Four

 

“Stop standing about. There’s work to be done, or didna yer McBoyd mother teach ye anything about how a house is run?”

A McLeren woman sneered at her before shoving a large wooden tray at her. The retainers had finished eating, and the long tables were covered with dirty dishes now. The tray was scarred and had an uneven rim, but it was still useful for gathering up things that needed washing. Shannon gripped the edge and pushed the opposite side against her hip in a practiced motion. She was already swiping abandoned bowls off the table before the woman turned away from her, but Shannon still witnessed the smug look that appeared on the woman’s face.

Well, that was to be expected.

She continued clearing one of the long tables, the cold remains left in the bowls drawing a long rumble from her empty belly. There was still stew simmering over the fire, but the McLeren women standing near it didn’t offer her any welcome to join them.

Quite the opposite. They sent her harsh glares, and a few nodded with approval to see her acting as their maid. Shannon gave them her back when she reached the end of the table and began to work her way along the other side of it. She felt them watching her but didn’t concern herself. She knew how to lend a hand, and that was for certain. Her father had never allowed her to be the pampered, highborn woman of the house. For the moment, she was grateful for that fact. She would not be sniveling because no one made her welcome. It was better than the worst that might have happened, considering the circumstances. She doubted her father would have treated Torin’s sister so well if he had her in his possession.

That was a sad fact. Her father’s face came to mind, but she only saw him with a scowl, which was a lament, to recall her sire only in a sour mood. A soft sigh passed her lips for the happiness that she had never known from him. She doubted she would ever see him again.

She stacked the bowls with a practiced hand, keeping the tray balanced and her feet from stepping on her hem. She kept two of the fuller bowls toward the center of her tray and made sure not to pile anything on top of what would serve as her supper. There were crusts of bread left on the table too. Most of it crumbled, but again, it would be more to her taste than begging at the hearth.

She followed her instincts toward the back of the cooking area and found a long washroom. The sound of moving water filled her ears while she took careful steps down a long stone staircase that took her to the ground level. She stood at the back of the main tower, where the water moved in a current toward the river that ran beneath the bridge they’d ridden across and on past the village.

Castles needed a water supply in case of siege. Donan Tower had plenty, with the loch surrounding it on three sides. It made for simple cleaning. The room she’d stepped down into was long and had sinks built along one wall with small rounded stones and mortar. She could hear the waterwheel turning on the other side of the wall, and see the glitter of the moonlight off the water of the loch through large windows that were set into the wall. Water was flowing through the sinks and on to places cut away in the wall that allowed it back outside. She could hear it splashing on the surface of the loch when it returned. The sinks sat at an angle to allow that and to make sure that muck did not collect. The room didn’t smell of mold, telling her that Donan Tower had a good head of house.

There was more than one set of sinks as well. She walked the length of the room, impressed by how long it was. At least the length of two of the large trestle tables sitting in the hall. There were four sets of sinks, which meant four waterwheels. The room was full of the sound of water moving, and there was a chill that tickled her nose, but the cleanliness of it impressed her further. It was clear that food was kept only at one set of sinks, which left the others for laundry.

Very modern indeed.

For the moment the room was deserted, and it offered her the first true privacy she’d known since being awoken by Gerty. She suddenly realized how badly she ached. It felt as though every muscle was bruised or strained. One ankle hurt more than the other and felt like it was swollen inside her shoe. Her belly was in a knot so tight, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to eat or retch.

She turned in a circle and returned to the sinks where the dishes were cleaned. Picking up one of the bowls, she didn’t linger over the meal but ate it quickly before any of the McLeren women appeared to order her to another task. Even cold, it was pleasant. Yet her belly gave a slight heave when it hit, making her slow down.

The sound of the water was soothing, but it made her feel every bit of grime that clung to her skin. There would be a bathing house somewhere too, but she doubted that it would be empty, with so many retainers newly returned. She likely had that fact to thank for her current privacy. If the bath house was full, most of the maids would be there lending a hand.

