Heaven and the Heather (30 page)

She looked up into his face. Her hair blew in errant strands across her face. “
Oui
, Niall, I did. I killed
Signore
Rinoletti, because I drew him.”

“Not possible, Sabine,” he said.

“’Tis!” she cried. She dug her right hand frantically in her bag, twisted fingers fumbled for the scraps of paper, pulled out a fistful, and dumped them in her lap. She immediately lifted out two between the wreckage of her fingers, one paper large, the other quite small. She held the large one before Niall’s face.

“Do you not see this? I completed it from memory while locked in my bed chamber, waiting the fate my father would hand me for daring to practice my art, for daring to fall in love. ’Tis
mon maître
as I remember him, as he allowed me to draw him. Can you not see what my father saw? This sketch is of an unclothed man, a man who willingly gave his body to my eyes and nothing more. I would have wished for more, even stole a kiss from him, but he would not sate a young girl’s yearnings. He was a gentleman. My father could not see anything but an abomination in him and in my sketch!”

She dropped the drawing to the heather, and took the smaller paper between thumb and forefinger. “This is what remains of the ‘abomination’ my father saw.”

She showed Niall the face of
Signore
Rinoletti, sketched in charcoal, sketched from life, sketched from her heart. “’Tis all that remains of my portfolio. I found some of the scraps on the floor, beneath the chandelier, decorated with drops of
mon maître’s
blood. The rest of the scraps were stuffed in his mouth.”

Niall took the paper from her and, without a second glance, slid it into her bag. He grasped her right hand, gently flexed her fingers outward and rubbed the pad of his thumb over her flesh, sending shivers up her arm.

“Was this your fate?” he asked.

Sabine glanced at her hand before looking into Niall’s eyes. “
Oui
.”

“Yer father’s doing?”

“
Oui.
”

Silence fell between them. Sabine searched her mind for the right way to tell Niall the unspeakable. There was no right way other than the truth.

“We grew apples at the
château
. Beautiful small
pommes
, of many colors, red, orange, green, yellow. Autumn was my favorite season, when the apples were ripe, full of juice. Autumn is now my least favorite season.”

Niall gave her twisted hand a gentle squeeze. There was no pain in her hand, only in her words.

The words tumbled out over lips. She could not help it. She had told no one, had never wanted to, until now.

“There was a pressing room under the
château
, for the apples. My father had an idea to turn them into wine. Grapes, grown so far away in Provence, were not good enough for him. He took me there…into the pressing room.”

“Sabine,” Niall said, “ye didnae have to tell me more.”

“I wish to,” she whispered. “If I share this, perchance it will go away.”

He drew her nearer, against his firm chest. Sabine placed her right hand into the folds of his linen tunic. She took a deep breath and continued. “My father could not do the deed himself. He ordered two of the servants to screw down the press while he held my hand in the sticky remains of the apples, between the boards. The pain came slowly at first. It drowned out my screaming, thundered in my ears, but it could not drown out my father’s threats. He was so certain he would steal my art. What he did was give me strength and a choice: the convent or royal servitude.”

“Fortunately for me, ye chose royal service.” Niall would not let her dwell in the pain of her past, this she knew. He held her so tight against the rough linen of his tunic, the warmth of his body beneath.

“I did not let my father win. Now he’s gone, but my art lives. It lives in these Highlands. It lives when I look at you. But if you take that paper to Her Majesty and she sees the sketch on the reverse, you will die. She will think ’tis vulgar, and have you in the gaol before you can show her what is on the other side.”

“Then I will read quickly to her those words. She will find them far more vulgar.”

“I wish I never had that paper,” she said. “You would not wish to take yourself into the lion’s den if you did not have it. They will take you, Niall, and Her Majesty will have you executed because you are a MacGregor.”

“And if I dinnae take this paper to the queen, she will die.”

Sabine drew in a long sigh. “Then I will take it to my queen.”

