Amanda Scott (26 page)

He was silent, but she had no doubt that he was controlling temper rather than his sense of humor. Well, he could just bellow at her if he wanted to, she told herself. It would not matter one whit. She wanted him to understand that this was important, so why, she wondered, did she feel as if she were going to cry?

Michael struggled to control himself. He wanted to shake her, but he wanted even more to make the discussion go away so that he could make love to her. He had been thinking about that in the boat before they landed. It had even crossed his mind in the great hall before he clapped eyes on Waldron and the Green Abbot. If the truth were known, the notion that he soon could take his wife to bed again had flitted through his mind as he sparred verbally with Waldron, and her proximity afterward in the bedchamber had made him want nothing more than to push Hugo out the door and bar it against him and anyone else who might dare to interrupt.

But although he could counter nearly every argument she had launched at him, he could tell from her intensity and demeanor that the subject was of great importance to her, and he knew he would rue the day if he did not deal with it now.

Accordingly, he drew another deep breath, called on skills he had learned in his training, kept his hands at his sides, and said calmly, “Sweetheart, I do trust you. Moreover, you must know that some items on that list of yours are spurious. I won’t repeat what I said to you on the boat, because I know you remember as well as I do. I know it rankled that I did not accept your explanation, but I explained why, and I would guess that if you did forget all I said, you have remembered it now.”

He paused, in case she wanted to respond to that, but she did not.

“Likewise,” he went on, “we talked about my need to know that you will obey me in a crisis, and you agreed—or I thought you did—that you would do so henceforward. Since I have no idea what mischief has brought Waldron and the abbot here, I do count their presence as something of a crisis. You are right, though, that I should have discussed the matter of your safety with you before I brought Hugo into it. He followed us because he knew I would have orders for him, and I took advantage of our all being together to make sure you knew that he would expect you to call on him if necessary.”

A tear spilled down her cheek, and he reached out and brushed it away with his thumb but made no other move to touch her.

“You are right about another thing, too,” he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “Total trust is something that one person grants to another, but likewise must it be earned, one
from
the other. No one should give or expect trust blindly, because like anything one builds to last, trust requires a foundation, and a good foundation needs time to grow strong. Therefore, incidents of partial trust must occur, to test it, before it can be offered freely. As to my having perhaps chosen when to trust you implicitly and when to doubt, you may recall things that you’ve said or done that make it hard for me to say you have earned my unreserved trust, but in fairness, lass, I too have been at fault.”

Another tear and a hastily suppressed sob were her only response.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

She looked up, her eyes swimming.

“Do you understand me?”

“Aye, you think that because I said I sometimes don’t tell the whole truth, you cannot trust me, but I don’t lie, Michael, or at least not to those I . . . I care about, and moreover, I think you can tell when I’m shading the truth or not telling you everything. You get a certain look . . .”

“Aye, I can tell, I think, but don’t you see that I cannot be sure I will always know? I’ve promised to tell you the truth and to tell you if, for good reason, I cannot. I do not think I have broken that promise. Can you not make me the same one?”

She bit her lower lip, then said, “I don’t know. I usually just say what is in my head, and sometimes, it just doesn’t seem sensible to blurt out the whole truth. If someone asks what I think of a hat or dress, for example, and I loathe it . . .”

“You know that is not what I mean.”

“But many things seem like that to me, Michael. Moreover, words don’t matter as much as actions do, such as when you and Hugo seemed to confer without words
before
you told me to apply to him if I needed an escort.”

He chuckled then, clearly surprising her. “Sweetheart, Hugo was asking me if I wanted him to involve himself. You should know that we have always been very competitive, and in the past we have had a few disagreements over women. If you will recall, you flirted with him outrageously when he first arrived at Lochbuie.”

“I did not!”

“Isobel.”

She grimaced. “Well, not any more than I flirt with anyone. One does, you know, and it means nothing—just a smile or a look.”

