The Firebrand (10 page)

“You look like you’ve swallowed a bone, lass!” the laird shouted, his laughter booming out across the Great Hall. “Mistress, don’t look at me as if I’m the first pirate you’ve encountered in your life.”

Adrianne lowered the food to her plate and looked about her at the faces of those sitting at the table. The rest who had gathered in the Hall for the meal sat looking on in amused silence, waiting for her answer. She glanced at the empty place to her right—the seat saved for Wyntoun should he come ashore in time to join them. She wished he’d given her some type of warning.

Pirates! Nursery tales of mist-dwelling thieves who waylaid innocent travelers ran through her mind. Half-remembered stories of Moorish cutthroats who roamed the Barbary Coast, pillaging and looting, came to mind. Even the names used to strike fear into the hearts of children along the western sea—names like Bloody Hugh Campbell and Mad Alex Macpherson—came back to her, raising gooseflesh on her arms and neck even now. And there were more recent tales that she’d heard on Barra. But this was no time to think of them. She shook her head.

“Nay, m’lord, you
are
the first pirate I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

This time the laird’s loud laughter was echoed by the rest of the occupants of the Hall. Adrianne forced a smile and glanced in the direction of Mara, Lord Alexander’s tiny, middle-aged wife. Though the woman’s pale face was barely visible above the thick mantle of fur that she wore, what Adrianne could see told her that Lady Mara did not share her husband’s amusement.

“Well, lass, you’re wrong in that, as well,” the laird boomed.

Adrianne focused her attention on the man as he wiped away the tears of laughter that were now streaming down his face.

“I don’t know why you should say that, sir,” she announced, perhaps more strongly than she should have, considering her position as a guest. “I assure you I have
never
met another pirate until today.”

Again the Hall erupted with laughter.

“And how did you get here, lassie?”

“M’lord, you are assuredly teasing me, now. You’re well aware how I came to Duart Castle.” Adrianne pushed the trencher of food away from her and faced the laird. “I was brought here on one of your ships. A man named Alan MacNeil is the shipmaster.”

“Aye, a good man, to be sure. And who else?”

“There were a number of sailors who rowed me ashore...”

“Whose ship was it, lass?” The laird cut in over the chuckling mirth of the crowd. “Who was entrusted with bringing you back from Barra?”

The merriment of the group died for a moment as Adrianne found the heat rising in her face at her inability to understand the laird.

“Why, your son. Sir Wyntoun brought me here, m’lord.”

The laird turned to the Hall, banging his huge fist on the table as he roared out with laughter. “And the lass thinks the Blade of Barra is no pirate!”

The silent monk fixed his steely gaze on the dais where John Stewart, the earl of Athol, sat holding his wife’s hand.

Although she still did not show it, everyone knew that Catherine was carrying the earl’s child. Here within the stout walls of Balvenie Castle, surrounded with her new family and people, the woman was the very picture of security and happiness. So unlike the days that she and her sisters had been scurrying to flee their home—and in so doing, making a farce of hiding the Treasure of Tiberius.

And what had she or
any
of her family done to deserve the great trust that had been bestowed upon them so long ago? He turned his head to conceal his disgust.

Beside him, the fat fool Brother Bartholomew continued to chatter on incessantly. The other three monks sitting with them were listening with varying degrees of interest, stuffing themselves with food at the earl’s table. As the pitcher of ale passed down the table, he looked back at the dais where the Percy bitch was gazing dreamily into her new protector’s eyes.

By God, he hated her...and the other two sisters, as well!

Bartholomew’s grating voice broke into his reverie. “So, Benedict, I understand you had a most pleasant interview with the countess this day.”

“With the
earl
and the countess.” The monk snapped, correcting the portly cleric. Benedict’s piercing gaze riveted on the woman as she rose to her feet and made excuses at the head table. The bairn that she was carrying was not due until spring. If she lived so long, he thought, watching Athol escort her from the Hall.

“Aye, with the earl and the countess!” Bartholomew replied. “Balvenie’s master has not been the same since he laid eyes on our lovely Catherine. Why, when I first arrived here, the earl personally spoke with all of us...even though Mistress Catherine knew us from childhood. Why, even though I myself had taught her geography, the laird asked me the most penetrating questions.”

