Chapter Ten #2
Clearly purchasing time, he stared up at the damp-streaked ceiling. “This morning, our brother Hugh nearly fell prey to whate’er darkness stalks these walls,” he said, looking back at her.
“He could have suffered an adder bite—even died of its poison. Had he not seen the snake first, he would have surely plunged his hand straight into its lethal coils.”
“Dear saints!” Amicia stared at him. “But how did it happen? Adders frequent the moorlands and are scarce seen save on rare sunny days when they bask on rocks or sun-warmed peat banks. Besides, wasn’t Hugh in the great hall this morning? How—”
Her breath catching, she paused, a sickening dread spreading through her. “Dinna tell me the adder was in the hall?”
To her horror, Dugan nodded. “Aye, bold as day. And the whole of it is even more unsettling.”
“What can be worse?”
“The place in the hall where the adder was found.” Dugan glanced away, fixed his gaze on a shaft of moonlight streaming through an arrow slit.
“Hugh serves as seannachie for Clan Fingon, see you? Our coffers have ne’er been full enough to employ a true bard as most clans do.
Not that we mind. Hugh’s voice is purest gold, his words treasured by us all. ”
“But what does Hugh’s silvered tongue have to do with the adder being in the hall?”
“Everything, my lady. Hugh discovered the adder when he went to fetch his lute. He wanted to tune its strings before playing this evening.”
“The snake was near his lute?”
“Coiled right next to it,” Dugan confirmed, his voice grim. “That is the damning part—the snake being with Hugh’s lute proves without doubt that a blackguard of the most cunning sort walks amongst us.”
“I see,” Amicia said, not seeing at all.
“Nay, my pardon, lass, but you cannot. Not until you hear the significance of it.”
“Then what is the significance?”
“Hugh’s lute is of rare value—a fine instrument of too great a worth to be left lying about when he isn’t strumming it,” Dugan explained, flicking another glance down the passageway. “Because he e’er frets something could happen to it, he keeps it locked inside an aumbrey near the high table.”
Amicia swallowed.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
Now she understood.
She’d seen the cupboard Dugan meant. A safe storage place for valuables and always kept under key, its door firmly closed. Indeed, at first glance, only a keen eye would even note its existence, so seamlessly was it fitted into the dais wall.
“A snake could ne’er have gotten inside the aumbrey,” she said, her blood running cold. “Not unless someone put it there.”
“There you have it,” Dugan agreed, his fingers curling around the haft of his flail. “Whoe’er is responsible knew Hugh would be retrieving his lute. With the wedding feast set for this night, nothing is more sure.”
Amicia pressed a hand to her cheek, wordless.
Dugan cleared his throat. “Lady, my brother will miss your presence, but he will understand if you would now prefer to bide awhile abovestairs before joining him,” he said, looking so miserable at the suggestion, the queasy roilings in Amicia’s belly turned to steel.
Hard, well-tempered MacLean steel.
“I thank you, but I will go to him now.” She lifted her chin. “I will not hide away from whate’er troubles face my husband.”
“Magnus is a reasonable man . . . for the most.” Dugan tried again. “He will—”
“And I am a resolute woman,” she cut in, red-hot daring pulsing through her.
Its ferocity—and the emboldening thrill of it—amazed and enlivened her. Even if her brothers would swear a more headstrong lass ne’er walked these Isles.
She knew the truth, knew the doubts that e’er gnawed at her heart, robbing her sleep and chasing her through her dreams.
Tonight she meant to challenge every one of them.
“Your brother will need me this night . . . if only to wear a joyous, untroubled face before his people,” she asserted. “Do you not see? The dastard behind these attacks will be there tonight. Waiting, watching, and hoping to see us cowering in fear.”
Staring at her, Dugan started to shake his head, but then an ever-broader smile began sneaking across his face.
“By the Rood, I knew you’d make my brother a fine bride,” he said, offering her his arm with a bit of a flourish.
“Then let us hope he can be convinced of that as well, good sir,” Amicia gave back, linking her arm in his.
Feeling bold indeed, she let him escort her forward, toward the great hall and her waiting husband.
And each step of the way, she drew Devorgilla’s cloak a bit more securely about her shoulders.
Just for good measure.
Amicia clutching the cloak was not lost on a certain someone observing the fine lady’s arrival. In the secrecy of shadow, a far better cloak than any fur-lined mantle however dear, someone allowed a wee smile to tug at lips too long set in lines of vengeance.
