Devil in a Kilt by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Chapter 23

Her cloak wrapped tightly about her, Linnet stood atop the battlements and tried hard to ignore the chill bite in the damp and briny air. Far below, a group of peasants crossed the castle bridge on their way back to the village.

For three days she’d kept herself busy watching their comings and goings, used the distraction to chase the sneering image of Duncan’s first wife from her mind.

At the start, only a few souls came, barely a trickle, as if still wary of the dread laird of Eilean Creag. The fierce and formidable Black Stag of Kintail. But, gradually, their numbers increased until at times a steady stream of villagers paraded back and forth across the narrow stone bridge.

All come to collect alms at the castle gates, as was custom.

And her husband was still absent and could not see this small victory she’d won for him.

A strong gust of sea wind tore back her hood then and she shook out her tresses, not caring how wet or wind-tossed she appeared.

The saints knew, her looks mattered scarce little. She could plait her hair with spun gold ribbons and dress in a gown fashioned of moonbeams, and Duncan would still find her unappealing.

And how could she blame him?

What man would desire her when he’d possessed a woman so beautiful a queen would be envious of her?

Nae, her appearance was of no consequence. But she wished Duncan had seen the return of the needy to his castle door. Perhaps their show of trust would erase some of darkness from his soul?

Truth to tell, though, she wasn’t sure it would make a difference. Perhaps the wounds beneath the grim mask he often wore were already too deep.

Too raw.

Too solid, the wall he’d built to protect himself.

Yet he’d allowed her fleeting glimpses of the man within.

“Will you not come inside, my lady? There’s a fierce storm approaching,” Lachlan said, stepping up beside her. “My master will have my skin if anything happened to you, and he learns I could not persuade you to seek shelter.”

“I appreciate your concern, but my cloak keeps me dry enough and my hair doesn’t matter.” Linnet smiled at the squire. “As yet, it’s only a drizzle and does not bother me.”

“A spitting of rain now, aye. But later…” Lachlan glanced at the roiling black clouds on the far side of the loch. “I beg you, lady, for my lord would indeed be mightily displeased. I would not want to foul his temper so soon upon his return.”

And when is his temper not foul? Linnet almost blurted, grateful the shrill cries of passing seabirds kept her from taking out her frustration on the well-meaning squire.

Instead, she laid her hand gently on his sleeve. “Nae, Lachlan, you worry in vain. You place too much importance upon my worth to your liege. We are alone and you are old enough to know why he married me. He will not care if I fall ill for a few days, nor will he punish you if I do not do as you bid.”

The squire shook his head. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but you are mistaken. Sir Duncan cares deeply for you.”

Turning away, Linnet clutched the cold stone of the parapet wall. “Please do not speak that which is not true. It is cruel and, I would have thought, beneath you.”

“My words are not lies. I swear it upon my life,” Lachlan implored her, his tone sincere enough to make her heart skitter out of beat. “I spoke the truth and all know it.”

All save your laird. Her own truth echoed in her head, mocking her with the futility of Duncan perhaps caring for her yet not knowing it himself. Pressing her palms more firmly against the cold, wet merlon, she wanted to cry out at the hopelessness of her situation.

Even if she did believe Lachlan, and she wasn’t sure she should, she still didn’t know how to breach the walls her husband held against her.

How to win his heart.

A heart she feared rested in Lady Cassandra’s grave.

“Lady, please,” Lachlan urged again. “Do not think I tell falsehoods, for I would rather be struck dead than lie to you.”

Unable to resist his chivalry, Linnet turned back to face him. “Are all MacKenzie men, save my husband, gifted with silver tongues?”

Lachlan’s handsome young face flushed pink, and he made her a slight bow. “So it is claimed, but I am not a MacKenzie. I am a MacRae. My father sent me here to be fostered when I was but seven.”

“More than enough time to learn their ways,” Linnet teased, amazed the squire’s charm had raised her mood. Soon, she’d be as addlepated as Elspeth, hearing nothing but pretty words, no longer capable of seeing the truth.

Linnet steeled her backbone. She’d not make a fool of herself as Elspeth did, fawning after old Fergus, making moon eyes at him. But, then, the crusty seneschal seemed to welcome Elspeth’s attention.

