The Enchantress (2 page)

“Father Francis, I thought William showed great wisdom when he assured me--and you were sitting right where you are now--when he assured me that he would take care of this problem without bloodshed.” Gilbert moved as well to the table and took his place across from his old mentor. “Considering the fact that, since Thomas’s death two years ago, Ross and Sinclair men have not clashed seriously, don’t you think it a responsible step for William to avoid starting up the fighting again?”

Francis grumbled under his breath, his fingers traveling across the pages.

The old priest was still scowling darkly as he carried on with the pretense of looking for the last ledger entry. Gilbert braced himself. He knew Father Francis was not finished. provost or not, he would hear the frequently repeated reprimand once again.

“There was something else, Father?” Gilbert said gently.

The old man exploded. “Aye, there’s something else, as you well know! William can no longer hold to the reckless, ne’er-do-well days of his youth. By Duthac’s Shirt, William is laird now! The leader of the Clann Gille Aindrias, the ruler of all this land from Fearnoch Firth to The Minch. He carries in his veins the blood of his namesake, the great William, earl of Ross, who led our own kinsmen under the Bruce at Bannockburn. ‘Twas his hand that put the Ross seal on the Declaration of Arbroath!”

“I know, Father Francis,” Gilbert interrupted softly, stopping the older priest’s ardent sermon. “I am William’s brother. I, better than anyone, know of our name, our blood...and William’s responsibilities.”

The priest nodded sternly. “Aye. You are a fine man, Gilbert, and I am as proud of you as if you were my own son, but ‘tis time you used your power as provost of St. Duthac’s to benefit not only those who make the pilgrimage here, but the people of Ross as well.”

“Father Francis, I’ve been provost of this church and its lands for a wee bit more than a month now, and if you are saying that my desire to bring some semblance of order to this place, that my plans to stop the deteriorating condition of St. Duthac’s is somehow compromising my responsibilities to the people--”

“I am saying no such thing.” The old priest placed both elbows on the table and stared evenly into Gilbert’s eyes. “What I am saying is that for the first time in your life you can wield some authority over your older brother. You can influence William, direct him in the affairs of--”

“William is the laird of Ross, Father. I am a priest.”

“Aye. You have spiritual authority.” Father Francis pointed a long, bony finger at Gilbert. “I have seen how he treats you--now that you are provost. He does not deal with you as he did when you two were growing up--when you were just the younger brother to banter with and to battle constantly. There is a new respect that he is giving you now.”

Only in the presence of others, Gilbert thought. “So what is it exactly that you recommend I do with this new power over my brother?”

The semblance of a smile increased the deep wrinkles of the old priest’s face.

“You must order him to change.”

“To change?” Gilbert repeated, not comprehending. “William?”

“Aye! ‘Tis time William Ross of Blackfearn grew up. ‘Tis time that he began putting more value in his own life. By the saint, Gilbert, he thinks more of the lowliest shepherd lass’s well-being than he does his own! You know as well as I that he’d sleep in his stable if he thought some old beggar woman would be more comfortable in the laird’s chamber.” The old priest leaned over and lowered his voice. “‘Tis time that he learned to act the part of laird. ‘Tis what I
tried
to prepare him for. He should pick up where Thomas left off by renovating that holding of his--bringing back some of the grandeur of Blackfearn Castle. Blackfearn is the largest castle this side of Inverness. He must stop ignoring his position in life. Stop acting like a common crofter--eating and sleeping in the fields and in the stables. He must take his place as the leader of his warriors and his people.”

Gilbert opened his mouth to speak, but the priest rolled on.

“‘Tis true that the title of earl was stripped from your great-grandsire all those years ago. But in the eyes of these people and every nobleman in the Highlands, William is now the true earl of Ross. He is their chieftain. He is the laird.” Father Francis laid a gnarled hand on Gilbert’s wrist. “And as such, he is responsible for marrying properly and begetting a bairn to keep your great lineage alive.”

Gilbert again began to speak, but Father Francis raised a hand to him and gestured toward the mantel above the fireplace and the simple sketch there on a wooden board. A sketch of a little girl’s face.