Niall pulled her away and looked harshly into her eyes. He had to know as well as she that their goal was one, but only she could carry it out.

“No, ye willnae,” Niall said. “I for—”

“You forbid it?” she asked. Only her father, Lord Campbell, and her queen had forbid her from anything.

Sabine rushed to stand, but Niall held her down, practically crushing her against his body.

“Let me go!” she cried.

“I will do what I’m bound for my clan. ’Tis my will,” he said firmly.

“You cannot go to Her Majesty,” she managed to say. “You must stay here, safely in your valley.”

“And wait for Campbell to send all of the queen’s men down upon us?” Niall asked.

“You said they could not find you.”

“I am one person. And, aye, I can hide, but that willnae protect my clan…or ye, Sabine.”

Niall leaned down and kissed her, dousing her fear for the moment. And for the moment, Sabine guessed, he most likely thought he had won their argument.

She swallowed. She had not told him all of her secrets that day. One plagued her since early morning. Was it truth or her artist’s eyes tugging too hard upon her good sense? When Rory had burst into the cottage, standing there in silhouette, his hulking body a monolith barring the doorway, her gaze and her heart had frozen. She could not bring herself to tell Niall that the man she had seen with Campbell, the intended recipient of that order to murder the queen, was his friend Rory. She prayed her eyes had betrayed her and it was not him.

“W
omen are not allowed at the gathering,” Niall told her that evening.

“Stay with Mum,” he said, both hands on her shoulders, gently emphasizing his words. He looked deep into her eyes. “Aye? Will ye do that?”

She nodded slowly her thoughts in another place. Perchance she was wrong. How could Rory have been the man in Campbell’s chamber? He was Niall’s old friend. Loyalty was as much a part of these Highlanders as the crisp air they breathed. She must have been mistaken. All she had caught of that mysterious stranger was a shadowy glimpse of profile. It could have been anyone.

Sabine placed herself back into Niall’s blue stare. Was this denial wishful thinking? If she told him what she suspected, what would he think of her? He had known Rory all of his life. He had known her for a mere blink of time. But what a blink!

“I have to go now,” he said, fingers gripping her shoulders hard. The crease between his brows deepened. Was there something he had to tell her?

Sabine inched closer. Gave him the opportunity. Surely, he wanted to take her with him to this wholly male gathering. She waited for an invitation.

“Bide with Mum. I’ll be back soon,” he said. Slowly, he released her. Paused. And leaned down, placing a small, but searing kiss upon her lips. He gave her a wink and left the cottage without another word.

Perchance he had nothing at all to tell her, just wanted a kiss.

She turned from the door, right into Mistress MacGregor’s stare.

“Well, lass?” she asked raising one grayed brow. “Dinnae stand there like a statue. There’s supper to be made.”

Sabine’s gaze shifted to the cauldron over the musty hearth fire. It was always there, with something inside simmering. It seemed to her that supper was always ready in this cottage. Nevertheless, she was glad for the distraction. Niall would be with his clansmen, well and good, acting their leader—very well and good.

“And protected by those who serve him,” she breathed.

“To it, lass!” Niall’s mother shouted and tossed an onion at her. Sabine caught it securely in her left hand. Mistress MacGregor eyed her right hand before turning back to her perpetual place at the hearth.

Sabine drifted to the pockmarked worktable, the onion in her fist. She dropped it on the table, and glanced over her shoulder to see if Mistress MacGregor had noticed. She remained hunched over the cauldron stirring, always stirring.

Sabine took up a knife beside several bundles of herbs. She had eaten this Highland cooking for four days now, and each time hoped the meals would not be so woefully absent of the flavor herbs could provide.

She took one of the bundles and raised it to her nose. Thyme.
Très bon.
She did not have to sniff the other to know it was dried violet. She laid the thyme on the table with the onion. As she quartered the onion, her gnarled fingers holding the knife, surprising her with its steadiness and lack of pain. Niall would like her addition to the evening’s repast. He had sampled the food in Her Majesty’s court, whether invited to or not, he knew the French manner of cooking with plenty of herb. She chopped the onion into tiny pieces, then began mincing the thyme into them. She hoped Niall would think it was nice—

“What are ye doing to my herbs,
outeral
?” The harsh whisper stabbed her in the ear.

