Sue-Ellen Welfonder - MacKenzie 07 (26 page)

They could only be filled with honey.

Conall had praised the quality of the isle's honey more than once when he'd delivered her dinner trays. Even so, she took one of the smaller jars, carefully pulled its waxed stopper, and sniffed.

Honey indeed.

Almost giddy with victory, she dropped the jar into one of her linen pouches and returned to the main area of the kitchens. Now she needed to find the meal kist, which could also be a barrel of oats, depending on how Geordie Dhu preferred to keep his stores.

Unfortunately the first barrel she peeked into held salted herring. She blinked against the stink of brine and stepped back only to stumble over a large stone quern and its protruding wooden handle.

"Gah!" She reeled and slammed into a cupboard, sending what sounded like an entire garrison of hornware clattering to the floor.

Ramshorn spoons and dippers slid in every direction across the stone flagging.

The noise was deafening.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Arabella couldn't breathe.

Her heart plummeted to her toes.

Any moment she'd be found out. The keep might be empty, but at the moment, she was sure she felt a thousand eyes staring at her. She wanted to turn and flee, but she couldn't leave without filling her second pouch with grain.

So she ignored the terror beating through her and hurriedly gathered up as many of the fallen spoons and dippers that she could. As to the rest of them, the ones that had skittered away to who knew where, she could only hope Geordie Dhu would assume one of his kitchen cats knocked down the utensils during an early morning prowl.

It was possible.

All castle kitchens had cats, even if she hadn't seen a one of them.

Feeling somewhat better - now that no one had appeared to see what caused the din - she peered through the shadows, searching for a likely repository for Geordie Dhu's stores of grain.

Fortune blessed her again.

An oat barrel stood in a dark niche just to the right of one of the massive fireplaces on the far wall. She knew the barrel contained oats this time because it was topped with a large baking board. A second baking board stood propped against the barrel's side.

Success at last!

Emboldened, she hurried over to the oat barrel and lifted its baking board lid. In addition to oats, a wooden dipping spoon winked up at her from within the barrel's grainy depths.

The gods truly were on her side.

Sure of it, she shook out her spare pouch and reached for the dipper, preparing to fill her sack with oats.

It was then that she heard a shuffling sound.

Arabella froze.

Her hand was deep inside the oat barrel, but she didn't dare move. She wished she could press her fingers to her temples for her head suddenly pounded with a vengeance. Her stomach lurched and her chilled fingers clenched around the long handle of the dipper.

Slowly, very slowly, the intense silence reassured her.

She was indeed alone.

Feeling foolish, she scooped up a large dipperful of oats and poured them into her pouch. She helped herself to a second scoop and a third, certain the Giving Stone would appreciate a generous offering.

Not that she truly believed the like.

But if she meant to bend her knees at some long-dead hermit's cell, she might as well attempt to plead her wishes to the Auld Ones.

She was desperate.

And it couldn't hurt to appease the gods of both worlds.

At best, the seabirds and island creatures would thank her for her gifts.

So she dropped the dipping spoon back into the oat barrel and carefully tied the drawstring of her pouch. Then she lifted the baking board lid back into place, only now noticing how easy it was to see where to fit the board securely across the top of the barrel.

A circle of flickering torchlight illuminated the barrel and the wall behind it. The blaze also shone on her, its heat warming her back and - dear saints - catching her out in all her thieving glory.

"O-o-oh, no!" She wheeled around, managing to hold onto her bag of oats, but dropping the jar of honey.

It landed on the floor with a loud crack, splitting into two perfect halves. The honey oozed out to spread across the stone flagging, stopping just short of a pair of small black boots, scuffed and well-worn.

"What be you doing, lassie?" Moraig held the hand torch higher. Her eyes glittered in the smoking light.

Arabella couldn't speak. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth and she was almost sure it would remain there forever.

She wanted to sink through the floor.

Mad Moraig hobbled around her and thrust her torch into an iron bracket on the wall. Turning back to Arabella, she dusted her hands and then set them against her narrow hips.

"If you had a need o' oats and honey, I'd have told Conall to fetch you some." She angled her gray head, peering at Arabella with bright, all-seeing eyes. "You need only to have asked."