“Married ladies should not indulge in such behavior,” he said.

“Sakes, at court married ladies are the worst offenders,” she retorted.

“Whether they are or not makes no difference to me,” he said. “I will do you the courtesy of trusting you to behave more circumspectly.”

She thought about that for a moment before she said, “Doubtless you think you have been very clever to use the subject of this discussion to manipulate my behavior rather than just ordering me not to flirt, but your doing that makes me wonder if you truly meant what you said earlier.”

He felt as if she had slapped him, and as if he had deserved it.

“I did mean what I said,” he said ruefully. “But you are right to take me to task, lass. I fear I may prove a jealous husband, and that was partly the point I was trying to make about Hugo. He did not want to seem to be giving orders or even advice to my bride, whilst at the same time he felt it necessary to make certain I would not act the fool where Waldron is concerned, so he took it upon himself to remind me that I should be sure you understood the danger in which we stand.”

“I do,” she said. “Do you really feel as if you have known me all your life?”

He smiled with profound relief, believing he knew exactly what course her thoughts had taken to make that leap. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve told you so before. Don’t you feel the same way?”

Isobel thought about the question. Michael did not know what an advantage the effect of his voice on her gave him in any discussion like this one, but especially when he made her feel as if he truly listened to what she said to him. He seemed to have an uncanny knack for doing that whenever she began to think he was like every other man. She wanted to believe he would always listen, although experience told her it was unlikely. It occurred to her then that trusting him to do so might be exactly the sort of thing he had meant when he said that sometimes they would just have to trust each other to see what happened, and hope the foundation grew stronger.

He was waiting patiently, so she said, “I know you would like me to say that I feel as you do, sir. I do understand what you mean, because I seem able to talk to you as easily as I can to people I have always known, but, in truth, just when I think I am coming to understand you—who you are and what you think—I discover I don’t know you at all. You have been at least two different men since we met, and I don’t know which one is the one I should trust.”

He touched her arm and she felt the warmth of his fingers through the thin fabric of her sleeve. “In time you will learn that you can trust them both.” he said gently, tilting her chin up and kissing her lightly.

“Perhaps,” she said, meeting his gaze, “but I expect to test that, sir.”

The hand on her arm moved to tug the front lacing of her bodice loose. “I, too, have some tests in mind,” he said. “I noted one or two particularly sensitive points on your beautiful body. I would test them to see if that sensitivity can be increased.”

Heat surged through her, and she reached up and put a hand behind his head, curling her fingers into his hair, pulling him toward her to kiss him soundly.

With a low moan in his throat, he slid both arms around her and pulled her close, fitting his body against hers and moving his hands caressingly down her back to cup her bottom cheeks and pull her closer yet.

She could feel his body seeking hers, pulsing against her.

His fingers were back at her lacing. The bodice was a simple one of pale rose-colored silk, constructed like a man’s jerkin and laced tightly at the waist, with each front half ending in a point below the tie. In a trice, he slipped it off her and dropped it to the floor. His fingers moved next to the pink ribbons of her gathered, low-cut cambric shift. As he slipped its sleeves down her arms, baring her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, she felt as if the shift confined her, but for once confinement seemed only to heighten her passion as she waited to see what he would do next.

He paused, gazing down at her, and then, extending his right index finger, he dipped it into the space between her breasts and, slowly, began to draw the cambric lower and lower.

The light rat-a-tat-tat on the door startled both of them as much as if it had been a thunderclap.

“That’s Henry,” Michael said.

Dismayed, she said, “You were expecting him?”

“Aye, albeit not so soon. I’ll tell him to go to the devil.”

“Sakes, sir, you cannot do that! Help me get my bodice back on.”

“Nay, sweetheart, I should speak to him alone.”

“Had he wanted to speak to you elsewhere, he’d have sent for you, would he not?” she demanded.

“Aye, perhaps,” he said, but his frown told her he had just realized she was right. “I forget that this is the bishop’s palace rather than Henry’s own.”

