The Enchantress (13 page)

In William’s mind, this remained Thomas’s quarters. This was his
brother’s
bedchamber. Next door,
Thomas’s
work room, where he had attended to the business of the Ross clan. Out of respect for his memory, William had left the chambers virtually untouched. But whenever he was forced to step inside those walls, his inability to breathe, to be able to clear his mind of the memories and the guilt, made him want to lash out in anger. Everything--from the exquisite tapestries covering the walls to Thomas’s ornate desk with its matching cabinets, brought at Mildred’s direction from Paris--bespoke the shallow elegance that she had demanded.

It all filled him with disgust. For her. For himself. For everything.

“I told the messenger from Hoddom, m’lord, that we did not know how long you were planning to be away. But the man has been very content to stay and sit by the fire in the Great Hall since Lord Herries ordered him to await your answer.”

William turned his back on Edward, the seasoned leader of the Ross clan warriors, and walked hastily to the closest window. Throwing open the wooden shutter to a bitter rush of morning air, he filled his lungs and looked out at the snow-covered courtyard and the countryside beyond. It was all so clean, he thought, out there.

But beneath the cloudless sky, a piercing wind raced out of the mountains to the northwest, scoured the crystalline landscape in search of victims.

Edward’s tap on the worktable got William’s attention. “I left Lord Herries’s letter here, m’lord, with the other correspondence you might care to look at.”

William didn’t have to turn to know where the folded parchment lay. He didn’t have to break the seal to know what the old man wanted.

“When you are finished with your work in here, Will, I was hoping you might meet with a few of us.” There was a slight pause in Edward’s voice which made the laird glance over his shoulder at him. The warrior, obviously uncomfortable, avoided meeting the Highlander’s direct gaze.

“Is there a problem?”

Edward shook his head. “Nothing too important. But...odds’blood, Will! When the men learned of your going to Fearnoch and not taking any of them--us--well, a few were a wee bit disappointed. Some were thinking you do not think us worthy to face a few miserable Sinclairs.”

“Edward, tell your men that I consider all of them--all of you--a match for any clan.”

“They need to hear that from you, m’lord.” The warrior met William’s gaze with the quiet strength of a seasoned fighter. “They miss you training with them in the yard.”

William turned fully and faced his man. “I grew up with most of you. In fact, you, Edward, were the man who first put a sword in my hand. Thomas said that the Ross fighters have always been--and still are--the best group of men a laird could have behind him. My brother...”

“Nay, m’lord. Speak not of Thomas.” His gray eyes were hard and direct. “
You
are our laird. Will,
you
are our master now. The Ross clan needs you, m’lord, to lead us.”

“By the devil,” William exploded. “Is there no...?”

The Highlander stopped, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he forcibly regained his composure.

Edward’s words were said simply and without malice, and William knew that. These were plain facts that he could not change. No matter how hard he cared to fight it, he was still laird--by blood and by the choice of his clan. It appeared to matter naught how unworthy he was of the position. They wanted a laird, and would take the empty shell of one if that was all they could get.

Well, William thought, I can give them that, at least.

“Aye. Tell the men to prepare to take a beating from their laird tomorrow morning.”

Edward gave a satisfied nod and started for the door, but then hesitated.

“There is more?”

“I know, m’lord, you’ve been back here only a day. But there are two crofters from out by the fork of the Strathrory who’ve been awaiting your return. They’re ready to kill each other over a cow and a bucket of oats. And old Raulf from Kinloch sent word that the Munros have been raiding his family’s lands again.”

“Aye, Duncan Munro hasn’t much to do once the winter sets in. Very well, send a half-dozen men to Kinloch. I’ll see the crofters today.”

“And then there’s the question of repairs to the east wing. And the matter of choosing a new steward. I never knew how good a man Robert was until the old bastard died. I’m not the man to run things, Will, and Blackfearn Castle is just not a fit place without a steward. If anyone of quality should come, there’s no one to serve them. And then, the kitchens--”

“The kitchens?” William asked crossly.