But there was water and soap here. Opening her oversleeves, she unhooked the cuffs of her chemise and pushed them high above her elbows. The soap was kept in a pottery dish near the sink. It was soft and easy to dig up with her fingers. Which was better for cleaning dishes than boiling that same soap until it might set into bars.

She shivered at the first touch of the water. Her skin rippled with the chill, but gaining relief from feeling soiled was far more pressing. She plunged her arms into the water and cupped her hands to bring it toward her face. The bruise from her father’s hand stung, but once the first touch of cold water passed, all that remained was a sense of freshness.

She scrubbed every inch of skin that she might, casting quick looks behind her at the stairs, but no one appeared. That allowed her to open her gown and use a small cloth to clean her neck and chest. She longed for a true bath but knew that she wouldn’t be gaining such a luxury anytime soon.

At least she wasn’t hungry. Returning to the tray, she ate more before beginning to scrape the leftover food into a large bowl that stood near the sink. Waste brought need. Even the scraps might be used to fatten the fish on the loch and keep them returning to a place that would be easy to catch them from.

She worked quickly because her back ached. Her face felt clean, though, and she kept her mind on that. Her privacy ended as the other women appeared with trays full of more dishes to do. They promptly left them piled near the sink with little smirks while they went back up into the hall without tending to any of the chores.

They most likely thought it fitting to use her like a slave. In truth, that word fit all too well. Her spirits sank lower, until even the knowledge that she knew what she was about failed to cheer her. She felt the bite of the cold water more, and the burning along her back and hips became nearly intolerable.

She finished with a soft hiss and turned her back gladly on the sinks. The wash house was still empty, but she didn’t wonder why. Even with the water filling the room, she knew full well what was happening up in the hall. She could see the light shimmering around the doorway.

There would be a celebration happening now. Whisky, strong cider, and ale, most likely, being passed about in honor of the return of their men. The girls would take to dancing, while merriment filled the hall.

She had no taste for it. Loneliness wrapped around her so tightly, she ached even more. But she tossed her head and began searching the washroom for other doorways that would take her up to the main floor of the tower. She didn’t want to appear in the back of the hall so that her captors might raise a toast to their captive as well.

She was quite sure they would not need her to do that.

She found another set of stairs and climbed them. The sound of the water died, and she did indeed hear the music floating down the hallway from the hall, but the corridor was dim due to its thick stone wall. It was also cold. The wind whipped the bottom of her gown because all the window shutters remained open to draw the smoke away from the hall hearths. Lanterns hung every twenty paces, telling her that the shutters normally remained open and that the corridor was often used after supper. Otherwise the candles in the lanterns would not be wasted. They were costly lanterns too, made of tin folded into cylinders that had cuts to allow the light out. Open candles might have blown out or posed a fire danger with the breeze. It was quite clever planning, placing the tower so that the night wind blew through it, to keep the smoke from collecting in the rooms. She kept going, because there was one thing she had learned from her father, and that was that there were often storage rooms on the same floor as the great hall.

She rounded a corner and stopped at the open windows. The moonlight was magnificent on the surface of the loch. It rippled with the night breeze, all cast in silver moonshine. The soft music filtered to her ears, making it impossible to ignore the beauty laid out before her.

A splash drew her attention, and she leaned into the window. Her jaw dropped slightly as a man rose from the silvery water. He climbed up onto one of the rounded rocks that rose above the surface of the loch. There was no hint of strain from him as he climbed confidently up the side of the smooth boulder like a hero from a legend who was able to grip what appeared to be a smooth-faced stone. He gained the top of it with a few long motions of his limbs. He stood there, completely bare, with nothing but water streaming down his bare flesh.

She should have looked away.

But she didn’t.