“I won’t pretend I don’t want to hear what you have to say to him, since I know you will talk about Waldron and all that has happened, but if I must go, tell me now. Don’t send me away in front of him.”

“Let’s see what he has to say first,” Michael said. “If you have to leave, sweetheart, it will be by his command, not mine. I keep my promises.”

He said in a quiet but nonetheless carrying voice, “One moment, Henry.”

There was no response, but Michael picked up Isobel’s bodice and helped her put it on, tightening the laces for her but leaving her to tie the bow while he went to let Sir Henry in.

Henry said nothing until he was inside with the door shut. Then, with a rueful look at Isobel, he said, “I apologize for disturbing you, my lady, but I think your husband wished to speak privately with me, and with so many housed here just now, privacy is scarce. My mother and her tame abbot are currently occupying the chamber I customarily use as mine own, so I’d hoped I might intrude here rather than try to evict them.”

“You are most welcome, sir,” Isobel said, smiling at him and receiving a warm smile in return. Taking heart from that warmth, she said, “I hope you do not mean to turn me out. Michael said I must go if you say so, and I will, of course, but I was party to nearly all that has happened to us since we met, and I must confess, I’m a curious person and will likely force him to tell me everything eventually.”

She held her breath when he turned to look at Michael, wondering if either gentleman would object to her boldness.

Michael said nothing, and Sir Henry turned back with another smile. “Faith, madam, if you can winkle things out of him that he’d as lief not tell you, I welcome you even more heartily to our family, and hope you will teach me how you do it.”

“You lack her weapons,” Michael said, chuckling. “Find a seat now, Henry, for I’ve much to tell you and things to ask you, and I know we have only a short time. The window embrasure may be wide enough,” he added when Sir Henry looked around the bleak chamber and frowned at the low joint stool that seemed to be the sole piece of furniture other than the plainly curtained bed and washstand.

Finding that he could sit on the narrow windowsill, if not fit his broad shoulders into the space as well, he leaned his elbows on his knees and said, “I must say, you did not look nearly as amazed to see Waldron as I’d expected.”

“I wasn’t surprised,” Michael said, and proceeded to tell him why.

Isobel remained silent, fascinated by the details he included, as if he remembered every single thing that had happened. He told Sir Henry exactly what had taken place at the cave and afterward, everything until they reached the Isle of Mull. Then, he told him only that Hector had been unhappy about their having traveled together with only oarsmen to chaperon them but that he regained his good humor when Michael offered for Isobel and she accepted him.

She had not realized until then that she had feared he would reveal all that she had said and done, but when she sighed her relief, Sir Henry looked at her, his expression reminding her of Michael’s when he peered into her soul.

Henry made occasional exclamations of amazement or annoyance as Michael’s tale unfolded, and at the end he said, “Waldron has always taken his own road, but I never thought he would turn against one of us in such a dastardly way. Shall I send him away?”

“Nay,” Michael said. “’Tis better to keep him close enough to watch.”

“Aye,” Isobel said. “MacDonald of the Isles says one should treat one’s enemies as houseguests and watch over them tenderly lest they steal the silver.”

Henry laughed. “We’ll leave his welcoming to my mother, I think, but your tale, Michael, makes me think that perhaps I should show you Father’s letter.”

“What letter? I thought we had both seen everything of his at Roslin.”

“Not this,” Henry said with a grimace. “I have never shown it to anyone, because certain things he wrote in it were not things that I wanted to share with anyone else, even you. Faith, you least of all! But I think I must now.”

“Yes,” Michael said. “I think you must. Where is it, at Roslin or St. Clair?”

“It is right here,” Henry said, reaching into his doublet. “It never leaves me.”

