The Trouble with Highlanders (25 page)

“I would have words with ye, in private.”

He turned and headed for the doorway behind the high table. The room beyond it was a place few females ever ventured. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and followed. She had been mistaken when she believed the hall full of tension while she still sat at the high table.

Because now it was tight enough to snap.

Every set of eyes was on her as she climbed the three steps to the high ground and then went around the table to follow the earl. His personal escort eyed her but allowed her to pass through the doorway into his private receiving chamber.

***

The pages assigned to the high table took the opportunity to eat. The earl enjoyed long suppers, so it was a rare opportunity to stand closer to the fire and indulge themselves with personal conversation.

“He's going to send her back to her own clan, sure as can be.”

“Ye do nae know that. I heard one of the upstairs maids claim the young master wants to wed her.”

“He's off to Court and nae here to stop his father from dealing with her. She has no dowry. The Sutherlands always wed for position and gold. I wager he sends her home before his son returns.”

“Mistress Fraser is sour-tempered.”

“Aye, we'll have to suffer her, no doubt, since she has a dowry.”

The cook began to ladle out hot stew, and all the pages turned to hold out their bowls. The musicians would play a fanfare when the earl returned, so they didn't bother to keep the high table in their sights.

Sandra smiled slowly, happy to be left unattended for a change. She reached for the earl's goblet and hid it in her lap. The tablecloth assisted her and, when no one noticed, she withdrew her flower hair ornament and began to smear its contents along the inside of the goblet.

***

“Now then,” the earl said as he sat down, “'tis time ye and I had a blunt discussion.”

Lytge waved at his men. “Off with ye, lads.” They hesitated in the doorway, their gazes traveling to her. The earl stood up with a growl. “Do ye nae think me capable of handling one wisp of a lass?”

His men tugged on the corners of their bonnets and quit the room.

“Somehow, I do nae think I will have the good fortune of having ye attempt to strangle me, even if I might hope for the pleasure of feeling ye wrap yer body around mine.”

Her jaw dropped open in shock. Lytge beat the table with his amusement and walked over to the cupboard. He lifted a pitcher and filled two mugs, bringing them back to the table.

“Sit, lass.”

The chairs behind his table were ornately carved and too heavy to move. A stool was pushed beneath the end of the table, obviously left there by one of his secretaries. Daphne pulled it out and sat down.

“If I'd invited young Sandra Fraser in here, she'd nae have missed the opportunity to sit herself down in one of me fine chairs. Ye may wager upon that fact for certain.”

“This serves well enough.”

He set one of the mugs in front of her and settled back into his chair. “I understand being tired of all the pomp and circumstance.” He drew a sip from his mug. “There is a satisfaction in doing a thing or two for oneself. But outside this sanctum, I must make sure there is order, else we'd end up as naught but a snarling pack of wolves, all intent on killing one another for the most gain.”

The earl drew another sip and watched her over the rim of his mug. “What are ye thinking, lass?” he demanded softly.

“That Norris learned a great deal from ye. Yer gaze is as sharp as his, and ye try to disguise how much ye do notice behind yer guise of entertaining and making merry. Yet ye are nae the aged man ye so often portray.”

“And me son uses duty to me as his shield to keep the world from knowing just how much he does think before acting,” Lytge offered gently.

“He does take his duty to ye to heart,” she made sure she stared straight into the earl's eyes as she spoke.

Lytge chuckled and drained his mug. “Ye have strength and a spine of solid steel. I did wonder if ye were naught but a spoiled brat.” He pointed at her. “Casting aside young Laird MacNicols might have been naught but a service to yer own petty preferences. It would nae have been the first time a laird's daughter decided she'd have what she wanted no matter the difficulties it caused others.”

“I was thinking of the difficulties and naught else,” she countered. “Broen MacNicols was growing closer to feuding with the Chisholms over the match. I refused to watch bloodshed because of my wedding.”

The earl tilted his head to one side. “Aye, Faolan is as passionate as his father was. When it comes to women, they lose their heads.” He placed the mug on the table and aimed a hard gaze at her. “What do ye want of me son?”