“The new cook ran off a fortnight ago with one of the scullery lads.” Edward shrugged. “Not that she could bake worth a damn, anyway.”

“Why is it that Thomas has been dead for two years, but everything falls apart at just this moment?”

The warrior shook his head. “It has been coming for some time, m’lord. Even while Sir Thomas was laird. When he and Lady Mildred started spending less and less time at Blackfearn...”

Edward continued, but William already could taste the bitter recollection of those times in his mouth. Mildred never intended to be happy in what she called "the wilds" of the Highlands. She needed her comforts, her friends, the excitement and the extravagance and the recklessness of court life. It was because of her unreasonable nature that Thomas agreed to take her south in the middle of winter. They drowned because of her arrogance and her selfishness. It was only a miracle that the bairn...

William’s gaze fixed on the waiting letter on his desk. He stared at the seal of Mildred’s father, Lord Herries.

“And one thing more.” Edward’s voice cut into William’s thoughts. “There is the message from the provost.”

“You can send a word back that I’m through with rescuing damsels in distress.”

Edward’s face broke into a grin. “No wonder you did not want your men crowding about you. Was there a good reward that went along with the lass?”

“Reward?” William snorted dismissively, turning away. “Only if you consider a cracked skull a reward.”

Damn, he didn’t want to think about her now. It had been hard enough to have his sleep plagued with dreams of Laura Percy--her soft white skin beneath his fingers, her warm flesh pressed tightly to his own, her mouth so tender, willing...

Nay, the woman was poison. Strong-willed. Meddling. Far too orderly. Trouble, pure and simple. That should be simple enough to remember.

“What was it my brother wanted?”

“Just to speak with you. But he sent word that you should not worry yourself about making the trip to Tain. He is coming to Blackfearn himself once the weather eases up.” The tall warrior put a hand on the door, ready to depart. “His man mentioned ‘tis advice the provost seeks.”

“My advice?”

The warrior nodded. “Aye. That was the message.”

*****

There was no challenge in her life. No excitement. Nothing to urge along the cold winter days--or the seemingly endless nights.

For nearly a fortnight bitter winds had ripped through the walled-in clusters of buildings that formed the Shrine of St. Duthac and its adjacent convent. Snow had fallen several nights, and an icy rain had now coated everything.

Stepping through the gated wall separating the convent from the shrine, Laura pulled the wool cloak tightly about her and winced at the sight of the cleared and tamped down pathways leading to and from the chapter house.

Once again, everything was taken care of.

The orderly community at the convent at St. Duthac was an unexpected vexation to Laura. The methodical order of things at the shrine had quickly proved to be another torment.

What was she to do when
everything
was being done?

Relentless in her pursuit of usefulness--in finding some value for her existence in the peaceful and well-managed community--Laura had been reduced to begging for chores. The response, though, from the very first moment, had been the same.

Laura was a guest, and she was not to fret over mundane details.

The truth of it was, Laura thought, that Gilbert Ross was too much of a man in control, too much of an organizer with clear views of order, too much of a person like herself.

And the situation was about to make her daft.

Intentionally avoiding the path and digging her boots through the icy crust into the knee-deep snow, Laura buried her face deeper under the cloak and made her way toward the chapter house. There, at least, she knew she should be able to charm old Father Francis into giving her
some
task to do. Word had come to the convent that the provost had ridden out and would be absent for the day, so this was Laura’s chance to find something to alleviate the boredom of her enforced idleness.

With nothing to focus on, her thoughts had all too often drifted to William Ross. She’d even had fallen so low as to ask some casual questions of one of the younger nuns about the Ross laird. It appeared that he rarely visited St. Duthac’s, though Laura already knew that. Days had come and gone, and there had been no sign of any visitors from Blackfearn Castle.

Foolish, idle thoughts, she chided herself as she neared the chapter house. Kicking snow and ice with her foot, she pushed onto the cleared pathway.

The old priest was waiting for her on the steps before the door and watching her. Spying the curmudgeonly expression on his wrinkled face, Laura smiled innocently and stamped the snow off her feet onto the path. As he stepped aside, she quickly moved past him into the vestibule and stopped to unfasten her cloak..