Chapter 16

M
ichael took the letter, which was folded horizontally into quarters, and carefully unfolded it. One could tell that Henry had carried it about with him for some time, and since their father had died more than two decades before, it was somewhat the worse for wear. However, Sir William had written with a good quill and brown-gall ink on thin, well-scrubbed and chalked calves’ vellum, rather than on less durable paper, which told him as clearly as it would anyone else that Sir William had intended his eldest son to keep his letter.

Glancing at the date under the signature, Michael said, “He wrote this shortly before he died.”

“Aye,” Henry said. “Whilst we were all at Dunclathy.”

“That’s Hugo’s home in Strathearn,” Michael told Isobel.

Henry said, “Mother received the letter when she got word of our father’s death, for the bearer of those sad tidings delivered it to her. She intended to give it to me straightaway but forgot, so I did not read it until weeks later.”

“Forgot?” Michael said skeptically.

“Aye, or so she said. I’ve long suspected that she read it first and thought it would be kinder not to give it to me just then, because he’d written it after receiving a report from Sir Edward of some mischief I’d committed. So, as you’ll see, the first half of it is a lecture on the responsibilities of any heir to the bounty of St. Clair, which he spells as one pronounces it, rather than in the French way. That may be another reason she did not give it to me straightaway, since she always insists on the French spelling and might have feared I’d change it. But I’d wager ’twas its content. Not pleasant reading, certainly, but I’ve kept it to remind me that a good reputation is more valuable than money, and to live every day as if it were to be my last.”

“Does he include both maxims?” Michael asked.

“Aye.”

“That last one rather gives one chills if this was his last letter.”

“I believe it was,” Henry said solemnly. “You will see for yourself why I thought it had no bearing on the family secret we have sought so long to understand, but ’tis possible that a few words of that last paragraph may prove relevant. I own, I have never understood them, but perhaps he expected trouble from Waldron or his ilk. I just thought ’twas more of the scold that precedes it.”

Michael read swiftly, understanding why Henry had not wanted to share such a letter. Its searing contents made him curious to know what mischief his brother had embroiled himself in at the age of thirteen to receive such a reprimand. Still, their parents had raised them to have solemn respect for duty and honor, and Michael had received his share of reprimands and worse, if not from their father, who had died when he was only five, then certainly from their foster father.

He came at last to the pertinent paragraph, and found it disappointingly brief.
And so
, Sir William had written,
if aught should happen to prevent my return, you must be prepared to take full responsibility for yourself and for our beloved family. Therefore, keep these my words with you, and study well the philosophers that your tutors present to you. When you seek answers, follow the direction of the bearded men, who will ever reveal the path of truth.
May the Almighty watch over you at Roslin, my son, and keep you safe from harm. Your affectionate father.

Michael read Sir William’s signature and the date once more, then looked up. “I see why you were loath to share this letter, Henry,” he said. “What I do not see is why you think it may prove at all useful to us.”

Isobel had been striving to contain her impatience, not to mention her bursting curiosity, but Michael’s last comment was too much to bear.

“But what does it say?” she demanded. When Henry looked startled and Michael’s lips twitched, she realized that she had sounded just a trifle shrill and added quickly, “If you do not mind sharing that information with me.”

“Not the whole letter,” Sir Henry said quietly.

“Nay,” Michael agreed. “Only the last paragraph, since it is the only part you believe may pertain to our situation. See if it seems likely to you, lass.”

After he had read the passage aloud, Isobel asked him to read it again. When he had done so, she said to Henry, “Is it that he mentions a path of truth, sir? For I must agree that it does not otherwise seem at all useful.”

Sir Henry stood as he said, “I don’t know why it came to mind just now. When you and I have read other letters of his that we found, Michael, searching for answers, I’ve sometimes felt a twinge of guilt at not having shown this one to you, but only because I’d wondered occasionally if he’d had a premonition of his death.”

Michael said, “It has always seemed odd that he left no specific instructions for you to follow if he died. He knew he’d most likely go into battle, and if he did have such a premonition, surely he must have feared that the secret, whatever it is, might be lost forever if he failed to share it with you.”