She could not say the same of her husband.

He’d simply shown her the same concern he’d have over anyone within his castle walls.

“Tell me, Lachlan,” she asked, before she could lose her nerve. “Why do you think Sir Duncan cares for me?”

“Allow me to escort you inside, lady, and I shall explain,” he said, offering her his arm.

Linking her own through his, she couldn’t help but smile. “I see you are clever as well as chivalrous.”

“My master teaches me well,” he said, guiding her toward the tower door, which stood ajar.

He did not speak again until he’d escorted her to her chamber. After opening the door with an exaggerated flourish, he made her a sweeping bow, then, before she could guess his intent, he seized her hand and brought it to his lips.

“The answer to your question is obvious to those who know my master well,” he said upon releasing her hand. “You have only to observe how his face tightens, as if becoming a mask, whene’er he comes upon Robbie.”

Linnet’s brows drew together. “I do not understand.”

“Do you not? Truly?” One of the squire’s own brows shot upward in a perfect imitation of her husband’s frequent gesture.

“Nae, unless-” a sudden thought, nae … hope … popped into her mind, but she didn’t dare voice it lest she be wrong.

“Aye, my lady.” A wide grin spread across Lachlan’s face, proving he’d read her thoughts. “Duncan loves Robbie dearly, but is too blinded by anger and pain to realize it. Yet we all do. When he looks upon you, ’tis the same expression he wears when he looks at his son.”

Linnet opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t get the words past the hot lump swelling in her throat. Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision, but she managed to give Lachlan a tremulous smile.

Smiling back, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Now do you understand?”

“I want to,” she said, her voice shaky.

“You must,” he told her, stepping back, his tone and expression serious once more. “For only by understanding him can you heal him. ’Tis the one thing he’s never had and needs the most.”

Linnet nodded, wishing she could reassure the young man. But how could she make promises she doubted she’d be able to fulfill? Understanding what troubled her husband wasn’t difficult.

Knowing what to do about it, was.

And far more difficult was believing he cared for her.

Lachlan had to be mistaken.

Long after the squire had rekindled the fire in her hearth and left her on her own, Linnet stood gazing into the flames. She watched them grow and lick around the fire log, their crackling, and the distant rumble of thunder, not near so loud as the thudding of her heart.

If only she could warm Duncan’s soul as easily as the flames warmed her outstretched hands.

If only she could ignite his passions.

If only Lachlan’s words were true.

But she’d been too long alone, too long unloved to dare hope.

* * *

It was latewhen Duncan and his men returned from patrol, and later still when he finally made his way up the circular stairs to his wife’s bedchamber.

He would’ve gone immediately after downing a welcome cup of ale in the hall, but Marmaduke had barreled back down the steps only a short while after climbing them. He’d almost flown across the hall, predicting doom and despair if Duncan sought his wife’s presence without first consulting with him.

Tired and irritable, Duncan had waited for the Sassunach to speak. His patience was thin, for he was eager to join his lady wife in bed. And not merely to sleep, but to enjoy the tender ministrations she wasn’t aware he knew of.

But instead of speaking, his friend handed him a flagon, telling him where he’d discovered it.

No other explanation had been necessary. With a growing sense of dread deep in his gut, Duncan understood. Linnet had ventured into his former bedchamber.

She’d seen the panel-painting.

Waves of hot anger and cold chills had washed over him in turns. Anger at himself because he hadn’t destroyed Cassandra’s likeness years ago, and chills at his brother-in-law’s grim prediction of how looking upon it would affect Linnet.

As if from a great distance, Marmaduke’s deep voice had droned on, advising him how best to approach his lady.

But Duncan had scarce listened. Only he knew of the sweet comfort she rained upon him each night, thinking he slept. His lady was good and pure, yet possessed of an inner fire and strength he greatly admired. She was also sensible.

Although his friend had meant well, Marmaduke didn’t have the experience to know the heart of a robust and strong-willed Highland lass like Linnet. He’d been wed to Arabella, Duncan’s sister. A high-spirited woman, beauteous and gay, as skittish and excitable as Linnet was earthy and unruffled.

