Devil in a Kilt (25 page)

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 ‘twas her own cry she'd heard. Never had she
seen a more exquisite creature. Not even the shadowy chamber could detract from
the woman's radiance. She was sheer perfection, her tresses expertly coifed and
gleaming like black silk, her face, hauntingly beautiful.

Whilst
a moment before Linnet's heart had fair 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.

The
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
had meant aught?

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

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

With
excruciating clarity, Linnet 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
convulsive 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 nay.

Finally,
as naught but quiet whimpers escaped her lips, Linnet 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 sedately.

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

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

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

At
first only a few came, barely a trickle, as if still wary of the dread laird of
Eilean Creag. But, gradually, their numbers increased until at times a steady
stream of them paraded back and forth across the narrow stone bridge.

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

And
her liege 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 veil suddenly 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 covetous of her?

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

Truth
to tell, though, she wasn't sure it would make a difference. Perchance the
wounds beneath the grim mask he oft 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, milady? ‘Tis a fierce storm approaching," Lachlan
entreated, coming up beside her. "My master will flay me alive if you
fare ill, and he learns I could not dissuade you from bringing harm upon
yourself."

"‘Tis
good of you to be concerned, but my cloak keeps me fair dry and my hair matters
naught." Linnet gave her husband's first squire a wan smile. "As yet,
‘tis only a light rain and does not bother me."

Lachlan
glanced at the roiling black clouds racing ever closer across the loch. "I
beseech you, lady, for my lord would indeed be mightily displeased, and I would
not seek to foul his temper so soon upon his return."

And
when is his temper not foul?
Linnet swallowed the bitter
retort dancing on the edge of her tongue, grateful the shrill cries of a
passing flock of seabirds prevented her from taking out her frustration on the
well-meaning squire.

Instead,
she laid her hand gently on his sleeve and shook her head. "Nay, Lachlan,
I fear you place too much importance upon my worth to your liege. We are alone
and ‘tis old enough you are to ken why he married me. He will not care if the
ague takes me, nor will he punish you if I dinna do as you bid."

The
squire shook his head. "I beg your pardon in disagreeing, 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. ‘Tis cruel and, I would have thought, beneath
you."

"My
words are not lies. I swear it upon all the holy relics in the land,"
Lachlan implored her, his tone sincere enough to make Linnet's heart skitter
out of beat. "‘Tis naught but the truth and all know it."

All
save your laird.
Her own truth echoed in her head, mocking her
with the futility of Duncan mayhap 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 the squire's chivalrous tone, 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
glib charm had raised her mood. Soon, she'd be as addlepated as Elspeth,
hearing naught but pretty words, no longer capable of seeing the truth.

Linnet
lifted her chin a notch. 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 domain.

"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
his arm.

Linking
her arm through his, Linnet 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."

Her
brows drew together in a frown. "I do not understand."

"Do
you not? Truly?" One of the squire's brows shot upward in a perfect
imitation of her husband's frequent gesture.

"Nay,
unless—" a sudden thought, nay ...
hope ...
popped into her mind,
but she didn't dare voice it lest she be wrong.

"Aye,
milady," Lachlan fair laughed, a wide grin spreading across his 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 stammered.

"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
firelog, 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.

‘Twas
late when 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 draught of ale in the hall,
but Marmaduke had barreled back down the stairs from whence he'd retired
shortly afore, 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 partake of 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 Duncan greatly admired. And she was . ..
sensible.

Although
his friend had meant well, Marmaduke had not 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
Brace's court.