“To be near him.” It was a simple answer but one that crossed her lips instantly. It was an emotional response, and logic had no control over it.

The earl grunted. “I noticed ye did nae say ye wish to wed him.”

It was a baited comment, a test of her motives. Daphne slowly smiled, her confidence warming her. “If position was what I craved, I'd be Lady MacNicols. Twice I had the chance, and twice I chose to see the harm it would do. I understand how the world works, and I truly have no dowry, but I have something more important. Yer son's affection. That is all I desire.”

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. She realized he had Norris's green eyes, and they were full of a glimmer that touched her heart. He covered it quickly, clearing his throat as he stood up.

“Me appetite has returned. Let us taste some of the cook's fare before the man throws himself off the curtain wall.”

“I doubt he'd do such a thing. The man does nae seem to lack confidence.”

The earl raised an eyebrow at her as he came around the table. “He is a powder keg, is nae he? But the man can make even a Lent table appetizing. Ye have the spine to deal with him, but more importantly, ye have a clever enough wit to understand the value of nae crushing his spirit. That Fraser brat would crush him, simply for the sake of knowing she was being obeyed. 'Twould be a waste, I assure ye, and serving up bland fare would be the man's vengeance.”

The earl brushed by her as he made his comment, but there was a note of amusement in his tone that snagged her attention.

“Ye are playing with me, Laird Sutherland.”

He turned and winked at her, just as cocksure as Norris so often was. “As ye noticed, lass, I'm nae so old as I would let some believe. Nor am I as much of a miser. Me son's happiness is something I hold close to me heart. But this business with Sandra Fraser is nasty. It will take a bit of doing to clear it up.”

The stone that had felt lodged on top of her heart for the better part of the day suddenly lifted away. It seemed impossible to have so much tension relieved by so simple a conversation, but it was. Lytge was laird of Dunrobin. His word was law.

None of that mattered to her. What warmed her heart and sent tears into her eyes was the way the man had winked at her. He approved of her. Coupled with the affection Norris had expressed for her, there was nothing else to long for. Life was perfect.

***

The musicians of Dunrobin lifted their instruments the moment the earl emerged from his private chambers. They filled the great hall with bursts of music as the people enjoying the evening meal stood in respect for their laird.

“Let us enjoy this fine meal, Mistress MacLeod.”

Lytge sat down and didn't seem to notice the flurry of activity behind him as his pages returned. His goblet was filled, and the maids began to bring the food back from where it had been warming in the kitchens. Once again, the cook appeared to watch his laird.

“Mistress Fraser has retired for the evening,” Asgree informed the earl softly.

“How fortunate,” he muttered low enough to keep his words from drifting too far. Daphne's eyes widened, which earned her another wink as he sampled the ale in his goblet and began to partake of the supper before him.

“Eat, lass! Ye look frail enough to blow away with the winter winds.” He used his knife to deposit a serving of meat on her plate, laughing when she tried to protest. “Nonsense, it is nae too much. Sutherland is a demanding land. Ye will need strength here.”

He waved at the musicians, and the hall filled with the sounds of the bagpipes and the clàrsach. Men at the lower tables began to keep time with the music, and some of the women rose to dance. Soon tables were moved aside so the younger girls might high step on their toes while their skirts twirled.

Daphne smiled and clapped in time. But she failed to completely forget Sandra Fraser was nearby, just waiting to do her best to destroy everything Daphne held dear.

***

Deigh Tower was gloomy. Clarrisa frowned, trying not to curse her departed guests, but she failed. She sighed. There would be penance for certain later when she confessed her sins, but for the moment, she cursed Sandra Fraser for the mess the girl had made.

How had Sandra known it was Norris Sutherland arriving? The question needled Clarrisa throughout the day as she reflected on the previous night's events and had trouble recalling the moment she had fallen into bed. She was not normally prone to such lapses in memory, and when she considered she had partaken of only a single glass of cider, her mind refused to let the subject go. Her suspicions refused to allow her peace until she made her way to the back of the kitchens where the stillroom was. A large cabinet stood there, with numerous small drawers. It was the spice cabinet. Clarrisa gently pulled on each handle, making sure all the locks held. They did, confounding her, because it was the only place the more potent compounds were kept: compounds that might ease suffering and take an injured person into sleep in spite of pain; compounds that might make it difficult to recall the night before.