The night was yet young and fresh, but Clan Fingon’s doom inched ever near.
And just as the new bride’s richest raiments couldn’t keep her from shivering, neither would dragging tables and shoving benches from one end of the hall to the other stop someone’s boiling wrath from crashing down upon their unsuspecting heads.
And all the fool precautions they attempted would prove fruitless.
Someone’s machinations and wit would e’er besiege them until very soon, in the hour of their greatest need, they would be brought to their knees.
One by one, if need be until the earth had been cleansed of their scourge and every last MacKinnon awakened to find himself on the hither side.
Aye, their end approached.
Tonight was the beginning of it.
Amicia paused just inside the hall’s arched entrance, her breath catching at the transformation of its most-times silent and grim vastness. Though the choking bite of countless pitch-pine torches stung and watered her eyes, the difference couldn’t be denied.
Nor the splendor.
Silver branches of fine-burning candles lit every trestle table, and not the lesser-quality tallow candles most often found throughout the MacKinnon stronghold.
Nay, these were fine tapers of purest beeswax, and the dazzling array of victuals they illuminated would have received oohs and ahhs at the noblest of tables.
Aye, for this one night, Coldstone Castle seemed to have set aside the burden of troublous days and truly outdone itself.
Someone had spread sweet-scented meadowsweet atop the floor rushes and that delicate scent pleased the senses even as the richer, heavier aromas of well-roasted meats and seafowl hung in the smoke-hazed air, tantalizing the taste buds and making mouths water.
Amicia caught her lower lip between her teeth, pleased beyond measure. Ne’er had she seen a more impressive display.
Even with the somewhat disconcerting circumstance of the high table no longer gracing the raised dais at the other end of the hall, but in such close proximity to the main entry door she’d almost walked straight into it.
Nevertheless, the scene before her stole her breath.
In especial, the sea of staring faces turned her way.
Shining faces filled with warmth and welcome.
The fleeting glimpses of recovered pride touched her deeply. The manifestations of pride ran rampant throughout the hall, visible in the upright posture of those lining the trestle benches and in the unmistakable spring in the step of those not yet seated.
“I’ faith!” she managed to gasp—just before her throat locked on her.
Too stunned to do much more than stare, she dug her fingers into Dugan’s arm lest he urge her any farther into the thronging masses of more MacKinnons than she’d known existed.
“They are here to greet you,” he told her, correctly guessing at least one reason for her gasp.
“You haven’t seen them before now because they’ve been toiling at the boat strand day and night, rebuilding our fleet.
They are there at earliest cockcrow and do not return until long after you’ve sought your bed. ”
“There are so many.” Amicia stood as if frozen to stone, keenly aware of countless sets of eyes turned her way, each pair scrutinizing, even if in friendly and warm regard.
Dugan patted her hand. “You needn’t fret, lass. They are pleased to see their future laird’s bride.” He slanted her a look of brotherly encouragement. “Magnus’s bonnie, raven-haired bride.”
“Raven-haired?” Amicia shot him a quick glance.
If one more MacKinnon called attention to the sootiness of her hair color, she’d shave off the whole of it.
Everywhere!
“Well, you are—are you not?” Dugan teased, winking at her.
He lifted a lock of his own black hair. “’Tis a bonny enough shade, I’d say.”
Amicia shrugged one shoulder, not wanting to dwell on her coloring.
Not now.
Not this night.
“Dinna look so troubled. ’Tis a good thing you are not fair-haired or flame-topped, never you worry.
” Dugan took her hand, kissed the air above her knuckles.
“My brother has e’er had a taste for sultry lasses.
You will have him on his knees and begging your favor before you can say, ‘Coldstone Castle.’”
A stab of sharp green ache shot through her upon his words. “At the moment, I would be well-content just to see him smile.” She tightened her grip on his arm when he made to lead her forward.
She wasn’t taking another step until she’d assured herself nary a one of those blowsy, black-tressed phantoms hadn’t used Dugan’s innocently hurtful words to slink close to her again.
Nay, she wasn’t budging.
Not before she’d had time to regain the strength of her MacLean blood.
Its steel.
An advantage she’d sorely need to face and claim the magnificent man pacing in front of the hearth fire.
Not that she couldn’t look on him until her eyes ached!
She stared across the hall at him, her heart thundering, the nervous flutters in her stomach underscoring the thrall he held over her.