“Sakes,” Isobel exclaimed, “just traveling is dangerous enough! I’d think that if your father knew something important that he had not shared with anyone else, something passed to him by his father, that he expected to pass on to you, Sir Henry, surely the first time he did anything that put his life in peril, he would have seen to it that you had knowledge of where that information lies, or how to find it.”

Michael grimaced. “One might argue that his not having done that means only that our grandfather failed to pass the information on to our father before setting out for the Holy Land with Robert the Bruce’s heart.”

“Aye, sure,” Henry agreed, “but Father must have known. After all, you just told me that Ian Dubh’s documents strongly suggest that our grandfather arranged for the Templars to find sanctuary here in Scotland. If he accepted responsibility for something as valuable as the Templar treasure, he would have made certain that our father knew about it. Father was, after all, an adult by then, and we know he believed the family bore heavy responsibility for something, because he spoke of that responsibility many times, directly and indirectly.”

“Very true,” Michael agreed. “Moreover, Isobel is right. He would have found a way to pass it on, particularly if that responsibility was entrusted to our grandfather by other Templars. Mayhap Father expected you to learn of it from someone he trusted; perhaps someone who helped conceal it.”

“Then surely I’d have heard by now,” Henry pointed out dryly. “I’m four-and-thirty and have been head of our clan for twenty years.”

“But what if that trusted person also died unexpectedly?” Isobel said.

“Then we are back to this letter of Henry’s,” Michael said. “I do not recall seeing any other document that he directed to you personally, Henry. Were there other such letters?”

“No,” Henry said, visibly struck by the question. “He included other messages for me in letters he sent our lady mother. In truth, when he was away from home, the mendicant friars usually delivered his less personal messages orally. Aside from those letters to our lady mother, I know of no other personal messages to anyone amongst the documents I’ve seen.”

“Well, I doubt that he would have given such information either to the friars or to our mother,” Michael said. “I don’t remember much about their relationship myself, but you have often commented on how prickly it was.”

“That is true, but I agree that he would have made every effort to be sure I had any information I needed,” Henry said, clearly thinking aloud. “Others may exist who know the secret—or some of it—particularly if the treasure Ian Dubh described forms part of a larger secret. Our father’s personal responsibility, however, would have weighed most heavily on him. We know he did not share it with Sir Edward, although he trusted him so deeply that he trusted him with most of our training.”

“But we know, too, that he was unlikely to have risked entrusting the whole tale to a lad as young as you were then, in a letter or otherwise,” Michael said.

“Even had I been the sort who consistently applied myself to my studies and weaponry,” Henry said with a rueful smile. “That letter you’re holding, therefore, contains the only instructions of any sort directed personally to me that we have found, and I cannot imagine why I did not realize that long before now.”

“Because we have been searching for formal instructions labeled as such,” Michael said. “We assumed that he must have left something of the sort, but I begin to think he simply refused to think that he might die before he could tell you himself, as I’ll warrant his own father did with him.”

“An error I will not make,” Sir Henry said. “But I’m thinking we need to look more narrowly at this letter now. As your lady noted, it does mention a path of truth, and ’tis the only reference that you and I have seen to a path of any kind.”

“May we make a fair copy of that final paragraph, sir?” Isobel asked.

“No need, lass,” Michael said. “I have memorized it, and you should likewise commit it to memory, if you will. There can be no harm in Henry’s continuing to carry the letter on his person, since he has done so for years without incident, but I’d as lief we create no other copies to put at risk.”

She nodded, knowing he was right, but Henry looked upset.

Guessing at once that he disliked the risk of sharing the letter’s embarrassing contents with her, she said, “I promise, sir, I will read only the last paragraph.”

He glanced at Michael, who said, “You may trust her, Henry. Indeed, had I not believed that, I would not have introduced this subject in her presence.”

Isobel’s heart warmed, but she suppressed her delight and continued to gaze solemnly at Sir Henry.

