The Night Side (9 page)

“A most sound strategy,” Colin replied, following Frances closely, though she clearly was in no danger of fainting or hurling herself into his arms now that she had regained her poise.

Colin carefully didn’t mention his belief that it hadn’t been an intruder who had pushed her down the stairs and closed the dungeon door upon her. There had been no chance of anyone slipping into the castle with MacJannet and his unshakeable companion, George, keeping watch at the privies. Brave as she was, Frances needed a while to fully recover her calm before discovering that they likely had a traitor living in their midst. And that this someone was willing to commit acts of malicious mischief, and perhaps worse, to force the keep’s mistress into surrendering her castle to the wrong man—or keeping it for herself. It was rare that females turned to violent crime, but when they did, it was Colin’s experience that they were proficient. He had to wonder which of Frances’s relatives was trying to hurt her.

Go fetch me water from the desert,
And blood from out the stone;
Go fetch me milk from a fair maid’s breast
That a young man hath never known.

—
“The Unquiet Grave”

Frances found it difficult to concentrate on her weaving. Her continuing absentmindedness at the loom was understandable to the other ladies, given her recent ordeal in the dungeon. They did not have the entire story, Colin having only relayed that she’d had a tumble down the stairs while searching for a whisky cache her father was thought to have hidden somewhere in the castle. However, it was not her aborted search for the spectral hound, nor even her bruised ribs rubbing against the uncomfortable oak straw chair, that plagued her thoughts that afternoon. Rather it was the lingering, strange sensations that being held in Colin’s arms had provoked.

Admittedly, her sojourn there had been brief, but it was proving highly memorable. No other embrace that she could recall had so affected her.

Of course, this strong reaction to Colin was partly appreciation, as she was naturally grateful for being rescued so promptly from the horrid dungeon. But something about that particular moment of embrace
had made her heart a little wild. Before he touched her she had not been tumultuous of mind and disturbed in spirit. But her thudding pulse, even now as she sat at rest in front of her loom, continued to be uneasy. There were fine tremors in her hands, and small yet not unpleasant shivers occasionally traversed the length of her body. She knew what this was symptomatic of, and it shocked her to consider that she might be subject to the traditional female follies and weaknesses when it came to a man. Though strong-willed in many ways, it seemed that she was not, after all, above being seduced by a handsome face. This called for some careful consideration.

When they were again above stairs and the time had come for them to separate so she might bathe her hands and face, it had taken all her will not to beg Colin to stay with her. In that moment, she had not been thinking reasonably, or even modestly. Her dignity and position as lady of the castle were forgotten in her new desire. All she had known was that she wanted Colin by her side. Had he not turned away sharply outside her chamber door, she probably would have spoken her thoughts aloud. And then there might have been calamitous consequences either to her dignity or to her honor. She still could not say which would have been worse.

Frances scowled as the sound of Tearlach’s curses floated up from the privy, reminding her of the danger that still stalked them. She had to collect herself and concentrate on serious matters. Not that finding their prankish intruder wasn’t important, but it was not her most important task. Her reason had become so tainted that it had led her to do a very careless thing in hopes of winning Colin’s regard. It was almost as
though she were having a grand passion for this man and trying to prove herself worthy of respect by being heedless and brave so he wouldn’t think her milklivered. This was important to him, she sensed. But why should that matter to her? He was but a stranger: perspicacious, and even handsome, it was true; still, he was a completely unknown entity. He might have any manner of hidden flaws to his nature. Eyes in which one might drown, or smiling lips that might hold wondrous kisses were not sufficient recommendations to a lady in her position.

And if he seemed the answer to the terrible loneliness that had been growing in her?

No, she had to be sensible. He might, beneath his fine clothes, be like her father: an immoral man, one whose words to women were like honey but whose heart was steeped in basest, preternatural lust. It seemed unlikely that Colin was such a one, but how was she to know? Lust could do much mischief. Look at her father and how he had shamed her mother with his lovers!

And what did lust do to women? It made them into sirens, then whores and Furies. It was horrifying to think that such a base emotion might even now be coursing through her body, an unwanted inheritance from her father carried in her blood like disease. Could falling in love with this stranger mean that her integrity was injured or even completely lost?