“Is there a point to this?” the monk snapped.

“Of course, Benedict,” the jovial cleric rolled on. “‘Twas just that you have been so close to Sir Edmund Percy and to the family, I’d imagined the earl would trust you to meet with his wife--"

“‘Tis late.” The monk placed a misshapen hand on the shoulder of the portly brother and rose to his feet. He was tall, though bent a bit from torture he had so recently endured at the hands of an ‘ally.’

“There is work that I need to see to tonight. Come, Jacob.”

As a small, wiry monk leaped up from the table, Benedict limped toward the door of the Hall. In spite of his disability, the tall cleric was almost to the door before his diminutive underling caught up to him.

“The message you received earlier,” Jacob asked under his breath. “Was it of any value?”

Benedict silenced him with a sharp look and continued past the carved oaken doorway. In a moment they were outside. Wet, feathery snow was still falling on swirling gusts of wind, brightening the darkness of the courtyard, and muffling all sounds. The monk turned toward the smaller man, grasping him by the cowl and yanking him close.

“What happens at the gatherings of the Knights of the Veil is always of value. Do you think I would risk using my connections to get the information, otherwise?”

“Nay...nay, I did not mean to...” Jacob stuttered. As Benedict eased his grip, the wiry monk tried to recover himself. “What I meant to ask was whether the message had any information of the Blade of Barra? Has the pirate secured the youngest Percy?”

The monk pulled his dark hood over his head, hiding his battered features from the wind and the snow.

“You ask too many questions, Jacob. I will tell you what you need to know.” He started across the courtyard. “But the night is still young, and our game but beginning.”

The wiry man shook his head, following. “But time is running short for me. Everyone here is waiting for Laura Percy and her husband to arrive. They are expected any day now. I just cannot remain hidden in the shadows, hoping they will not recognize me.”

The tall monk stopped, turning on the older man. “You said Laura barely glanced at you when you tried to take her from the convent on Loch Fleet.”

“Aye...” Jacob’s hands fiddled with the cord at his waist, his eyes avoiding those of his superior. “‘Tis true. I thought that...at first. But we cannot chance it. These Highlanders are savages...ruthless in protecting their own. If the new husband...this William Ross...if he gets any idea that I am the same monk that went after them...!” The man’s eyes were fearful as they scanned the snowy courtyard. There was a note of growing panic in his voice. “He was there himself...pretending to be some dying peasant. He was there...and I fear what might happen if he recognizes me.”

The tall monk paused for a moment before turning away and starting again down the yard. Jacob hurried after, keeping pace.

“We must do something, Benedict. Send me away. Find some excuse for me to go. I can come back again when they’ve gone from Balvenie.”

“‘Tis too soon after our arrival,” the monk growled. “‘Twill raise their suspicions. You will remain.”

“But I cannot!” Jacob whined. “If I am recognized…if they decide to torture me to get answers…I do not know how strong I can be. Such a course puts all in jeopardy. It could be fatal for you, as well.”

“You have lost interest in our sacred cause.” Benedict stopped again, his voice was low, like the sound of a dog before it attacks.

Jacob faltered, squinting into the darkness of the monk’s eyes.

“Nay...I have not,” he replied quickly, his words tumbling out. “I only ask that you send me away for a short time...for the good of our cause. I only say that I will be more useful alive than dead at the hands of one of these filthy Highlanders.”

In the deep shadow of his hood, Benedict’s face was a mask. The two stood in silence for half an eternity, the snow and darkness around them like a shroud. A broken, gnarled hand extended from the tall monk’s sleeve, taking hold of Jacob’s shoulder. Clearly, it was all the old monk could do to stop himself from recoiling from his master’s touch.

“Of course, you are correct in your reasoning, Jacob. And it has just occurred to me how we can put an end to your dilemma and still push forward our plans. Come,” he rasped thickly. “Come with me now, and we shall...we shall correct this problem.”