Her teeth went into her lower lip as she moved closer to the wall. Her hands rested on the smooth stones lining the window opening, but the chill beneath her palms was quite welcome. Somehow her blood was moving quickly through her veins, her heart beating at a faster tempo. Her gaze moved over him, fascinated by his body, huge and set with wide shoulders. His hair lay across those shoulders in curling tendrils that still drained water. It slithered down over the hard ridges of muscle that coated his back, like liquid silver in the moonlight. He lifted his head, tilting his chin toward the moon, and drew a gasp from her lips.

He was pure magnificence. The embodiment of legend and lore such as no ballad could ever convey.

All her life she had heard tales of Highlanders and how strong they were. This man was the living proof of those stories. A shiver rippled along her skin, and she refused to blink, else he dissipate like a spirit. His shoulders tapered down to a trim waist and a pair of buttocks that were tight. His legs were thick and cut with more ridges of muscle that moved down past his knees and over his calves to his feet.

She wanted to see all of him.

It was a shocking idea, but one that she could not lie about. It burned through every lesson on propriety and correctness that had ever been preached to her. Suddenly it felt as though she had to see him from the front. She would have sworn that she needed to know what the rest of him looked like, if only to have it confirmed that he was more attractive than any mortal man might be.

As if he sensed her thoughts, he turned his head and looked back toward the tower. His jaw was set in a firm position that seemed to portray pride. He stood entirely still, only a few last trickles of water sliding across his firm body. The loch continued to ripple and gently slap against the rock he stood on. His hands opened, displaying large palms, and he slowly rotated to face her.

The breath froze in her chest, but not because it was cold. Her body was warm and hot inside, completely the opposite of the cold stone her hands rested on. The chill in the night air cooled the flush on her face. Blood surged through her body, warming every inch of her, right down to her smallest toes. She heard her heart working and noticed the time between each beat.

It was Torin McLeren, her captor, but knowing that didn’t make her turn away. There was a part of her that enjoyed having the man at a disadvantage. But more of her simply enjoyed the sight of him.

He had truly looked a legend, rising from the loch in the dark of the night as the church warned.

Yet she felt no fear, not even hesitation. Part of her even contemplated climbing through the window to join him on his stone throne. The reason was simple; she longed to touch him. Was he as cold as the loch or warm like a mortal? She yearned to know.

There were other men in the water, but her attention was captivated by the one standing on the boulder. He drew her gaze to him, and there was none left for the others who bathed near him.

“Laird, Lindsey’s on the road. Coming up the bridge now.”

The shout came from the curtain wall. Shannon felt her eyes widen, and she pushed away from the window with a strength that sent her tumbling back across the corridor to avoid being caught. The magic of the moment shattered, leaving her gasping because she’d somehow forgotten to draw in enough breath. She had been absolutely fixated on him, like they had been enclosed in a moment of intimacy.

Shame bit into her, threatening to choke her. But the worst torment was the way her memory recalled in vivid detail what Torin looked like. She leaned against the wall, too shocked by her need to stare at him to stand up straight. Never once had she behaved so wantonly, even if she had to admit to thinking about it from time to time. Thinking and looking—staring really—were two different things entirely.

She far preferred the looking…

Her cheeks heated, but how could they not? He was magnificent.

She closed her eyes and moaned softly. Now things were even worse, and she hadn’t thought such might be possible. She shivered again, the memory tormenting her with how much she had enjoyed looking at his bare form.

How much she had wanted to touch him… and yet she did know what the man felt like pressed against her.

With a gasp, she forced her sagging body to straighten. Her circumstances were bad enough. If the only thing she might control were her own thoughts, she was not going to allow them to run wild. Not when they might lead her toward an even worse fate that involved her virtue being forfeited to her captor. It was one thing to suffer being taken against her will, but her heated thoughts were going to make her a willing participant before much longer.

She would not do such. Yet her body was growing too tired to resist its impulses. It was always easier to give in when you had gone too many hours without rest. The tension of the day was gnawing away at her reserves. She cast a look about, seeking refuge from the McLeren. All she needed was some time to rest and regain her strength. For the moment, no one seemed to care where she was, and that was a kindness of fate that she intended to make the most of.