A loud sound drew her attention. She listened to it for a long moment before following it. The stone hallways of the tower made the sound echo. She'd lived at Deigh Tower only for half a year and was still learning the maze that made up its kitchens and storerooms. The sound drew her around a corner and then down another passageway until she smelled the scent of yeast from the cellar.

Clarrisa peered inside to see the brewmaster sound asleep in the corner. The man was leaning up against a wall, perched on a stool. She moved closer to him and snapped her fingers near the man's ear, but he snored on. In his hand was a mug of half-drunk cider, the barrel nearby. Suspicion rose back up inside her, for she recognized the scent of the cider. The man would never open a new barrel without permission; however, he might finish off one the laird would think empty after entertaining guests.

“Mistress?” Her head of house's voice came from somewhere down the passageways. “Mistress? Where are ye?”

Clarrisa moved back toward the door. “I am here… in the cellar.”

Edme would send her husband's retainers looking for her if she failed to answer, because every castle had its spies. Clarrisa wasn't surprised when Edme appeared with two men close on her heels.

“If ye needed something from the brewmaster…” Edme's voice trailed off when she caught sight of the passed-out man in the corner.

“He will nae wake,” Clarrisa said loud enough for her words to bounce between the stone walls. She lifted the mug cradled in his lap and sniffed the contents. “This is the cider from last evening.”

Edme took the mug and sniffed it. She also tasted it before passing it to the men behind her. One of them knelt down and clapped his hands next to the brewmaster's ear. The man roused only partially before renewing his snoring.

“I've known this man since we were lads, and he never sleeps so soundly.”

“I suspect foul play, as well.” Clarrisa moved closer to the cask. “Pry off the top.”

The man was happy to comply, even if his expression was dark. He pulled a tool from where it rested on the wall. Using a mallet, he hammered the steel rod under the lid until the wood splintered and the top came free. When he lifted the top away, they all peered into the barrel, but there was nothing but cider.

“Poor the contents into an empty barrel,” Edme ordered. “Slowly.”

There were only a few inches of cider left, and it took a brief moment for the small bundle of cloth to be discovered. Edme picked it up and placed it on the table used for smaller bottles of French wine. One of the men offered her a knife, and she used it to open the packet. She spread out the contents, inspecting them closely.

“A sleeping draught,” she announced.

Clarrisa looked back at the brewmaster, frustrated by the fact that she could not wake the man. Every second he slept offered the culprit more time to escape.

“I needs speak with me husband. Place a man here, and tell me the moment the brewmaster awakens. We must know who had the opportunity to place that in the cider.”

Truly, she already knew. A quick look at Edme, and Clarrisa realized the older woman agreed with her. Their opinions alone would not be enough to convict Sandra Fraser. Not in a world run by men, and Bari Fraser was a laird. Norris Sutherland had best say his prayers, for he needed divine deliverance.

***

The cook in charge of the kitchens at Dunrobin looked satisfied—happy even—as Lytge wiped his lips on a linen napkin and nodded enthusiastically.

“The man is gifted, I tell ye, Daphne.” He leaned closer to her. “Artists have the most unpredictable tempers.”

“So I have heard.”

The earl winked and drained his goblet. He let out a pleased sound before standing up to address his people. The hall went silent.

“A fine meal, Master Cook, one… I…”

He stopped and cleared his throat, but when he opened his mouth to continue, all that came forth was a strangled gasp for air. Lytge struggled to draw breath. His body shook as he failed to fill his lungs. He braced one hand against the tabletop and slowly collapsed. His men began rushing toward him; they couldn't help him. Lytge Sutherland fell to the floor, and as he suffocated, his face turned purple. Women screamed and men cursed. The head table was turned over and its dishes scattered down the stairs as more men tried to get close enough to the earl to aid him.