He eyed the ice clinging to the hem of her dress and cloak. “You’ll need to go back, mistress.”

Laura glanced down at the snow that had fallen to the floor and shook her head.

“Oh my,” she exclaimed, feigning horror. “Well, before I go, Father Francis, I’ll just go to the kitchens and get a broom. I would be a very ungrateful wretch not to sweep these floors before going back to the convent. And then, while I’m at it, perhaps I’ll just ready the fires in the refectory for the afternoon meal, and see if Brother Hugo needs any help in the kitchen. I believe he is beginning to value my expertise with a paring knife. And I know that the candles in the chapel need tending, for I noticed yesterday as I watched the workmen--”

“And this will be the last time you see me here.”

“Pardon, Father?”

“If I simply allow you to wander about and accomplish all of the tasks that our young men should be doing, the provost will be sending me off to tend sheep in the glen beneath Carn Chunneag when he returns.” The priest pulled on an ear and shook his head resignedly. “But an educated lass like you must be doing something, I suppose. Come along, then.”

With another shake of his hoary head, he turned down the corridor, and Laura fell in happily beside him.

“Of course,” he grumbled. “He might still send me there if he learns that I gave you work to do, yesterday as well as today.”

“Meaning no disrespect, Father, but I don’t consider copying text from a manuscript hard work.” Upon seeing the priest’s sharp scowl, Laura smiled sweetly. “But I’m thankful to you for allowing me to do it, all the same.”

“Hmmph.”

She followed along as Father Francis made his way through the chapter house. And she held her tongue, practicing restraint, as she observed workmen and their helpers laboring away at changes the new provost had in progress. Carpenters were at work in the chapel, repairing a great carved screen of oak. Stonemasons were replacing ancient bosses in the ceiling arches. She listened quietly as Father Francis paused to discuss future plans with one master mason for chimneys and modest fireplaces that were to be built in a variety of different chambers when the weather improved.

Reaching Gilbert Ross’s work room, Laura sat down at Father Francis’s gesture, positioning herself at one end of the large trestle table. Soon she was busy copying ledger lines and columns onto the blank pages for the coming year’s figures. The task of copying was simple and tedious, but the thought of complaining never entered her head. She was grateful for the opportunity to work.

Finishing in much less time than Father Francis had anticipated, Laura found the old priest engrossed in his ledgers, so she quietly rearranged the books in an orderly manner and resharpened her quill. Letting her eyes survey the work room, she again fixed her gaze on the portrait of the young child sitting above the mantel. The large bright eyes, the innocent smile, lifted Laura’s spirits.

“From what I hear, she is not such a wee thing anymore. The lass is three years older than she was when that sketch was drawn.”

Laura glanced over her shoulder and studied Father Francis’s thoughtful expression.

“Her name is Miriam. Miriam Ross.”

“The provost told me that her parents are dead.” Laura rose to her feet and moved closer to the fireplace to get a better look. Even though she had never seen the mother, Laura was certain that the little girl took after the Ross side of the family. The resemblance to William was exceptional.

“Thomas and Mildred died fording a river by Ben Wyvis, not a half day’s ride from here. Mildred’s horse stumbled, throwing her. Thomas went after her, but the icy river just washed the two of them away. Over two years now the lass has been orphaned.”

“She is all alone.” Laura wrapped her arms around her middle as a cold draft suddenly chilled her. She glanced over at the priest. “Who is looking after her?”

“Her grandsire, Lord Herries. That started as a temporary arrangement, and ‘twill soon come to an end.”

“And why is that?”

“Lord Herries is an old man, and ill, and he wishes to send Mariam away while he can.”

“Where is he sending her?”

“I would imagine to some priory, to be raised by some ill-tempered, though godly nuns who’ll have hardly any appetite for the antics of a young and spirited lass like Miriam.” The old priest dropped his gaze to the ledger. “Of course, this will only happen if her rightful guardian fails to stand up and accept his responsibility.”