Devil in a Kilt by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Chapter 22

It wasn’t until after sundown and a light meal of pickled herring, bread, and wine, that Linnet remembered the special herbal remedy she’d made for the Sassunach.

He’d never be soothing to look upon, but her remedies seemed to be working well, and with a lessening of the swelling and a diminishing of the redness, traces of the handsome man he’d once been were becoming visible.

His gratitude had been immediate, and he’d been presenting her with flowers, or ewers of the finest wine nigh onto every day since she’d first offered to help him.

But none of the gifts he’d showered upon her had pleased her more than when she’d come upon him two days past, bent over the outside well, carefully examining his reflection in the circle of water. Not wanting to embarrass him, she’d slipped quietly back inside the keep, but not before the pleased expression on his ravaged face had sent a warm glow spreading through her.

From behind her, the unexpected sound of clanking metal made her spin around, and she gasped in surprise at the sight of Fergus. The bandy-legged old seneschal stood before her garbed in a rusty mail shirt much too large for his scrawny bones. The much-used gear appeared more ancient than he himself.

He carried a sword in one hand, a mace in the other. Linnet doubted he had the strength to use either, but the fierce set of his jaw warned that he felt he could.

“Fergus,” she cried, “whatever are you about so armed?”

“I’m on my way to make my rounds of the walls.” He puffed out his chest as best he could under the ill-fitting hauberk. “With our laird and the Sass-, I mean Sir Marmaduke, on patrol, it is my duty to see to your safety and that of all within.”

“Thank you. I will sleep easier.” Linnet couldn’t bite back a smile. “Are there enough sentries on watch as well?”

“Aye, indeed. Nae worries, my lady.” He fixed her with a hawklike stare. “They ken what will happen if I find them away from their posts.”

“But…” Linnet weighed her words. “I’ve never seen you armed. Do you truly expect trouble?”

The old man glanced about, his sharp gaze probing the vastness of the great hall as if he thought the apparition of Edward Longshanks and his mounted knights would ride out of the shadows and fall upon them any moment.

“Nae, my lady, dinnae fear. ’Tis only” – his voice dropped to a whisper – “if the bastard Kenneth discovered your husband and Sir Marmaduke both gone, he is evil and daring enough to launch an attack.”

“And you want to be prepared to stand upon the battlements and defend the castle.”

“Aye,” he answered solemnly. “I still have a right good sword arm.”

“I’m sure you do,” Linnet said, her smile genuine for she admired his devotion and valor. Were Dundonnell faced with a siege, her sire would have taken to his bed with a generous supply of ale.

Fergus nodded respectfully. “By your leave, lady, I shall be on my way,” he said, turning to climb the stairs to the battlements.

“Wait, please, sir,” Linnet stayed him, remembering the flagon she still carried in her purse. “I’ve made an elixir for Sir Marmaduke and would like to leave it where he’ll find it when he returns. I’ve heard he has a chamber of his own. Can you tell me where it is?”

“I can, and it is a new chamber for him.” A gleam appeared in the seneschal’s eye, making him look years younger. “He’s taken your husband’s old quarters, now that our good laird sleeps elsewhere.”

Linnet thanked him, grateful the dimness of the hall shielded the blush warming her cheeks. She waited until Fergus disappeared around the first curve in the stairwell, then hastened to Duncan’s solar.

She remembered the austere room where they’d had their unpleasant altercation the night of her arrival. She’d since learned that her husband’s former bedchamber was beyond the closed door she’d noted in a corner of the solar.

Not that she would leave the flagon there. She needn’t intrude into the sanctity of her husband’s former sleeping chamber. The adjoining solar would serve as well.

A short while later, upon entering the small room, she immediately noted the changed atmosphere. That her husband no longer used the solar was apparent. The air of grim severity she’d sensed upon her first visit was gone.

Now, the room seemed warm and welcoming. A finely carved chessboard sat atop the small table, and cushions adorned the window seats and single chair. Even the colors of the wall tapestries appeared brighter, despite the grayness of the damp night darkening the tall windows.

And this time the oaken door in the far corner stood ajar.