Startled, Sabine almost chopped her thumb off. She dropped the knife onto the bits of onion and thyme, still clutching the remains of the herb bundle with her left hand.

She turned and looked into Agnes’s lightning stare. All of the fury of a hundred storms lay in those pale eyes. Her blonde hair was a wild, knotted mass framing her angry face. With the quickness and agility of a wildcat, she snatched what was left of the thyme bundle from Sabine’s grasp, and wielded it before her eyes.

“This is to cleanse, and
this
…” Agnes grabbed the bundle of violets and thrust them under Sabine’s nose. The spicy fragrance teased her nostrils. “…These violets are for a poultice.”

She shoved Agnes’s hand away from her face, and tipped her chin high.

“That doesnae work with me,
outeral
,” Agnes growled. “I ken ye. I ken what ye want. Ye came here and made a good man break a vow to his dead father. Now…” She shook the herbs in Sabine’s face. “…I have to make amends.”

Before Sabine could respond to the wild ranting, Agnes disappeared from the cottage. All that remained before her stunned eyes was a thick pall of musty peat smoke.

“Go make your curse,
sorcière
,” she whispered. “Niall has my heart, and I have his. A
soupçon
of herbs can do nothing to part us.”

Ye came here and made a good man break a vow to his dead father.

What had Agnes meant by that?

Sabine turned toward Mistress MacGregor. The old Scot stood upright from the hearth. Her bones creaked and snapped at the effort. She placed a spotted hand at the small of her back and tried to continue her journey to standing. Without a second’s hesitation, Sabine stepped to the hearth and laid her hands on top of Mistress MacGregor’s and helped her to stand.

“Thank ye, lass…” she paused. “…Would ye be at wanting a bit of cake and broth?” Her question was tinged with more kindness toward Sabine than she had yet to hear.

Mistress MacGregor paused and eyed the pulverized onion. “Such wee bits are no’ much good in my soup.”

“Will add more flavor,” Sabine said. Perchance she would ask a bit later. “If it’s in ‘wee bits’. Or so I’ve been told.”

“In France?” Mistress MacGregor reached down and took up some small pieces of onion between her fingers. “Ye can cook?”

“My mother, she loved to cook, despite having the servants to do it for her. Sometimes I watched her.”

Niall’s mother rubbed the onion between her fingertips, gave them a sniff. “What is this herb ye’ve minced?”

“Thyme.”

“It has a bonny scent. ’Tis used it for healing herbs, no’ for cooking.” Mistress MacGregor sprinkled the onion and herb back to the pile on the table.

“So, Agnes told me. She said it was for cleaning…wounds I guess, she did not say exactly.”

“What did she say exactly?” Niall’s mother asked, neatly laying out the opportunity for Sabine to ask a very important question without fear of incurring the Scot’s wrath.

“Because of me, Niall had broken a vow to his late father.”

Mistress MacGregor stared at her for several of the quietest moment Sabine had ever known, before she said, “Let us sit by the fire, lass.”

She pointed a gnarled finger at one of two chairs by the hearth. Sabine waited for her to sit first before she took her seat. Her
sac
dangled down from her hip. Sabine reached down and placed it on her lap.

“All Niall’s father wanted for him was a lifetime of happiness. He knew the lad wouldnae be chief, with all of its worries and problems. That destiny was reserved for my eldest lad, Colin.”

“Niall spoke fondly of him to me once.”

“Aye, they were almost as close as Niall is to Rory…inseparable they were, with Rory oft in the middle, their champion. All was put asunder when my dear husband and my firstborn were murdered in Edinburgh, because of an order ratified by the father of
your
Queen.”