Chapter 8 #2
On her hands and knees, she crawled to her clothing, still in a heap on the floor where she'd left it. Shivering against the cold, she stood, and dressed. The wind gusted through the broken windows, and she was glad to have the woolen garments on.
Hearing no one about, she hurried down the spiral stone stairs.
Soon, she entered the bedchamber with intact windows, along with a fireplace and a small stack of dried driftwood.
She barred the door so the men wouldn't enter.
She had already seen smoke rising from the chimneys, so they wouldn't notice smoke from this fireplace.
She tore some straw from the old mattress and found a few small twigs near the driftwood to use as kindling. A tinderbox sat on the mantle. After placing the wood and kindling just so, she used the flint and steel to create sparks that landed on the dried moss from the tinderbox.
With the heavy cloud cover, gloaming would arrive earlier. She pulled the shabby draperies over the window to block out the cold air and hide the light from the fireplace. Once the men were asleep, she would slip down to the kitchen and eat some of their food.
Most importantly, she had to drive Elsea away from Brodie. She didn't need to be in the lass's chamber to give her commands in nightmares. She could do that from here.
What Wilona needed now was her keek stane to keep an eye on Brodie, his former whore, and Talnaroch. With the scrying stone, she could arrange things to her benefit. She had to devise a way to snatch it from Finnian.
***
ELSEA AWOKE AND BOLTED upright in bed, her heart galloping at breakneck speed. What? A dream? Nay, a nightmare. That woman had radiated an evil aura.
Elsea's damp nightgown clung to her. She shivered and glanced at the window. 'Twas open halfway, and misty rain blew in on the chill wind. It had been closed before she'd taken the nap.
She shoved herself to the edge of the bed, pain shooting through her head from the effort.
Before she could rise, the door swung inward, and a dark-haired lass entered. "I hope I did nay wake you, m'lady." She curtsied. "I'm Flossie, the chambermaid. Oh! Your window is open!" She darted forward, closed and latched it.
"It must have blown open while I was asleep." Elsea gasped. "My voice has returned!" She rubbed her throat, which no longer pained her. "Oh, thank heavens."
This was the first time she'd met Flossie, so she did not know of Elsea's missing voice.
"I'm glad. Are you cold?" Flossie added driftwood to the fire.
"Aye." Elsea stood, found a black woolen cloak on the chair, and wrapped it around her. Whose cloak was this? She'd lost hers in the sea, Brodie had said.
The pain in her head had diminished a bit, but 'twas still uncomfortable.
Flossie, who appeared to be no more than sixteen summers, curtsied again. "Do you have need of anything else?"
"Nay. I thank you." Chills and a cold sweat still covered Elsea from the nightmare. The strange woman in her dream had been so real. Why had she ordered her to go to her brother's? Her father still held Kincreag, did he not?
Oh saints, what if her da had died since her eighteenth birthday? She must ask Brodie forthwith.
"Where is the laird?" Elsea asked.
"Having his nooning meal. A kitchen maid will bring your food."
"Do you remember me? From a few years ago, I mean?"
"Nay. I have only worked here a few months."
"When his lairdship finishes his meal, can you tell him I wish to speak to him?"
Flossie nodded. "I will have the steward ask him."
Another maid with darker hair, who was perhaps in her mid-twenties, entered with a tray of food and set it on the table near the hearth.
"I thank you. How long have you worked here?"
"M'lady?" Her dark brows shot up.
"Do you remember me from a few years ago?"
The maid hesitated, her hazel eyes wide. "Aye."
"Why was I here?"
"Oh, eh. I forgot your ale, m'lady! I'll fetch it forthwith." She bolted out the door, and Flossie followed.
Elsea frowned after them. "What the devil?" They acted terrified of her. What did they not wish to reveal? Why did everyone remember more about her than she did? She had to speak to Brodie. Should she call him Brodie, chief, or m'laird? Most likely the latter.
Too rattled to eat, Elsea paced. Her voice had returned, so why not her memories? She stared out the window at the clouds and misty rain, replaying the nightmare in her mind.
Minutes later, a knock sounded at the door.
"Enter." Elsea was again thankful her voice had returned.
Flossie stepped in, carrying a tankard of ale. "Pray pardon. I'm sorry we are so late with your ale."
"Do not worry over it." Elsea didn't want ale, anyway.
Flossie glanced at the tray. "Are you going to eat, m'lady?"
"Nay. I have a queasy stomach."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Um... his lairdship said when you finish eating, he will see you in the solar."