Moving along the corridor, she sought out any deserted workroom that might serve as good shelter for the night. Several workrooms lay down the next corridor. These rooms faced the east and would catch the morning sunlight well. In spite of the bulk of winter being behind them, one of the rooms was still half full of raw wool. She sniffed at the air and found it fresh enough. The wool had been washed before being stored. Taking one of the small lanterns from where it hung in the corridor, she carried it farther into the room. Lifting it high, she allowed the light to illuminate what was there. Thick cloaks hung from pegs on the walls, yet another sign of the McLeren’s wealth. Garments such as these were costly, and yet they remained in the workroom for any maid who discovered herself chilly while working the spinning wheels that sat near the windows. The wooden shutters were closed now, but she could still hear the wind whistling on the other side of them. But they did not rattle, telling her that they were in good repair.

Reaching for one of the cloaks, she swung it around her shoulders. A shiver shook her as her body anticipated being warm. Returning to the doorway, she moved into the hallway to replace the lantern. Keeping it would have told anyone looking for her where she had gone, and Shannon discovered it satisfying to know that she had slipped away. Maybe that was only an illusion, because she was still within the tower walls, but it was a comfort, and one that she would hug tightly to her chest.

The cloak began to cut the chill of the night quickly. But with the relief of being warm, her body began to fail her. The sleepless nights and long days of fighting her way through icy mud took their toll. With her belly full, there was nothing to keep her eyelids from drooping. Reaching for the second cloak, she laid it across some of the wool waiting to be carded. It made a fine-enough pallet, maybe even softer than the barley chaff one she had used back in her father’s fortress. Lying down on the cloak, she shook out the first one on top of her. Curling the edges of the bottom one up and on top of her, it made for a very pleasant bed.

It would not have mattered if it were uncomfortable or not. She doubted anything short of true pain would have kept her eyes open. While the mind was willing, her body demanded rest. She would not return to the hall and appeal to her captors for a bed to rest in. She wasn’t helpless. She’d see to her own needs by using her wits. There was always a way to endure.

Always.

***

Connor Lindsey was pure Scots. Torin enjoyed the way the man didn’t let the night stop him from going where he was needed. The neighboring laird paused as the gate was hoisted to allow him entrance, but his stallion danced in a circle while the heavy gate was moving upward. The moment it was high enough, he lay down across the neck of the beast and charged forward, with his retainers on his heels, not waiting for it to be high enough for him to remain sitting upright in the saddle.

Aye, that was a man of action right enough.

“Torin, ye sorry excuse for a friend! What’s this I hear about ye having fun and no’ waiting for me to share it with ye?”

Connor was off his horse and up the stairs in the same amount of time that it took for him to speak.

“The king is dead. Murdered.”

His friend sobered instantly, all traces of teasing leaving his face. His features may have been fair, with light hair and eyes the same color as the loch when the sun shone on it, but there was nothing light about the look that took control of the man. Torin took the last step and stood on even footing with him.

“I’d hoped that rumor would play out to be false.”

“White Hill is still smoldering.”

Connor cursed. “Then it’s true, and the McBoyd are plotting with that traitor Atholl.”

There was distaste in the man’s tone, the same bitterness that Torin had tasted throughout the journey home. Behind Connor, his retainers’ expressions tightened. They wore different colors than his own men did, but at the moment they were all Scotsmen. Something that would cease to be, if they allowed Atholl to tear the country apart for his own gain.

“Come, my friend, we’ve matters to discuss.”

Connor Lindsey grunted and followed him into the tower. The hearth fire was burning low, but a flick of his fingers sent the women to building it back up. The hall was still full, a sense of joy in the air, but the conversation dwindled away until the pop and crackle from the fire became dominant. Connor sat down at the high table along with his captains while Torin did the same.

It was time to talk strategy.