She closed her eyes on the thought and tried to deny it, but Colin’s image haunted her, refusing to be relegated back into his proper place. Frances opened her eyes and sighed. She redoubled her stern lecture and thought moral thoughts.

Yes, Colin was tall and seemed strong, but it could
be that, like her uncle in France, at night he put aside his false hair onto a wigstand, his wooden teeth into a box. His codpiece and padded coat could also be put out of the way and then he would appear shrunken, dismantled, perhaps even smelling like goat cheese covered in perfume.

And it could even be worse. He might be truly—eloquently and elegantly—evil. He was kin to the MacLeod. What if he were polluted by his wicked ways? That thought was frightening. The laird of the MacLeods spoke words of affection without any true sentiment. She had sensed immediately that there was no concurrence between the MacLeod’s mind and his heart’s true desires and the ones he expressed aloud to her. Dishonesty in amatory dealing might be the standard perversion of this family.

Not that Colin had said or done anything to prove he was cut of this same cloth. That was part of the problem. If he showed himself a heartless knave, it would be easy to forget him.

Her own family was peculiar this way. The men did not generally love one another. Nor did they love humanity, or even God. They seemed not to even love themselves. Yet her father had decided to go to war, so to war and death they all went, blithely leaving the women behind to cope with rapacious neighbors and winter starvation. Men were beyond comprehension.

Frances mulled this point over for a moment or two and then reexamined her new feelings with this caution in mind. Somehow, this argument of the sins of the cousin infecting his kin failed to convince her senses to see Colin as a negligible personage unworthy of trust and respect. He was not like any other man she had known.

Frances clenched her hands against their continued trembling and made an effort to smile at the hovering ladies, Eilidh and Sine, wishing they would be less inquisitive and more like the more aloof Anne Balfour.

She knew what the sisters at the convent would say about this infatuation. They would send for a leech to administer a
salvatella.
He would open her
vena amoris,
which ran down her arm to her ring finger, and let her bleed away her infatuation into a tiny bowl. This thought alone was enough to make her feel ill and swoonish. If she did not cease her worrying, her late breakfast would rejumble, and she loathed being sick to her stomach. If only there were someone to whom she could unbosom herself.

But there was no one. She was, as ever, alone. And to be wise, she must run counter to her new instincts until she could better assess Colin Mortlock and his possible threat to her heart.

She picked up her spindle.

Bah!
What a fuss over nothing. She was simply vaporish from her time in the bad air of the dungeon; this was all that ailed her. Her situation was deplorable but no worse than the day before. A meal and some rest and her body and brain would return themselves to their usual state, and she would have no more of these wild and passionate thoughts about giving herself to her new Master of the Gowff.

The important thing for her to recall was that virginity was like an oyster. The pearl could be taken but once, and therefore one had to be cautious. Even to the point of marriage. It was her unfortunate experience, learned from her mother before the sweating sickness or her broken heart had carried her off, that
even this most holy of institutions was a precarious place in which to trust one’s heart.

“Do you think it wise for me to leave the keep at this juncture?” MacJannet asked in a calm voice, which only partially masked his surprise and agitation at Colin’s order that he should leave that night.

“But of course. I’d not suggest it otherwise.”

“It seems that someone here has grown determined to gain access to Noltland and may be prepared to work some serious mischief. We might see this morning’s event as an omen,” MacJannet remarked, though there was no real hope of swaying his stubborn friend once Colin’s mind had settled on a course.

“Aye, they have gotten impatient and bold. And I fear it may be our arrival that has caused this event.” Colin drizzled some wax from the jack onto the folded parchment and pressed it closed with a seldom-used seal.

“And your first thought when confronted with this danger is that I should leave you?” MacJannet asked.

Colin smiled briefly. “No, that was not my first—or even second—thought. But ‘tis my latest one, so you must endure. Now, pay heed to my instructions, for your task is a complicated one and the timing is important. On your way south you will make a visit to the Bishop of Orkney and deliver this message into his hand. Have the bishop dispatch his own messenger to Noltland, for there will be no time for you to return with a reply.” Colin indicated the sealed parchment and MacJannet grunted. “After that you will discover where the remaining Balfour troops are billeted. Pay them any wages they are owed and persuade them—at
whatever cost—that they must return home. I shouldn’t think there would be much protest, as they have left their families behind in the North and will be anxious to see to their welfare when they understand the situation.”