“And I’m not even mentioning William’s failure to bring Thomas’s wee daughter, Miriam, back to her own clan folk.”

Gilbert sat back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully at the elderly priest. There was no purpose in arguing. Half of what the chaplain said was true. More than half. Still, though, there was no way that Gilbert could see his brother marrying.

Much to Gilbert’s chagrin, William openly preferred the company of the fallen women at the Three Cups Tavern to any lass who had been properly brought up. In fact, this past fall when he’d finally allowed Gilbert to drag him along to visit with the earl of Caithness’s daughter--under the pretense of a hunting party--William had said as much to the poor lass herself. Gilbert cringed at the memory of the young woman running, horrified, across the heather-covered meadow back to the arms of an indignant mother.

Gilbert and William were only two years apart in age while Thomas had been more than twelve years their senior. As the result of this age difference, the younger brothers had been inseparable as lads. And later on, when Gilbert had pursued a life in the church and William had been sent away to St. Andrew’s--and later to the household of Lord Herries--the two still had managed to remain close. They were not just brothers but friends as well. And it was as a friend and not as kin that Gilbert Ross had determined that his older brother was perfectly content with whom he’d become--despite the fact that he had been called upon to be laird. Changing him at this stage in his life would be as difficult as chiseling in stone with a willow branch.

“‘Tis up to you, Gilbert! You have the power and the influence to do a great deal more good than repairing an ancient chimney. St. Duthac’s will survive. You, however, have the ability to preserve the Ross name and, in so doing, save that undisciplined rogue you call brother at the same time.” Father Francis lowered his eyes to the open page of the ledger. “You have the insight to force him to settle into a calmer and more respectable life. To find the right lass. That’s what he needs, Gilbert. Just the right lass to calm his wild ways.”

Perhaps, Gilbert thought with a resigned smile. But pity the woman.

******

William Ross cursed out loud as the squirming, kicking banshee landed a solid punch to the small of his back. Who would have thought that fighting off an entire company of Sinclairs would be easier than controlling the woman he’d thrown over his shoulder?

The woman’s scream had brought all hell down around their ears. The moment he’d tried to drag her over the low wall, she’d dug in her heels, caterwauling as William had never heard before. For a wee thing she was...vigorous.

The riot that immediately ensued upturned carts and tore down tents. The Sinclairs were quick to pour into the alleyway, but the Ross farmers were equally quick to head them off once they knew the laird was involved.

Grimacing at the pain shooting through his lower back, William swung his sword at the advancing leader of the Sinclairs, and the sound of clashing steel rang out above the sounds of the shouting crowd.

Shoving the Sinclair warrior back into the tumultuous battle behind him, William once again tried to back over the low wall. As the Sinclair leader lunged at him again, the toothless old farmer from the market square tackled him with a vitality that William would have never thought he had in him, thumping the man’s head resoundingly on the frozen earth. The Sinclair sword clattered against the wall at William’s feet.

As the farmer sat up on the man’s chest and winked, the woman dangling over the laird’s shoulder dug her claws into William’s buttocks. He shifted her weight farther up over his shoulder and heard her gasp at the threat of dashing her head against the wall.

“We’re going out the south lane to a boat at the firth,” he shouted to the old farmer. “Keep these blackguards busy for me.”

“Aye,” the crofter shouted back before two brawlers came tumbling over him.

She was again using her fists on his buttocks and legs.

“Quit your squirming,” William growled, vaulting the wall and starting across the ditch. “Or I’ll ding you so hard, lass, you’ll think you’re back in England.”

“Let me go, you filthy brute, or I swear I’ll dig your ugly eyes out of their sockets with my own fingers.”

He started up the far embankment toward a stand of trees and the horses. “Is that not a wee bit violent for a mild and gentle English damsel? Nay, let me think on this again. You’ll take my eyes out so you can put them back in my face, and more to your liking. How do you sort eyes, m’lady? By color or--?”

“I’d stuff one into that gaping maw of yours if there were a chance you’d choke on it!”

