Parris Afton Bonds (22 page)

Chapter Fourteen

T
he depth of winter embraced the hamlet of Lochaber in its dark, swirling shroud, obscuring the distinction between minutes, hours, and days. Enya moved through this precarious interlude like a tightrope walker, balancing these days between Mhorag’s viper tongue and Ranald’s beguiling arms.

There were times when she doubted she would escape with her sanity. She couldn
’t go to Duncan. He was determined to turn the shrewish Mhorag docile.

Confusion prevented her from going to her m
other and Arch just yet. And Elspeth, who had never been in love, would not understand this tug-o’-war feeling she was experiencing.

Surprisingly, or mayhap not so surprisingly, it was Annie who provided perspective. They sat before the guardroom fire, abs
orbing both its warmth and light. These days, noon was as dim as twilight. The fireplace was big enough to roast a stag. The walls, at one time adorned with weapons, were bare if one didn’t count a halberd and spear, which were of little use in grouse hunting. Which was what occupied Ranald’s Reivers today. The castle was empty of all but staff.

Her eyes narrowed with concentration in deciphering the unrecognizable words, Annie read, “‘
And it came to pass in an—an—’ ”

“
Eveningtide," Enya supplied, scratching Thane’s head. Disliking this latest blanket of deep snow, he had chosen to keep her and Annie company.

“‘—
eveningtide, that David arose from his bed and walked upon the roof of the king’s house: and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself and the woman was very beautiful to look upon.’”

She read slowly, letting her forefinger point out each word. “‘
And David sent and inquired after the woman. And one said, Is not this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah, the Hittite?’

‘“
And David sent messengers and took her; and she came in unto him, and he lay with her.’ "Oh, mistress!” Annie said. "I dinna ken that the Book held such stories! Bathsheba was married, and still she slept with King David? Did she have no choice?”

Enya shrugged. "Mayhap
she wanted to.” How did you explain that you lust after the very man who is holding you captive? "Read on, Annie."

The young woman
’s words came more quickly now. "‘And the woman conceived and sent and told David, and said, "I am with child." ’ Oh my. Now what?"

Enya watched with satisfaction as the maid, without prompting, read on.
‘“And it came to pass in the morning, that David wrote a letter to Joab and sent it by the hand of Uriah.’"

Annie paused to scan back through the previous passages she had read.
"Uriah was Bathsheba’s husband?”

Enya nodded.

Annie’s words came faster now than her finger. “‘And he wrote in the letter, saying, set ye Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle, and retire ye from him, that he may be smitten and die.’”

She glanced up
at Enya. "David kills Uriah to have Bathsheba? Why, mistress, that is what Ranald is doing. Killing the Lord Lieutenant to have ye!”

Christmas, regarded as a pagan festival by the kirk, came and went with but little notice in Lochaber and its castle. However, the festival of Hogmanay brought celebration.

On December 31, Enya was kept busy in the kitchens from dawn to dusk in preparation for the great quantities of food that would be consumed the next day, the first of the year.

Flora basted and roasted the traditional haggis: minced lamb’s offal with oatmeal, onions, and spices packed into a sheep’s stomach.

In addition, large roasted boar, replete with an apple in its mouth, was served, as well as flambé
ed peacock; marinated duck with orange and ginger; and grilled venison with lemon and rosemary. The array of meats was an indication of the successful hunt of Ranald and his men.

Enya helped cook the flummery and bake the apple tarts. Hogmanay
’s traditional shortbread and black bun were added to the holiday fare. By the day’s end there was still the evening meal to be served. She could have cared less about the beginning of Hogmanay.

Clearly, not everyone felt as she. Laughter, singing, and music could be heard coming from the great hall. Fiddles,
a bowed psaltery, and a lute—but no bagpipe. Where was Ranald?

“
Oh, mistress,” Annie said, "let me serve the men at the head table.”

“
With pleasure,” she said, dropping down on the three-legged stool. With Flora downstairs in the buttery, she would enjoy a respite.

Annie, excited about waiting personally upon Jamie, hurried out with a tray laden with goat cheese, hard bread, and ale. The handsome young man had yet to notice her, for all that she was now bathing regularly and taking to brushing her teeth wit
h pressed rice.

At last Flora dismissed Enya. As she climbed the turret stairs to her room, revelers were already spilling over into the offshooting halls and chambers. Hogmanay promised to be a long, drawn-out affair, lasting at least another twe
nty-four hours after the clocks chimed out the old year.