And before Arabella had blossomed and captured Marmaduke’s attentions, he’d dallied with the jaded ladies of the tourney circuit. Or the worldly women at the Bruce’s court.

Aye, his friend knew women, but not Linnet. She wouldn’t be distressed upon seeing his first wife’s great beauty. Appearance mattered little to his lady wife. Such things were of no significance to her.

She’d be more upset to find her precious herbarium destroyed than to gaze upon the loveliness of a woman she knew to be dead.

But his confidence evaporated the moment he entered their bedchamber and saw her sitting before the fire.

She looked as though she’d been out in the rain the entire time he’d been away. Her hair fell loose about her shoulders and was badly snarled from the storm winds, while her gown was wrinkled and damp, the leather of her shoes dark with water stains. Only the worn arisaid she clutched about her appeared to be dry.

“By the Rood, woman, must I watch over your every step?” Duncan frowned at her, forgetting the bland words he’d meant to utter before slipping into the bed to await her sweet explorations of his body. “What have you done to yourself?”

“I have been-”

“I ken where you’ve been.” He strode toward her, holding the little flagon in his outstretched hand.

Her eyes widened, but she said not a word, only gaped at him from troubled eyes.

“Have you nothing to say?” Duncan prodded, leaning so close he could smell the sea brine in her wildly tangled hair.

But for once, she didn’t spout pepper at him. She only shook her head and stared at the fire. Why didn’t she speak up for herself, show him the vinegar she’d exhibited nigh onto every day since he’d first brought her to Eilean Creag?

Why didn’t she condemn him for pining after his dead wife?

Marmaduke had warned him that Linnet would believe that was way of it and, as always, the one-eyed bastard had been right.

Worse, he doubted Linnet would ever believe how far from the truth her assumptions lay.

Duncan swore, an oath blacker and more ominous than the storm-darkened night lurking beyond the thick tower walls. As if the heavens understood his frustration, a loud crack of thunder sounded, its wall-shaking boom drowning out his curse. His wife jumped as if struck, but as quickly reassumed her rigid posture.

No doubt she’d jumped because of him, not the thunder.

Whether she’d heard his curses or no.

He was well aware of his untamed appearance. But unlike her, he’d had reason to be out on such a night. He’d sought to ferret out Kenneth and his followers, banish them from his lands once and for all time. Hoped to send his half brother to the most vile abyss in hell for his many crimes.

But more, for his lady’s sake.

To protect her from harm at Kenneth’s hands.

Yet she shrank away from him as if he were the one to be feared.

Stepping close enough to tower over her chair, Duncan planted his hands on his hips and gazed down at her. “If you will not speak of what I know weighs on your mind, then tell me why you look as if you’ve been swimming in the loch.”

“I did not leave the castle.” She looked up at him, showing a spark of her usual backbone. “I was on the battlements, watching-”

“That, too, I know, my lady, for there is none under my roof that didn’t tell me of the wondrous feat you’ve accomplished. The villagers are again coming for alms.” He paused to drag a hand through his own damp and disheveled hair. “I suppose their hunger has grown greater than their dread of a murderer.”

Something flared briefly in his lady wife’s eyes, and he couldn’t tell if it’d been anger, frustration, or pity. He hoped it wasn’t the latter, but whatever it’d been, she now sat straighter in her chair, regarding him from eyes that no longer looked so haunted.

“And did you?” she blurted, piercing him with a gaze as all-seeing as his annoying arse of a brother-in-law’s.

“Did I what?” Duncan shot back, fully aware of her meaning.

He grew rapidly uncomfortable under her sharp perusal. She now steered their discourse, and in a direction he did not care to venture.

“Did – I – what?” he repeated in a tone that would’ve warned a more prudent soul.

“Did you murder your first wife?”

Duncan’s face flushed with heat at her blunt question, and his stomach tightened into a cold, hard knot. “What do you think?” The four words dropped between them like chips of ice.

Sakes, how he wished she’d abandon the cheek he’d yearned for only moments ago and return to her prior stubborn silence. The lass riled him more than any man should be made to endure.