"I couldn't." Arabella found her voice at last. It sounded rusty, mortified. "I - ... I didn't want anyone to know I desired them. They're for my ablutions."

The excuse turned her cheeks crimson.

"Eh?" Moraig lifted a scraggly brow. "Be you no' pleased with my gillyflower soap?"

"Your soap is the finest I've ever used." Arabella rushed to reassure her.

Moraig's flowery scented soap was of superior quality.

"It is only...." She cast around for a reason. "I like to keep a small bag of oats in my cleansing ewer." It wasn't a lie. She did do this when she remembered. "The oats soften the water and soothe my skin."

Moraig nodded sagely. "Aye, I've heard the like."

"The honey...." Arabella twined the oat sack's string around her fingers. "My throat has been achy since yestere'en and I wanted to keep the honey at my bedside."

That was a flat-out lie, even if honey did have restorative powers.

Her throat was fine.

And her face was burning hotter than Moraig's torch.

But the old woman merely bobbed her head again, her smile sweet. "Oh, aye. The honey be good for all manner o' ills, sure and it is."

Looking down, Moraig nudged the broken honey jar with her toe. She stared at the shards for a long moment and when she finally raised her head, she was no longer smiling.

But her expression wasn't unkind.

"Now, lass" - she pinned Arabella with a piercing gaze, her eyes deep-seeing and lucid - "I'd know the real reason you wanted the oats and honey."

Arabella swallowed.

Moraig hobbled closer and patted her arm. "I'll no' be saying anything to Himself, dinna you worry. Nor the others. I saw them eyeing you darkly at the start and we'll no' be wishing them riled again. Truth is" - she glanced again at the spilled honey - "I have a notion why you want such goods. But I'd rather hear it from you."

Arabella inhaled deeply and released a great sigh.

Shame scalded her.

And try as she might, she couldn't form the words to tell Moraig the truth. She smoothed her hands down the front of her shawl-draped plaid, her mind racing.

She didn't want to lie to Moraig. The old woman had been so kind to her and deserved better.

"Ah, well...." Arabella straightened her shoulders. "You have the right of it," she admitted. "I do have other reasons for needing the oats and honey. Darroc has promised to take me to see the Seal Isles - "

She glanced aside, her face flaming again. "There's a hermit's cell on the main isle. St. Egbert was a follower of Columba and I wish to pray at his cave. I thought I'd leave victuals there in gratitude."

Moraig's brow hitched again. "Did you now?"

Arabella nodded.

"Do you ken" - Moraig looked down at her hands, worrying her gnarled fingers as she spoke - "there be folk hereabouts who pour oats and ale into the sea when the fishing's rough and times are hard. They do be hoping that such offerings might help ease their woes."

She glanced up then, the image of guilelessness. "Right enough, that's what they do."

Arabella's mouth twisted. "How did you know?"

Moraig gave a peal of fluty laughter. "Can you no' see how old I am, lassie?

Besides" - her eyes twinkled as she leaned close - "so far as I ken, there's no many o' Columba's men who'd be glad of a pagan offering."

"You are most wise, Moraig." Arabella dropped onto an oaken settle against the wall. "It wasn't well done of me to try and fool you. Please forgive me."

"Whist!" Moraig cut the air with a hand. "Though I am for thinking the oats and honey aren't meant for leaving on some cushion o' heather?"

"No, they aren't." Arabella folded her hands over the sack of oats on her lap and looked across the main body of the kitchens. "The hermit cell isn't the only shrine on the Seal Isles. There's another, much older one called the Giving Stone. I learned of it in my childhood. It's said to be on the beach of the main island. No one at Eilean Creag much speaks of the stone these days and I believe most folk who ever heard the tales have forgotten."

Moraig joined her on the settle. "And what be the stone's powers?"

"The stone blesses women." Arabella inhaled a jittery breath. She felt silly recounting such things. "The stories I recall describe it more as a strange outcropping of rock than an actual stone. Most importantly, there's a nearly perfect circular hole through its center."

