Chapter Ten
Annista’s relief at escaping the world of the kitchen—unquestionably a world unto itself—and the confines of the house in general fair made her giddy. So much so that she’d grabbed hold of Alan’s arm before she realized it.
Only to make sure he did not get away from her, she assured herself. Her means of escape.
They went out the kitchen door which led to the more prosaic—and in Annista’s mind more interesting—areas of the manor. Though she supposed little could be more prosaic than the kitchen, seeing to basic needs as it did.
Out here, though, was a kitchen garden just coming into itself with the spring. Beyond that, a courtyard and outbuildings, including a stable.
No formal gardens here such as Annista had seen at other estates, which aped those farther south. The climate likely would not allow for that, even if anyone had the time or interest.
Scotland was not England, no matter how hard anyone pretended. And glad she was for it.
The man beside her, for instance, could never be mistaken for an Englishman, even if he failed to open his mouth.
His face too rugged, perhaps, with a certain slant to its planes, and to those black brows that screamed Gael.
A certain lack of polish—like the estate—despite the fact that he was well dressed.
Aye, if she dismissed his clothing, he might be some ancestor from ancient times, that black hair spilling down onto his shoulders and those smoke-gray eyes that looked paler out here in the strong light.
Hastily, she let go of his arm. “My apologies for—for touching ye.” Again. “’Twas—’twas only for show.”
“Understood. We are agreed on that point.”
“We are.”
He gazed away from her. His profile was very fine, with a proud nose and equally strong jaw.
The purported ancestor—if Alan did indeed resemble him—must have been a cursed fine-looking man.
That thought shocked her a bit. Aye, she did notice men with whom she came into contact. The blacksmith back home was particularly handsome, and she’d liked to watch him at his work whenever she could find the opportunity.
Come to think on it, he too had coal black hair, but with gypsy-dark eyes.
She caught herself up hastily. This man was her husband only by command. She could not harbor such thoughts for him.
Could she?
“D’ye have your own blacksmith here?”
“Nay. That is, we ha’ a man who travels among several estates nearby. But we ha’ our own forge. There ye will see it at the end o’ the block. Cold today, as he is no’ here.”
Alan looked curious, as if wondering why she took an interest.
“When I was a lad, I used to tak’ turns at helpin’ him work the bellows.”
The smith was an older man, then. Annista stifled a flare of disappointment.
She pictured Alan—not as a lad—helping to work in the forge, perhaps without his sark, and the flame sprang back into life.
“A smithy is essential if ye keep horses. D’ye ha’ many?”
“We’ve those for the carriage. A pair o’ Clydesdales for plowing and other farm work, like hauling timber. Father’s mount, Evan’s, and mine.”
“Your mother does no’ ride?”
“No’ anymore.” Alan stopped walking halfway across the courtyard, tantalizingly close to the stable. “D’ye like to ride?”
“I love to. Love horses and all.”
“Ah, I do no’ ken that we ha’ any mount suitable for ye. Ye did no’ bring a mount?”
“She was no’ mine to bring.”
“Well, allow me to show ye the stables.”
The interior of the stone building was warm and fragrant with the scents of clean straw and horse. Annista’s spirits rose immediately and she rejoiced to see the low building looked bright and airy, a door open at the far end.
One could tell much of a man in the way he treated his animals.
Alan performed a tour similar to that she’d had in the kitchen. His father’s mount and his, that he called Chieftain—the beast’s coat as black as his own hair.
“Hello, bonnie lad,” Annista offered Chieftain her hand and a stroke on the nose. “Perhaps,” she suggested with longing, “I might ride him?”
“Perhaps.” Could Alan hear the longing? “He is quite well-mannered.”
“I am a good rider, me.”
Another horse stood in the stall beyond Chieftain’s. “Who is that?”
“Tempest. Evan’s mount. I would no’ go too near.”
“Why not?”
The chestnut stuck his head over the half door. A beauty, he was.
Annista crossed to him and reached out.
Alan caught her back. “Nay,” he said in a low tone. “He has a temper. Evan has ruined him. He was a good horse, once.”
Annista drew free of his hand and continued to the stall door.
Tempest was a big horse, as befitted a man of Evan’s size, and had an angry eye.