"Could I borrow an arisaid or gown? I lost mine in the sea."
"Oh, aye. Muriel, the lady's maid, already brought one in." Flossie disappeared into the dressing room and returned with an emerald velvet gown.
"Heavens, 'tis a fancy gown. Do you have something simpler?"
"This is the only clothing in here now. 'Twas Lady Catriona's. Lady MacCain said you may borrow it."
"Is she the chief's mother?"
"Aye, of course. And Lady Catriona is his sister."
Had Elsea met them in the past?
"I will ask Muriel to bring in more clothing for you. I'm nay a trained lady's maid, but I can help you if you wish."
"I would appreciate it."
Flossie helped her put on the gown and styled her hair into a simple thick braid. "I'm sorry the braid is nay smoother," she fretted.
"'Tis perfect. You're more skilled than you realize. I thank you for making me presentable. Will you show me where the solar is?"
Flossie smiled. "Indeed."
Her head still paining her, Elsea followed the maid down the steps and along the dim corridor to a carved door. Flossie knocked softly.
"Enter," said a male voice inside... Brodie's voice.
The maid opened the door and showed Elsea into the spacious but cozy room, scented with wood smoke, then closed the door on her way out.
A massive carved oak desk sat in the midst of several chairs, some wooden and some upholstered.
Ancient, faded tapestries depicting unicorns and other allegorical creatures decorated the walls.
"M'laird." Elsea curtsied, struck by how well-turned-out Brodie was, such a contrast to his untamed appearance on the island.
Standing before the hearth where a small fire burned, he was more fully dressed than she'd ever seen him. He wore a tidy, pleated plaid, a crisp white shirt, a black doublet, and all the fine accessories which labeled him a chief.
"M'lady." He gave a brief bow. His long inky-black hair pulled back in a queue, he observed her so attentively she had a difficult time holding his penetrating gaze.
Saints, but he unnerved her with his edgy magnetism.
In one way, he was so compelling and familiar, but in another, he intimidated her, as if his temper lurked close to the surface.
She could not decipher his expression or his mood. Was he friendly or ruthless?
"How is your head?" he asked.
"It still hurts some, but nay as much." He had her so distracted, her thoughts tumbled and her memories dissipated. To regain control, she glanced aside at the window. The gloom and misty rain continued outside.
"I'm glad you can speak now," he said. "I was surprised when the servant told me."
"Aye. When I woke up from the nightmare, I could talk."
He frowned, his expression vaguely skeptical. "What sort of nightmare?"
The primary reason for wanting to speak to him leapt to the forefront of her mind, though she dreaded the answer. "First, I must ask you, is my father still living?"
"Nay."
'Twas as if someone had struck her with an oar. "Saints." Cold smothered her, and she crumpled.
Brodie darted forward, grabbed her arms, and helped her sit in a chair.
"When? What happened?" she gasped, her throat closing, her head spinning.
"Almost two years ago." With a frown of concern, he knelt by her chair. "He had an accident."
She stared at Brodie through the blur of tears. "Why did you nay tell me?"
He shook his head, his midnight eyes soulful and tormented. "You were at the funeral."
"I cannot remember." Covering her face with her hands, she gave the grief full rein.
"Och, lass. I'm sorry you lost him." Brodie rose and clasped her shoulder in a strong but gentle grip. 'Twas warm, comforting, and... unexpected.
"Nay. I am sorry." She wiped at her eyes and tried to get her emotions under control. "Tell me what happened, please."
He handed her a handkerchief. "You will be even more upset."
She shook her head and blotted at her eyes with the ivory linen. "I must know." Her stomach ached with emptiness and loss. "Da and I were always close."
When she'd been six summers, her father had taught her to ride a pony.
She'd delighted in his retellings of legends and hauntings.
He'd always brought her trinkets when he'd returned from his travels.
She loved him dearly. If she had been at home at the time of his death, why couldn't she remember one thing about it?
How could her brain be that traumatized from a head injury?
And yet, she could remember him at her eighteenth birthday.
"He was a good man," Brodie said. "'Twas clear he'd spoiled you."
She searched Brodie's ebony eyes, stunned that he knew her da so well, when she could not even remember him. His eyes were somber and sad, as if he remembered the things she couldn't.
"What made you think he might have passed?" He leaned against the desk.
"The nightmare," she whispered.
"Tell me about it."
"A woman was talking to me. She said I should ask you to have your guards escort me to my brother's, and she mentioned Kincreag Castle. Which was Da's holding, last I remember."
"What did the woman look like?" Brodie's voice hardened.