"Ahhhh...." Moraig adjusted her black skirts, sending up a faint waft of gillyflowers. "Can it be the stone has something to do with love?"

Arabella dug her fingers into the pliant sides of the oat bag. "The stone serves women in three different ways, depending on their need," she explained, feeling more ridiculous with each word. "Women seeking the stone's benevolence must crawl through the hole at the moment of sunrise.

"If a woman is with child, the stone grants her an easy birth. If the woman is barren, she can be sure that she will soon ripen with child. And" - Arabella hesitated - "if a woman is unloved, the stone ensures that she will win her heart's desire."

Moraig put a hand on Arabella's arm, squeezing. "So the victuals are a thanks offering."

"They are more than that." Arabella shifted on the settle, uncomfortable. "As I understood the telling, a woman must bestow three gifts on the stone after she crawls through its hole. These offerings must be made no matter her wish. Grain represents the ripening of a child in a woman's belly. Fresh milk is required, too.

It stands for an easy birth.

"Honey" - she glanced at the shattered jar - "signifies the sweetness of true love."

"And I mind that'll be what you're hoping for." Moraig slapped her knee. "I kent it, just!"

Once again Arabella wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

"That is so, aye." She spoke before she lost her nerve.

Moraig deserved the truth.

To her surprise, the old woman chortled. "There be none in these isles with more respect for the old ways than me. But - " she sprang to her feet, her eyes glinting in the torchlight - "I'm for telling you that you've no need o' such a ceremony."

Arabella stood. "I've come too great a distance not to honor the stone. And" - she smoothed her skirts - "to pray at the hermit cell."

Even if she believed neither would help, she meant to do both.

It was a chance.

Moraig raised a thin arm and clutched her hand meaningfully. "And if you kent you already have him?"

Arabella's heart jumped. "If you mean Darroc, I'm sure you mistake."

"Say you!" Moraig laughed delightedly. "Himself's besotted since the day he brought you here."

Arabella wished it were so.

Unfortunately, she didn't believe a word.

"It's true as I'm standing here." Moraig leaned close, giving her a secret smile. "I was young once, remember. I ken the signs."

Arabella laced her hands together, embarrassed. "He has shown me kindness. But if he cares for me as you say, he has an odd way of letting me know."

Moraig curled her fingers in a fold of Arabella's plaid and held tight. "The lad's ne'er been in love. All men make fools o' themselves and blunder about like dimwits when they lose their hearts."

Arabella looked down at Moraig's hand, still gripping her. She didn't want her to see her face because she was suddenly filled with so much wild giddy hope she almost feared she'd choke.

As if she knew, Moraig stepped back and hitched up her black skirts. "I'll just be fetching you another jar o' honey, though," - her voice rose in triumph - "I'm thinking you'll be enjoying another kind o' sweetness when you visit that stretch o' beach on the Seal Isles."

Arabella's heart flipped. Moraig's prediction made her thrill with the memory of Darroc's embrace, the brief but scorching hot kisses they'd shared.

She wanted more.

And she would crawl through the Giving Stone.

She'd been raised to be content with what the saints had given her. But if there was even the slightest chance the ages-old ritual could help her achieve her dreams, she meant to risk the foolishness.

As her father and sister oft claimed, he who is bold succeeds.

So she straightened her back and gave Moraig her most confident smile. "We shall see," she said, feeling quite daring indeed.

She just hoped she could be as brave when the time came.

Something told her it might make all the difference.

"Did you know they're calling you Darroc the Despicable?"

The words, spoken just behind Darroc's shoulder, didn't surprise him. Conall should know he made it his business to be aware of everything that went on within his walls. A mouse couldn't snag a crumb from the great hall's floor rushes without his knowledge. He certainly knew when his men turned sour and stooped to name calling.

As long as that name wasn't Darroc the Daft, it was no bother to him.

He also knew what had their dander up.

But he had good reason not to fawn over Lady Arabella like the blundering fools his men had become. Even if he did - at times - forget her name, he couldn't ignore the disaster that would befall them if he heeded temptation. His men could glare and mutter into their beards all they wished. It wouldn't change a thing.