Every bone and muscle in Enya
’s body protested the event. Her head ached. She was too exhausted even to heat water for a bath, much less rouse Elspeth. The old woman had to be as tired as she. With the approaching holiday, the villagers had besieged the spinning house, buying out its bolts of newly woven cloth for their costumes of finery. Elspeth spent a goodly amount of time at the spinning house and, through singing the work songs, was becoming proficient in Gaelic.

Enya placed a warming pan filled with hot coals beneath her bed
’s covers to heat its coarse linen sheets while she undressed. No sooner had she snuffed her lamp and, with a blissful sigh, slid into bed than the door burst open. “I should have known," she muttered, staring up at Ranald, candle in hand. "Don’t you ever knock?”

“
Ye are not yet with child?”

"What?”
She sat up, pulling the bedcover up over her bare breasts.

He crossed to her. His expression was brooding. He bent over her and c
upped her face in his free hand. The light he held aloft to study her face. “No, the signs aren’t there.”

“
What signs? You’ve been drinking!”

“
Aye.
Uisge beatha
. The water of life—the best of Scotch whiskey. Come along.” He released her face to tug on one of her hands. “ Tis Hogmanay. A new year.”

Obviously there was no gainsaying him. "Turn around while I dress!"

His eyes narrowed. His hand dropped to her stomach. She realized what he was doing, feeling to see if her belly was "rounding.” She grabbed her pillow and pummeled his chest. "You wretch! I am not a cow to be bred!”

"I want ye showing by spring
—when I meet your Simon Murdock and cut out a hole where his heart should be.” He grabbed up her smock and tossed it at her. “Dress, mistress."

Without movin
g from her citadel of sheets and covers, she slid the smock over her head, yanked it down about her waist, and began jerking the strings through their eyelets. “You would look delicious served on a platter with an apple stuffed in your mouth!"

His lip curl
ed. His lids lowered in a speculative fashion. "You will look tempting with witches’ milk dripping from your nipples.”

She threw off the covers, smoothed down her skirts, and slid her feet into her clogs. "There are ways to avoid being
—impregnated." She was disgusted with her embarrassed flush and turned away to replait her hair before the chipped mirror.

He came up behind her. His fingers wrapped around her braid. He tugged ever so slightly, but just enough to tilt her chin upward. "Ye better go down on yo
ur knees and pray for conception. Your welfare and that of your companions depends upon it.”

She stared at his face reflected in the mirror. “
What happens if I don’t . . . conceive?”

He released his hold on her. "Then ye no longer serve me purpose.”

“And?" she asked, forcing her breath past the cork of fear in her throat.

"I withdraw my protection. Do ye think there is a door that would open to you
—Murderous Murdock’s wife? Widows in the village would just as well stone ye; families who have suffered beneath Murdock’s bludgeon would as leave watch ye starve or freeze than turn a hand to give ye bread or shelter.

"Which reminds me,”
he added, in his irritating, offhanded manner, "ye’ll need your cloak. We go down to the village tonight. And make certain your hair is tucked beneath your hood."

Despair churned her stomach sour. She squared her shoulders. Always that tightrope nightmare: to survive until spring when Ranald planned to clash with Simon
—and to do so without bearing Ranald’s brat!

A steady stream of
merrymakers poured between the castle and the village just below. More celebrants crowded the lantern-lit town square, so many that it had been stamped dry of old snow. Their shouts of
auld lang syne
frosted the nippy air. Lively music from pipers and fiddlers rounded out the gaiety.

Obviously this was a time when the Highlanders
’ reserve broke down, with kisses and embraces shared equally among relatives, friends, and strangers. Lochaber’s burghers were parading banners bearing Ranald’s black dagger insignia.

As Ranald, with her in tow, wended his way through Lochaber
’s carousers, a daring young woman seized the opportunity to grab him and tug his head lower to plant a robust kiss on his lips.

He laughed, wrapped an arm around the blond maiden
’s waist, and returned the kiss, to the rousing cheers from bystanders.

"Ye
’re a stag, ye are!” the blonde said loud enough for those nearest to hear, including Enya.

“
Ye’re a randy laird!” shouted an inebriated old man wielding a ribbon-wrapped cane.

"Aye," Enya mu
ttered, “that he is."

Piqued, she followed him into the pub. Revelers occupied every table and stood shoulder to shoulder. Even the bar was flanked by imbibers, lifting their mugs with ale-slurred toasts and sloshed whiskey.

Stopped here and there by greeters and well-wishers, Ranald finally hauled her before a cheery fire that smoked the planked ceiling. The harried host hastily cleared a table for his laird.

"Malt whiskey for my bondwoman and me-self,”
Ranald ordered.

She sat stiffly. "A wee dram will be
enough,” she said in a tart tone.

