Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

16

THE LIVES WE HAVE CHOSEN

NESSA SANK DOWN into the hot water with a deep sigh, her eyes fluttering shut. It had been years since she’d had such a bath.

Her earlier wish had come true.

Servants had brought up pails of hot water to her chamber and filled the iron tub by the hearth. One of the lasses had then added a little rose oil to the steaming water. The sweet scent now wrapped itself around Nessa, soothing her senses.

She hadn’t expected to lodge inside the castle itself, yet Fyfa had insisted.

Hume had sent a man down to collect Honey from the inn. The garron was now stabled within the castle.

Outdoors, night had settled over Stirling. Fyfa and Hume had gone off to speak to the governor of Stirling—William Oliphant—of the impending siege, leaving Nessa to the solitude of her bed-chamber.

A solitude that Nessa welcomed.

Sinking up to her chin in the hot water, she closed her eyes. She needed to wash her hair, yet she couldn’t summon the will. It had been a long day, and her conversation with Fyfa had exhausted her. The look in her sister’s eyes, when Nessa had revealed that she hadn’t used witching to seduce Hugh de Burgh, still lingered—still stung.

Nessa’s belly clenched. She hated the English as much as Fyfa did, yet she’d been in closer contact with them than her sister had. Fyfa thought she should despise Hugh, should have found it easy to manipulate and trick him.

But she hadn’t.

Nessa murmured an oath under her breath. Bleeding-heart. She needed to harden herself toward Hugh before meeting him again, or she’d be done for.

Whenever she thought about the task that awaited her, queasiness stole over her. Even the steaming bath couldn’t soothe the trepidation that writhed within her. She didn’t want to go before him again. Although she planned to do so armed with her witch-will, she dreaded locking gazes once more with her former lover.

Hugh would likely remember little of his last evening with her, yet he’d know he’d been tricked.

Nessa’s eyes flickered open. She took in the protective stone walls of her chamber and suddenly felt loath to leave Stirling. She was safe here within this castle, surrounded by her countrymen. She didn’t want to live amongst the English.

Jaw tensing, Nessa reminded herself that the folk residing within this castle were no safer than she was. War was coming to Stirling. She had to do this. She couldn’t let the Guardians, or Scotland, down.

“I won’t fail ye,” she whispered to the silent chamber, before releasing a deep sigh and sinking deeper into the tub.

Nessa had been at Stirling Castle for just two days. She couldn’t risk delaying her departure, despite that the weariness of the journey south still lingered. She’d spent most of her time in Stirling catching up on sleep and resting her exhausted body.

The evening before her departure, she took a walk with Fyfa. She would set off at first light the following dawn, riding east to hopefully intercept the English army that now advanced toward them. But before Nessa did, she wished to spend time with her sister.

The two women circled the garden, their boots crunching on the fine pebbles before they halted in front of the statue at the heart of the space. Delicately trimmed hedges, herbs, and trellises of flowers surrounded them, and a large stone kelpie reared up, head thrown back, mane blowing in the wind.

“That’s quite a statue,” Nessa murmured, awed as she stared up at the kelpie’s wild face.

“Aye,” Fyfa murmured. “Hume’s grandfather sculpted it.”

Something in Fyfa’s tone made Nessa glance her way. Fyfa was gazing up at the statue, her usually impish face tense.

Dusk was approaching, and this would likely be their last walk together for a long while. Around them, sounds of industry drifted across the fortress: the ring of iron against stone and the shouts of men as they shored up the castle’s defenses.

Hume had spread word that the English were on their way, and Stirling was readying itself for their arrival.

Nessa’s breathing slowed as she realized she might not see Fyfa again for years. A certainty deep in the marrow of her bones told her that both their lives would be very different the next time they met.

“Hume seems a good man,” Nessa said when the silence stretched out between them. “Although things appear a little … strained … between ye.”

Fyfa’s face tensed as she tore her attention from the kelpie and focused upon Nessa.

Watching her sister, Nessa waited for Fyfa to deny her observation. She’d dined with the couple twice now and had observed the brittle formality between them. Fyfa was usually so carefree. Nessa had missed her laughter over the years. But there was no laughter when Hume was in the room, not even a knowing smile.

The couple were oddly polite and distant with each other and avoided each other’s gazes most of the time.

“Things have been this way for a while now,” Fyfa murmured. She favored Nessa with a half-smile then, although the expression didn’t reach her eyes. They were unusually veiled. “Hume and I” —she broke off there as if searching for the right words— “we were never really suited … I wed him to further our cause, and I think that … deep down … he’s always known my heart isn’t in our marriage. He’s even grown a bit suspicious of me of late.”

Nessa tensed. “He doesn’t suspect who ye really are, does he?”

Fyfa drew in a slow breath before answering. “I hope not … I keep my use of the craft confined to a disused storeroom under the kitchens and have been careful over the years.”

Nessa’s gaze remained upon her sister’s face. She’d always thought Fyfa the most resilient of the three of them in many ways. She had an irrepressible side to her, a mischievousness that had been ideally suited to the task the High Bandruì had charged her with.

But a little of her fire seemed dimmed this afternoon as the pair stood together in the knot garden.

Nessa sensed there was far more to Fyfa’s marriage to Hume Comyn than she was letting on. The tension between them, the distrust on the man’s face whenever he glanced his wife’s way, had a depth to it.

“It’s not easy sometimes,” Nessa said after a pause. “Pretending to be someone ye are not … is it?”

Fyfa gazed back at her, and Nessa sensed her struggle. She fought between her unwavering loyalty to the Guardians and the situation she now found herself in.

“Ye can admit it, ye know?” Nessa continued softly. “It doesn’t diminish ye to tell me that the lives we have chosen carry sacrifice with them.”

Fyfa drew in another breath and glanced away, her shoulders tensing. “Aye,” she murmured. “Sometimes … I look at Hume, and I feel … sad. For him. For me.”

Fyfa’s voice trailed off there, and both women lapsed into silence.

A moment later, however, Fyfa rallied. Her jaw firmed, and her shoulders drew back, as her chin lifted, and she turned to meet Nessa’s gaze once more. “But enough of that … I’ve done what was necessary … as have ye.”

Nessa favored Fyfa with a tight smile. “Aye … and let us see how much further I can take things.”

“Just rely on yer witching, Nessa,” Fyfa replied. “When ye approach the English camp, don’t try to use clever words or lies to gain entrance … use the craft.” She paused then, her blue eyes hardening. “And when ye stand before that English knight once more, ye will need to wield a strong charm if he is to ever trust ye again.”

Nessa snorted. “Aye.”

“Do ye have one prepared?”

“I’ve been weaving a charm into my cairn stone … I was hoping—”

Fyfa made an impatient noise in the back of her throat before stepping forward and linking her arm through Nessa’s. She then steered her away from the kelpie statue and back toward the archway leading from the garden.

“Hoping isn’t good enough. If ye don’t want to be skewered on an English blade, ye need to be canny. We shall go down to my storeroom right now. I think ye are in desperate need of some of my candle witching.”