“And in the event that I am bringing back people who might also have ambitions regarding the welfare of the mistress and this castle? ‘Tis not so unusual a thought for a man after all. In fact, marriage to Mistress Balfour seems a most fashionable one hereabouts.”

With the wax seal properly cooled, Colin handed the parchment to MacJannet and met his look of mild inquiry with an equally calm demeanor. “You may tell everyone who enquires that Mistress Balfour has become betrothed and has likely already been married. She requires no other suitors.”

MacJannet looked down at the missive in his hand as he digested this bit of news. “I thought the wind had shifted to that quarter. But the Bishop of Orkney?” he asked at last. “Will it serve? And what will the regent say to this marriage? She is a loyal Catholic, you know. And your cousin? For that matter, what of Mistress Balfour? You’ve not asked the lady to wed yet, have you?”

“Very little will be said by the regent on behalf of the infant queen, I should think. Mary of Guise is busy at present protecting her daughter from larger things than my marriage. My cousin MacLeod will likely be, if not happy, then at least content, that Noltland has not fallen into enemy hands. As for Mistress Balfour…No, I have not discussed this with her. There has not been an occasion yet.” Colin shrugged a bit helplessly. “One can hardly propose to a woman when
she has been locked up in a dungeon and is nursing bruised ribs.”

“You’re all but shoving your head in a noose doing this in backward order.” MacJannet shook his own head at the courtship oversight, causing Colin to smile.

“I’ve done it before, my friend.”

“Not this particular noose. And thenadays it was for the benefit of the crown and for handsome payment. What gain you now?”

“True enough observations. But I suspect that if it becomes necessary, kindly King Henry will intervene with the regent to save me from my brashness. He’d not want his chief intelligencer being put to the question by the Scots. And it is likely that Alasdair would also come to my aid, for reasons of family pride if no other. I shall do well enough.” If the lady did not refuse him.

MacJannet snorted as he tucked the parchment safely away. “King Henry would send an envoy right enough—and it would be bloody Blar-na-leine all over again. And you’d still likely be dead before he could do anything about it. As for your precious cousin—I’d be a very surprised man if he did anything for you. Come to think on it, you may have a rough wooing with your bride as well. I don’t think the lady is going to receive this news with smiles—even if you fail to mention your career to her. And if you are daft enough to attempt to explain what you do…Well, ladies do not generally understand that deception can be a good thing. Even if it prevents war.”

“
Tsk
! What a pessimist you’ve grown to be. Fear not, the bishop shall take good care of Noltland and my sacred person until you return. I know Alasdair
better than you think, and he will not interfere. As for Mistress Balfour—what wooing betwixt the Scots and English was ever easy? Or the French and English for that matter?” He smiled fleetingly. “And you forget an important fact. Women know how to shade the truth. They are taught from the cradle that sometimes there is a need to lie. It is how they survive in a world when men are their masters.”

MacJannet sighed but did not persist in making futile arguments. “And the hound?”

“I do believe we need a rat-rime, some special incantation to lure that vermin out. But you may leave the matter of playing canine pied piper to me.”

“Aye, and gladly. You are the one with a twisty mind and taste for danger.” MacJannet shook his head again. “Do I leave at once?”

“After the evening meal will be fine. I am sorry to put you out at night, but I think an unannounced departure under the cover of darkness might be some added protection for you. In any event, it has stopped raining so you shall not be too terribly wetted. And be sure to take your tooth soap. All they will offer you up here is burnt mouse heads flavored with lavender.”

MacJannet shuddered. “You are all solicitude of my well-being.”

“Nay, that I’m not. And you have been a bloody good friend to me, MacJannet, so I am sorry to do this when you are still travel-tainted with weariness.”

The Scotsman blushed at the sudden praise and began to scowl, speaking differently. “Hoots away wi’ ye. Worry about your own hide. ‘Tis as weary as my own, what with chasing hounds all night, and it’s like to be in a deal more danger.” MacJannet’s misplaced accent
returned in an instant and grew suddenly thick with his agitation.