“Now, there’s an arrangement I would never have thought of.” Reaching the two waiting horses, William hesitated and sheathed his sword. He could hear the brawl still going full-tilt in the market square. There was no way that the woman clawing his back was going to ride alone. Yanking free one of the tethers, he swatted the horse on the rump, sending it trotting off a ways.

Her gasp of shock at being thrown like a sack over the withers of the other horse brought a devilish smile to his lips, and he leaped onto the animal himself. As William spurred the steed into action, he took a firm hold on the cloak at the nape of her neck, keeping her draped precariously over the horse.

“I’ll kill you,” she screamed, eliciting a gruff laugh from him. “I swear I will!”

The jump over a low stone wall and down across an icy brook turned her threats into another gasping cry. Her hands clutched his boot in desperation as he looked over his shoulder. Three of the Sinclair men had broken away from the chaos and were running across the market square after them.

In a moment William and his prize had entered the scrubby pines to the south of Fearnoch, and he abruptly wheeled his charger to the west, galloping over stony, uneven ground--and away from the boat landing on the firth.

“Let me up, you blackguard,” she cried out, squirming again. “The little I had in my belly is ready to...is ready to...”

“Feel free, lass. ‘Twould be far better to get rid of it down there than in my lap.”

In a few minutes of hard riding, they broke out of a patch of trees and onto a well-traveled road that led from the town along the line of hills to the west.

The woman was now groaning at every dip and turn in the road, but William was not ready to slow their flight. When the road turned southward again toward Fearnoch Firth, the Ross laird reined his horse sharply to the right, leaving the main road and continuing west through thick groves of pine.

Looking back over his shoulder again, William could see no sign of the Sinclair men. They were on foot and heading south toward the firth. It would be far too late once they realized their mistake. The pursuers would never catch them now.

Swerving just in time to dodge a low-hanging branch, he shoved the woman’s head hard against the flank of his horse to avoid her face being whipped by the lower branches.

After a few more jumps over fallen trees, they splashed through a half-frozen stream. Slowing on the far bank, he peered down at her. She was no longer squirming or even groaning.

William eased the pressure on the back of her neck and raised her face a bit. It was a rather odd shade of green, he thought. Well, she hadn’t been exaggerating about being ill. His horse’s shoulder and forearm showed signs of the woman’s breakfast.

At the foot of a stone ledge beside the stream, the Highlander reined his horse to a stop and climbed off. The sight of her, draped like a rag across the withers of the horse, brought a frown to his face. He reached across the animal and dragged the Englishwoman toward him. His frown deepened as she drooped over his arm in a dead faint. He crouched on the gravel of the bank and cradled her in his arms.

Pushing the hood of her heavy cloak over her head, William stared at the woman. Something tightened in his chest at the sight of her pale and disheveled condition. Her black hair had for the most part escaped its braid and now was lying in a tantalizing array around a perfectly formed face. Her eyes were half closed and her full lips were parted, her breaths unsteady. Even in her tousled condition--nay, perhaps because of it--William knew that she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

Shaking off such thoughts with a snort, he pulled at the tie that bound the cloak at her throat. With little help the outer garment dropped away, revealing the careful embroidery work in the soft gray wool of her dress. A pulse fluttered at the base of her ivory throat, and William’s gaze swept downward over womanly curves not even her demure dress could hide. He looked away at the gurgling stream, feeling a sudden ache in his loins at the sight of a woman so beautiful...and so vulnerable.

“Easy does it, Will,” he murmured to himself. “This is not the lass for you.”

When he looked back at her a trice later, her eyes were just beginning to focus. The violet blue orbs gazed up into his face without recognition for a long moment, and then suddenly narrowed. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he quickly subdued it and looked away from her face. Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he stood her up, gently leading her to the edge of the stream.

“I can see you’re not much for riding.”

“I hate you!” Her voice was a mere whisper.

“Nay, you do not.” Seating her on the ground by the running water, William dipped his hand in the icy water and wiped her chin, the silky softness of her cheeks and brow. “You are grateful to me. For saving your life. For rescuing you from those rascals.”