"Tis the night for beginnings, eh, my laird?" asked a grinning, peach-fuzzed young man, deep in his cups.

Ranald took one of the mugs the host handed him and passed it to her. "Drink up, mistress. We won’t enjoy the fire’s warmth for long."

Sullenly, she eyed him over the mug's rim. “
What else now?”

He swallowed a deep draught. "After midnight, 'tis the time for first-footing.”

She rolled her eyes.

His grin was amiable. "We select a house to visit, with the aim of being the
first foot over the door in the new year." He took another drink, then said, “I might add, tradition demands the first-footer should be carrying a lump of coal— and should be tall, dark, and handsome. Redheads are—”

"I know." She scowled. "Unlucky."

Just the thought of summoning energy to rise from the table made her tired. The whiskey had made her sleepy. She yawned and stretched.

She caught Ranald
’s gaze following the emphasized curve of her breasts. He tossed down the last of his whiskey. “Time for first-footing."

She plunked down her half-full mug on the dented copper table and rose to her feet. "Let
’s get this over with. Where to?"

He stared at her with an odd look. As if he were already regretting something. "A hunting lodge. Not far from here.”

She followed him outside through the press of merrymakers. Where the crowd thinned and its din lessened, she said, "Please, Ranald, I am tired." She could only hope the party-goers were more congenial than he.

“
We’re almost there."

Ranald forsook the cobbled st
reet for a snow-bordered lane. Away from the warmth of the throng and the shield of stone buildings, she could hear the wind soughing in the pines and hidden crags surrounding the village. Far overhead, the phosphorescent curtain of the aurora borealis lit their way.

Her cloak was not thick enough to ward off the cold. She shivered. Ranald seemed unaffected by it. She had to quicken her pace to keep up with his long stride. At least his immense frame blocked the cutting wind.

The wend gave way to a narrow, tree-bordered road. Hard-packed snow and dead leaves crunched beneath her clogs and his heavy boots. The scalp-tightening thought occurred to her that he might be taking her out into the woods to kill her. Maybe the Highlanders celebrated Hogmanay with human sacrifice.

She really was crazy! And tired. "How much
—”

"There," he said. "Through the trees.”
Situated on a rocky bluff was a small two-story building with a thatched roof and darkened windows. No one greeted them at the barred door. Ranald let them in to a darkened room.

"This is first-footing?”
she asked, an uneasy feeling gnawing at the pit of her stomach. "Wait,” he said, and then deserted her.

She stood in the darkness and wondered if she shouldn
’t flee now and take the chance of perishing in the trackless wastes of his country.

Soon a candle
’s light spread its inviting rays across a bark-paneled room, bisected by a rough-timbered staircase. Rustic chairs braced a smoke-blackened fireplace. He crossed to it and knelt to hold a taper to the chips clumped beneath stacked wood.

She stared stupidly before realization dawned on her. "Ye
—you—planned this!"

With a flare, the chips caught fire. "I leave nothing to chance.”

With growing trepidation, she eyed his broad back. “What do you plan to do?”

“’
Tis the time for welcoming in a new year. Tis the time for begetting in you a new life. Here, we won’t be dist—”

Rage beat furious wings against her rib cage. "You savage! Do you think I
’ll spread my legs for you so docilely?”

She turned to leave. She got
the heavy door open by only the breadth of a belt before he slammed it shut with an echoing bang. He whirled her to face him. His hands dug into her shoulders. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it of whiskey fumes. "What is it between us?” he growled. “When I touch you—when you lie with me—’tis not enough.”

“
You fool! ’Tis my love you want, and that you canna have without giving me your own!"

"Your love?" he scoffed. “
I want only my seed in you."

With that he swept her up into his arms and strode tow
ard the staircase. She would have struggled but did not relish taking a tumble down the stairs. Instead, hands balled, she lay unresisting in the cradle of his arms. She could smell the wood smoke in his shirt. Against her cheek she could feel the powerful and preternatural beat of his heart.

He kicked open the door of one of the rooms and dropped her on the bed. Staring down at her, he loosed the buttons of his trouser band.

As always, when made aware of his physical nearness, like awakening beside him in the middle of the night or coming upon him unexpectedly, there stirred in her a thrill of excitement as powerful as the sudden clash with an adversary.

He did not tarry to undress further. He lowered himself atop her and, taking her arms, stretched them ou
t at either side of her. His hands pinioned her wrists to the bed. His knee spread wide her thighs. She waited, breathless with throbbing anger and something else. Without preliminary, he drove into her, sheathing himself to the root.

She arched and cried
out his name. He silenced her not with a kiss but with his mouth over hers, his tongue penetrating, invading. She bit his lip and tasted salty blood.