“Careful, I pray,” Alan warned as she again reached out.
“Does he bite?”
“Aye.”
Annista lifted a calming hand. The big stallion stamped his hooves and shifted aside so she got a better look at him. He appeared well fed and well kept. Of course, the stable hands would see to that. But the animal’s temper was evident in every line.
What had made him that way? The same kind of treatment that had killed Annista’s sister?
Slowly and very gently, she touched his shoulder. The chestnut coat looked glossy, yes, yet her fingers felt stiff ridges there beneath the shine. The marks of old wounds? Anger washed over her, tangled with a wave of sickness.
She turned on Alan, there being no one else to turn upon. “Does Evan abuse him? And ye allow that?”
He looked at her steadily. His expression turned grim. “No’ willingly, I do not.”
Ye can judge a man by how he treats his animals. “Nay beast deserves to be ill-used.”
“I agree wi’ ye.”
“These creatures are put in our hands as a matter o’—o’ trust. To allow mistreatment—ye should be ashamed o’ yoursel’.”
The stablemaster, or perhaps he was but the head groom, came stepping up.
“Is somewhat amiss, Master Alan? Is it the care o’ the beasts?”
“Not at all, Billy,” Alan said, his gaze still fixed on Annista and now burning like a smoldering fire. “Allow me to introduce my new—wife.”
Billy appeared to be in his late fifties, weathered and balding, and at the moment appearing very distressed. He gaped at Annista with patent surprise. “Aye, Master? Well, and I wish ye joy—”
Annista swung to face the man. “I should like to visit the stables from time to time. I’m told there is nay a horse I can ride.”
“Uh—nay, Mistress.” Billy looked at Alan helplessly.
“I will speak to my father,” Alan said, still with that icy calm. “Perhaps we can procure a suitable mount. Meanwhile, if ye do wish to visit here—”
“I will keep well away fro’ Tempest, aye.” But would she? Something drew her to the big horse with the wild eye. A strong desire to comfort. To see was there anything within him that might be redeemed.
“Aye, Mistress, do that,” said Billy worriedly. “He’ll kick ye, he will, if he gets the chance.”
Too bad he had not kicked his master senseless, Annista thought.
Still and all, as they left the stables and returned to the sunlight, she came to herself. This quiet man beside her always seemed to see her at her worst. Launching herself at Evan in the chapel yesterday. Turning on him now.
He would deem her a harridan.
Did she care what he thought of her? She did not have it in her to stand by while an animal was abused. Or to respect anyone else who would.
Animal or young wife.
Why, why had no one taken Robena’s part against her brute of a husband? Were they all so afraid of Evan?
She looked at her husband from the corner of her eye. He was big and hearty. As tall as Evan, if not so beefy. Had he never tried to stand up to him for Robena’s sake?
“When does your father plan to leave?” Alan asked.
“Tomorrow, I believe, after breakfast, so they may travel in daylight.” And she would be alone, completely alone save for little Bonnie.
She would have to fight her own battles then.
Alan began, “I want ye to know—”
An interruption occurred before he could complete the sentence. Father and Earl MacKallan came around the side of the house, and the earl hailed them.
“There ye be. Showing Mistress Annista the estate, are ye?”
“A small part o’ it. Mistress Annista has informed me she likes to ride. We shall have to procure a suitable mount.”
Annista eyed Alan again, in some surprise. He had kept his word about that, and promptly. Would he keep it also in other regards?
It would be well if she could find one person here, even just one, to trust. Curious if it turned out to be her unwelcome husband.
Because, aye, Father would leave. And she would have to exist here among strangers.
“So we shall,” said Earl MacKallan, all bluff heartiness. One would never take him for a man who’d allowed his son to beleaguer a woman to her death.
“I want to see my sister’s grave.”
All three men stared at her in dismay.
“Aye, aye,” Earl MacKallan attempted to soothe. “All in good time.”
“I wish to visit it now.”
Earl MacKallan’s eyebrows shot up.
“I will tak’ ye,” Alan said.
“Aye,” said Father. “We will all go. Neilan, is it far?”
“No’ at all,” Alan answered for his father. “She is buried just beside the chapel.”
He took Annista’s arm gently.
She let him.