“You are the seventh daughter. Can you not see the answer to your question?” he challenged, his temper barely in check.

She looked away then, and for a long moment, the rumble of thunder and soft popping of the fire made the only sound. Keeping her gaze averted, she finally said, “I already know the answer. Still, I should like to hear it from you.”

“If you can see the answer to a matter of such gravity, why can you not divine if Robbie is my true son or nae?”

“That answer, too, will come in time, my lord. And it was not my gift that told me you did not kill the lady Cassandra,” she said, returning her gaze to his. “It was my heart.”

“Then you cannae know for sure, for hearts lie,” Duncan contradicted.

“Nae, they do not,” she said simply, folding her hands in her lap and peering at him with that strange look in her eyes again.

Unable to stand her close scrutiny, Duncan turned away from her and crossed the chamber to the bed, shrugging off his drenched cloak as he went. His back to her, he drew his tunic over his head, then began removing his soggy shoes when she stayed him with one sentence.

Stiffening, Duncan asked her to repeat the softly whispered words he hoped he’d misunderstood.

“I said, actions dinnae lie either.”

“What actions?” Not that he wanted to know.

“The action of a bereaved man keeping his dead wife’s likeness in his bedchamber,” she said, her tone as mild as if she were commenting on the rain hammering against the shutters.

Duncan crossed the room in a heartbeat. He grasped the arms of her chair so tightly it wouldn’t have surprised him if the heavy oak snapped beneath his fingers.

Leaning forward until he could taste her breath on his lips, he said, “You cannot know why I kept the panel-painting, and I will not speak of it. I will tell you whatever tale you’ve conjured up as a reason is untrue.”

“I think not.” She pressed herself into the back of the chair, but keeping her jaw defiantly lifted, her injured gaze level with his furious one. “Any man would feel the same.”

“God’s blood, wench!” Duncan cursed, straightening. “Must you e’er vex me?”

“I understand, my lord. Truly. I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman.”

“You understand naught, do you hear me?” He grabbed her arms, pulling her to her feet. “Naught, I say!”

“You are hurting me, sirrah,” she cried, and he released her immediately.

Rubbing her upper arms where he’d gripped her, she persisted, “But I do. It is not hard to comprehend. At least why you haven’t touched me since our wedding night. What I do not understand is how you can even bear to look upon me after being married to her?”

“Will you drive me to the brink of madness?” Duncan groaned, then shut his eyes, forcing himself to draw a long, calming breath.

When he felt able to speak again, he opened his eyes, determined to guide their evening to a swift and peaceful close. “We are both tired and wet, Linnet,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “I am going to bed. I bid you to do the same.” He paused, rubbed the back of his neck. “And remove those damp garments before you join me. It suits no purpose for either of us to become ill.”

Returning to the bed without sparing her another glance, Duncan rid himself of his shoes at last, then stripped off his remaining clothes until nothing but the chill air of the room was next to his bare skin.

Hearing no telltale rustling of clothes, and heedless of his nakedness, he turned to face her. If you are not out of those sopping rags and into bed by the time I’ve doused the candles, I swear I shall divest you of them myself.”

She eyed him warily as he went about pinching the candlewicks, but made no move to rid herself of the rain-dampened garments. “My clothes are not sopping, and I’ve no intent to remove them. I beseech you to leave me be,” she said, her voice so low he barely heard her. “Please.”

Duncan took two steps forward, then halted at the look on her face.

Gone, the brief flaring of temper, a condition he much preferred, except now. In its place, she wore an expression he first thought to be shyness.

Yet such modesty made little sense for she’d slept fully unclothed beside him for many nights now.

And during those nights, she’d done deliciously wicked things to his senses, her innocent explorations arousing him more than the wiles of the most skilled harlot he’d e’er paid to lift her skirts.

Duncan stared hard at her, suddenly recognizing it was shame clouding her gold-flecked eyes, turning their normally enchanting color a dull brown.

Shame making her seem to shrink into herself as he strode forward again. And that knowledge sent a pointed shard of regret lancing through him, for he knew what had put the embarrassment on her face and self-doubt into her soul.

The all-knowing Sassunach had told him.