Staring at it, an irresistible urge to see Duncan’s former bedchamber seized her, curiosity propelling her forward. She withdrew the flagon from her purse as she went, telling herself she could place it upon the bed, grasping any excuse to condone an intrusion into her husband’s privacy, and Sir Marmaduke’s.

At the door, she paused to draw a deep breath. Although convinced of the innocence of her errand, and the urgency of her need to see where Duncan had spent a goodly number of hours, her knees shook and her heart knocked against her ribs.

Then, before she could change her mind, she eased the door completely open and stepped into the dark chamber.

The room’s chill brought gooseflesh to her skin, and she rubbed her arms to warm herself. But she attributed the cold to the brisk wind rattling the window shutters and the rain pelting the tower walls.

It was unnaturally dark because of the storm, yet here, too, the Sassunach’s benevolent presence had already left its mark.

Still, something bothered her.

Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the murkiness and her gaze was drawn to the massive bed across from where she stood. It was the most magnificent bed she’d ever seen. It boasted a great embroidered canopy and heavy curtains of a sumptuous material she supposed was fustian.

Vaguely, she became aware of other furniture, equally fine and noble, but the bed called to her, not releasing her until she crossed the room and tested the thick softness of its several mattresses with her hand.

’Twas like touching a cloud.

At the thought, an image of her husband, naked and laboring atop a dark-haired woman whose face she could not see superimposed itself upon the richly embroidered coverlet. Crying out, Linnet snatched her hand from the bed. Her fingers burned and tingled, smarting as if she’d thrust her hand into a bucket of hot coals.

Anxious to leave the bedchamber, and the unholy memories it held, she wheeled about, only to cry out once more.

Directly before her, mounted above the hearth, was the painted likeness of a beautiful woman.

The one from her brief vision.

With sickening dread, and even though she hadn’t seen the woman’s face, Linnet knew the painting was of her.

Cassanda.

Her husband’s first wife.

Linnet’s breath stocked, and her chest grew painfully tight, aching as if a heavy weight pressed against her, squeezing the life from her.

With a dull thud, the little flagon slipped from her fingers and a keening wail filled the chamber, making her fear Lady Cassandra’s shade had manifested behind her – until she realized it was her own cry she’d heard.

Never had she seen a more exquisite creature. Not even the shadowy room could detract from the woman’s radiance. She was sheer perfection, her tresses expertly coifed and gleaming like black silk, her face, hauntingly beautiful.

While a moment before Linnet’s heart had almost stood still, it now lurched out of control, thumping wildly against her chest. And the breaths she’d had difficulty taking now came in deep, shaky gulps.

Lady Cassandra had been everything she was not and never could be.

If a mere painted image could exude such grace and elegance, she could only imagine the splendor of the living woman. As Linnet stared at her predecessor, a sick feeling roiled and churned in her stomach until she was sure she’d lose her supper.

Unable to resist making comparisons, she glanced from the woman’s elegant gown to the plain brown kirtle and apron she herself wore. She’d worked too long in the herbarium to change before hurrying to the hall to dine.

Feeling more a peasant’s wife than a laird’s, she smoothed her work-stained apron, then wished she hadn’t, for she couldn’t help but notice how stubby her fingers appeared compared to Lady Cassandra’s slim and delicate-looking ones.

How could she have thought to seduce her husband by smoothing such clumsy hands over his magnificent body?

How could she have thought the tenderness he’d shown her in the garden this morn meant aught?

How could she have believed he might be beginning to care?

Her heart wrenched at her foolishness. Ne’er could she replace the beautiful woman who had claimed his heart first.

With excruciating clarity, she suddenly understood why he’d shunned her as a true consort. The consummation of their marriage, an event she still couldn’t recall, must’ve cost him dearly.

A sob escaped her, and she fell to her knees before the hearth, gripping her middle as she fought to swallow her anguish rather than cry before her foe. Wood and paint or nae.

Finally, as nothing but quiet whimpers escaped her lips, she looked again at the woman’s likeness. Tears blurred her vision, but not so much she didn’t notice the change.

Whether caused by her imagination, the poor lighting, or her gift playing a cruel trick on her, the painted image was no longer smiling so serenely.

Lady Cassandra, her husband’s stunningly beautiful first wife, appeared to be gloating at her.