at her as he straightened. “I confess to you, I accepted an invitation to go hawking.”

“In the fog?”

“
Mais oui.
Doubtless you will not credit it, but the worst of that fog ends at the ridge top or as near as makes no difference to a goshawk. Goshawks, you see, unlike most birds of prey, are excellent hunters in wooded areas.”

Adela stood silent, trying to match his light, accented voice to the deeper, decidedly firmer, unaccented one she had heard in the darkness the previous night.

Although she had been certain she would recognize that voice wherever she heard it again, she could detect no likeness. But if the man on the castle ramparts had not been Etienne de Gredin, who else could he possibly have been? Perhaps the chevalier was simply more adept at disguising his voice than anyone might expect.

“Have I said something to offend you, Lady Ardelve?” he asked gently.

Driven by uncustomary curiosity, Adela said, “Doubtless you will think such a question unmannerly, sir, but her ladyship indicated that you were not French by birth. So I
was
wondering about your title and … and your accent …” She hesitated, fearing she was truly crossing the line between politeness and the lack of it.

He flashed his charming smile again, saying, “
Mais non, madame
, my title was given me when I was a child attending my father at the French court. My unfortunate accent is no more than a result of habit and a recent visit to Paris. Does it distress you? I confess—I who perhaps should not—that the ladies of his grace’s court find it most charming. I regret that you do not, because one desires to make a good impression with the so-famously-beautiful Macleod sisters. If it annoys you,” he added archly, “I shall exert myself to speak as a proper Scots-man does.”

“Sakes, sir, mind your manners,” Sorcha said before Adela could reply. “My sister is not yet two days a widow. Would you dare to flirt with her?”

Instantly remorseful, he said, “Lady Ardelve, I implore you to forgive me. I am desolated to think my thoughtlessness may have caused you pain. I desired no more than to see you smile and perhaps to offer you simple friendship. I meant no offense to you either, Lady Robison. Have I stepped beyond all forgiveness?”

“No, of course not,” Adela said, noting his reference to friendship but observing Hugo’s approach with relief nonetheless. Impulsively, she said, “A person needs friends, sir. I hope you will become one of ours.”

“To be sure, I will if you will but smile at me now and assure me, both of you, that you have forgiven me.”

“Pray, do not be absurd, sir,” Sorcha said. “It would take more than unintentional rudeness to put you beyond forgiveness. But I hope you do not mean to tease my sister for smiles merely to please yourself.”

“I won’t, but if you need a friend, Lady Adela, I am yours to command.”

He would clearly have said more, but Hugo joined them, saying with a sharp look at de Gredin, “The countess sent me to conduct you all to the table so they can begin to serve.”

“Where’s Henry?” Sorcha asked him.

“Gone back to Edinburgh with everyone else,” Hugo said. “Since the King returned, Henry has been enjoying himself at court too much to want to stay here for long. But come now or I’ll have my aunt handing me my head in my lap.”

Sorcha chuckled, tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and with a rueful smile said to Adela, “I suppose we should go. We’ll talk more later if you like.”

“We’re going back to Hawthornden in the morning,” Hugo said. “I hope you mean to visit us again before we leave for the Isles next week.”

Her thoughts jumped to Einar Logan and the dreadful fate Hugo and the unseen man had planned for him. A vague nod of assent was all she could manage without revealing her knowledge to Hugo. But they had reached the dais, making it natural for her to look away from him as she stepped onto it.

Before good manners could force her to turn back to expand upon the nod, Isabella said, “I hope you had a good rest this afternoon, Adela, my dear, and have a hearty appetite now.”

“Aye, madam,” she said politely as she moved to take the place Isobel indicated by her. Lady Clendenen followed, taking her place at Adela’s left with Sidony beyond. Adela noted with relief that Hugo had stopped beside Sir Michael, who in Henry’s absence sat next to the countess.

Macleod was beside Hugo with de Gredin beyond him.

Adela’s gaze rested thoughtfully on de Gredin. Surely, he had spoken as he had, and with the French accent, hoping to keep his identity secret a little longer. He had said he wanted to be her friend, had he not? Nevertheless, her doubt lingered.

Isabella’s minstrels played throughout the meal, but she had arranged no further entertainment, so Adela asked to be excused directly after supper.

The countess expressed a hope that she would join her and the other ladies for a short time in her solar. But she made no objection when Adela thanked her but said that she would prefer to go straight to bed.

“Run along then, my dear,” Isabella said with a warm smile. “Sleep well.”

Making her escape without further ado, Adela noticed as she left the dais that the chevalier smiled at her, but she hoped he did not mean to follow. Sorcha was not the only one who would think a private talk between them unseemly. Adela thought the same, although she had to admit, at least to herself, that she had not felt any such discomfort on the ramparts.

She could not decide what she thought of de Gredin. He seemed reassuringly at ease with himself tonight. Even when he had drawn Sorcha’s censure, he had recovered swiftly and with grace. Adela thought she could like him as a friend, but friendships between men and women who were not kin to each other were so rare that she could not call any to mind. Perhaps after Lady Clendenen married Macleod, the kinship would then be such that friendship between them could follow.

She realized that she was still thinking of him as the man she had met on the ramparts, despite her inability to detect similarity in the two voices. But logically, they had to be the same man if only because no one else remained at Roslin who could be the man on the ramparts.

And surely, he must still be at Roslin, because he had told her she could summon him easily if she needed him.

She went to her bedchamber, hoping her sisters would not feel compelled to follow. She was not usually one to seek solitude so often—certainly not as often as she had since her abduction. To converse politely with near strangers was a strain now, rather than the rare treat it was at Chalamine.