***

The roar of laughter in the Hall was deafening, and it took Adrianne a few long moments before the meaning of the laird’s words sank in. She glanced at Wyntoun’s empty seat and then stared at the weave of the tartan beneath the trencher of food before her.

The Blade of Barra! It was a name she knew very well.

During her five months of living among the people of Barra, there seemed to have been so many stories told, over and over, about the islanders’ beloved pirate. Everyone, it seemed, had a tale to tell about him. Everyone had been eager to share, telling their story with gratitude shining in their faces as they told of how this pirate called Blade had bettered their lives.

Some of the tales, Adrianne was quite sure, had been pure invention, the product of those long winter nights during the stretch of seemingly endless winter. Tales of the pirate singlehandedly conquering vast fleets of Englishmen and Danes, of killing sea serpents with only the broken blade of a dirk, of sailing to China just to bring a mysterious medicine home for a fisherman’s ailing bairn. Adrianne had simply attributed the tales to the separation of this rugged folk from the mainland. These stories simply sprang from the needs of these islanders to create imaginary heroes and to honor them.

Her disbelief was also based on the fact that, in all the time she had been on the island, there had never been any sign of the Blade of Barra himself. Even when she’d asked out of curiosity who the pirate was, she had gotten no answer. She had always assumed he was a member of the MacNeil clan, if he existed, at all. There certainly had been no hint at any time that the renowned pirate hero was the islanders’ young master. But of course, she realized belatedly, Wyntoun MacLean’s mother had been a MacNeil.

As Adrianne reached for her cup, those in the Hall continued to revel at her discomfort.

“That is
quite
enough!”

Lady Mara’s words, spoken quietly, had an immediate effect in the Hall. Silence reigned for a long moment, until Lord Alexander cleared his throat and everyone at the long tables went about their business of eating their meal.

Adrianne glanced gratefully in the direction of Mara and found the older woman in a hushed conversation with the laird. Although she couldn’t hear the words, the scolding that the laird was getting from his diminutive wife was obvious. Mara continued to whisper and Alexander continued to shake his head in agreement. Then, to Adrianne’s great amusement, the white-haired giant simply stopped his wife’s lecture with a sound kiss on the mouth.

Mara, her red hair touched with wisps of gray, had a complexion the color of lilies. Now, however, her nearly translucent skin took on a lively, fiery hue. Her pale blue eyes spit flames, as well, and she rose sharply.

“Oh...Alexander!” Mara said as her husband chuckled heartily.

“Yes, my love? You were saying?”

“Oh...you are the devil!”

As the laird laughed, Mara pulled the fur mantle tighter around her throat and turned to Adrianne.

“Come with me! Sometimes the company here--” she arched a thin eyebrow in her husband’s direction-- “is not fit for civilized people!”

Though Adrianne had always been one to resist authority, at this moment she had no problem with obeying. She rose to her feet and, receiving a wink from the smiling Highland chief, quietly followed Mara and her waiting women from the Great Hall.

When Adrianne had arrived that morning, all she had seen of the castle was the Great Hall and the circular stairwell that had led to her room on the second floor of the west wing. There, she had been surprised to find a tub being prepared for a bath. Once she had bathed, Adrianne had changed into a clean dress of midnight blue, styled after the latest French designs. The handmaid named Makyn, who had remained to wait on her, told Adrianne that the dress had been brought to her at Lady Mara’s direction. And as she finished dressing, Adrianne had been delighted to have the letters from her mother and her sisters delivered to her chamber door.

The letter from Catherine, with the news of her marriage and the bairn that she was expecting in the spring, and of the school that she was opening shortly thereafter. And then Laura, the ever careful planner. Even from her letter, Adrianne could tell Laura had fallen desperately in love with a man so different from herself. The irony was delightful.

Adrianne had then pored over Nichola’s letter, obviously written months earlier, before any of the daughters had left Yorkshire. The same cryptic advice about protecting the map and the Treasure of Tiberius.

Now, following Lady Mara, Adrianne pulled herself out of her thoughts of family and secret treasure. The diminutive woman led her to a door that opened into a large antechamber to the laird’s apartment. From the looks of things, Adrianne surmised that this was where the older woman spent a great deal of her time.