He said, “Aye, well, I own, I feel most uncomfortable sharing this matter, but since Waldron has apparently learned more about it than we know ourselves, and has already thrust it upon the two of you, you are both party to it now whether you want to be or not. I will trust you, my lady. Give her the letter, Michael.”

He did, and Isobel paid little heed to their conversation after that, exerting herself instead to commit the contents of the final paragraph to memory. As she did, a thought struck her. “Did your father have a favorite philosopher, Sir Henry?”

He shrugged. “If he did, I know not who it might have been.”

“Hector and Aunt Euphemia like Publius Syrus,” she said. “Both of the maxims in this passage are his, I believe, but I have heard my aunt speak of other Roman philosophers. Surely, Rome did produce the best-known ones.”

Sir Henry and Michael exchanged a look.

“What?” she demanded. “I wish you would not speak to each other without words. You and Sir Hugo do that, too, Michael, and it is most irritating.”

Sir Henry’s eyes twinkled. “My mother complains of that whenever we are all together in the same place, so I do apologize most sincerely, my lady. ’Tis only that we studied a host of other philosophers, many of whom were not Roman, and I warrant that my father did, too.”

“Mercy, were there so many of them, then?”

Michael said, “Hundreds, I expect. We cannot tell you many details about our training, lass, but since you may hear things that will confuse you, particularly since the Green Abbot has involved himself in our affairs, you should know that the Kirk of Rome considers much of what we studied, including certain Judaic, Islamic, and Gnostic philosophers, to be heresy.”

Isobel grinned. “I’m not sure what those words mean, but my father complains that the Pope does not understand simple matters of Celtic life, that he condemns anything that disagrees with Kirk teachings or gives one pleasure, and also foolishly claims that a wise respect for superstition is naught but heresy.”

“I have heard that Macleod of Glenelg is a gey superstitious man,” Sir Henry said with an answering gleam.

“Aye, he kisses his thumb to seal a promise. He avoids travel on Fridays, particularly if that day should fall on the thirteenth of the month, and he insisted that my sister Cristina marry before any of his other daughters could, because he believed that if she did not dire things would befall Clan Macleod. That is how she came to marry Hector,” Isobel said, adding quickly when the two men exchanged another look, “I mean only to say, however, that I am not quick to condemn all that the Kirk thinks is wrong. Indeed, I would like to learn more about such things.”

“The Holy Kirk certainly teaches that men who study the philosophies of Jews, Muslims, and Gnostics are heretical, my lady,” Henry said. “I shudder to imagine what his opinion would be if we introduced such ideas to our lady wives. But my father and men of his ilk simply called it education. They believed that if men would just seek creative unity among world races and religions, and attempt to fuse the philosophies that underlie Roman, Greek, Islamic, Christian, and Judaic thought—they would find that we all have much more in common than otherwise.”

“Are the philosophers all bearded men?” Isobel asked.

Sir Henry and Michael looked at her in surprise, then at each other.

“Why do you ask that?” Michael asked.

“Because he underscored those two words,” she said, showing him.

He looked briefly and smiled. “Certainly not all philosophers had beards, lass. Beards were but matters of fashion as they are now. I should say that he meant to emphasize certain phrases in his letter. Recall that he was angry when he began it. He has rested his pen a few times, too, as you can see by the dots of ink here and about.”

“Some are just spatters,” she said. “Only a few phrases are underscored.”

“Many men do that, though,” Sir Henry told her.

Nodding, she continued to study the last paragraph, hoping both men would believe she needed the extra time to memorize its contents. Trying not to be obvious, she skimmed over the rest of the page, taking care not to read more but looking for other underscored or dotted words. She saw none other than in the one paragraph.

“Listen,” she said, interrupting Michael. “These are the words he underscored or put dots under in that last paragraph: ‘
Keep these my words with you. Study well. Follow bearded men. Path of truth at Roslin. Keep safe.
’”