Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
A fter arriving back on the island, Lucy spent the rest of the day looking for the cluet with Garia while Tair attended to laird business.
They finished searching the old outbuildings that were no longer in use, so the maid suggested they try looking through some old store rooms beneath the first level of the castle, which were connected by a series of odd stone tunnels.
“Do these go all the way under the lake?” Lucy asked as she noticed some small puddles of water on the floors.
“I cannae say, my lady,” Garia admitted as she used her keys to unlock yet another iron-hinged wooden door. “’Twas built long before my birth, and the clan, they never speak of such matters to us.”
Inside the room the maid placed the lamp she carried on an empty shelf, shedding light on dozens of huge, cobwebbed oak barrels that had been left on their sides. The strong scent of charcoal and wood added to the dankness of the room, which appeared as if no one had stepped inside for years.
“Are these filled with whiskey?” Lucy asked, touching the rim of one barrel.
“Aye, my lady. ’Tis made by crofters in a hidden glen no’ far from here,” Garia said. “They dinnae sell their spirits to anyone but the MacRune. ’Twill take another ten year before they’re ready for drinking.”
Lucy stepped back out and looked down the length of the passage, the end of which she couldn’t see. At least fifty more doors lined each side.
“Did the clan fill all these rooms with whiskey barrels?” she asked the maid when she stepped out beside her.
“Och, no, my lady. Only those on the left,” Garia said, gesturing. “The right side, ’tis for the perry and cider kegs that come from the orchard presses.”
A hundred rooms filled with alcohol that wasn’t ready yet? “Where does the clan keep the spirits they can drink?”
“In the buttery, of course.” The maid chuckled as if she’d made a joke. “We walked by it when we went to check the spence—that great shuttered barn just outside the kitchens. ”
Lucy vaguely recalled the outbuilding. “Oh, I thought that was the stable.”
“’Twas before Seneschal had the stables moved to the other side of the stronghold,” Garia said. “’Twas before I came to work for the clan, but all ken that he’s ever hated horses.”
Sgathan hated something?
“Any particular reason why?” she asked, fascinated now.
“He’s never said.” The maid grimaced. “My mam served as a kitchen maid back in those years, but she would never speak against Seneschal. After my da were killed by brigands, ’twas he that came and offered Mam work.
I was but a wee bairn, and we had no other kin.
She’s ever said he kept us from starving. ”
Lucy would never have expected the smooth-talking Sgathan to show pity to a widow and her infant, but maybe that was how he recruited people who would be slavishly loyal to him. And why would the man hate horses? Aside from boats they were the only form of transportation in this time.
After checking a dozen of the aging rooms Lucy heard Garia’s stomach growling, and ended their search so they could go up and get something to eat.
After the blazingly passionate interlude with Tair at the spring she wasn’t especially hungry, or quite up to facing the clan, so she just had some bannocks and jam in the kitchen while the maid wolfed down a bowl of repulsive-looking lumpy porridge before hurrying off to help with the serving.
Sgathan came in and eyed her and Lucy for a moment before he went over to speak with Ronan, who nodded and walked out to the outdoor ovens, leaving them alone.
“Fair evening, Mistress Brooke.” Sgathan glanced at her half-finished snack. “Do you no’ care for our fish brose?”
“Fish and oatmeal porridge?” She shook her head.
“’Tis a good hot meal on a cold night.” Instead of continuing on his way he sat down across from her. “What did you find in the cellars?”
“Too much alcohol. Whisky,” she added when he frowned. “I hadn’t realized you lot outdrank the British.”
“We dinnae drink all the spirits in the cellars,” Sgathan chided. “We sell most to the cities and towns in the midlands. Highland whiskey, ’tis greatly valued there.”
“Interesting business.” It would also give them an excuse to regularly travel without attracting much notice, Lucy thought. “Do you make the deliveries yourself, Seneschal?”
“My duties give me charge of the stronghold, so I cannae leave the island.” He got to his feet, and then gave her an odd look. “Do you gossip about me with our vassals, Mistress?”
“Why, are you worried they might tell me something bad about you?” she countered.
“I’m no’ what you think, Lucy Brooke.” He didn’t give her his usual superior smirk when he added, “I’m far worse.”
That made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, but all he did was stroll back out of the kitchens.
Lucy lost what was left of her appetite, so she cleaned up and then went to face the music with the laird, whom she found washing up in their room.
He had shed everything but his trousers, and was rinsing some pink foam from his hands. Splashes of darker red on the basin’s rim told her he’d bloodied his hands.
“Did you have another fight?” she asked as she came in.
He didn’t look at her. “’Twas but a small tussle in the lists. Go to bed.”
Sleeping was the last thing Lucy wanted to do right now. “Can we talk for a bit? I need to clarify some things about today.”
“You got your stories about the cluet. That nag nearly trampled you.” Tair dried his arms and face with a length of linen before he came over to her. “ We facked.” He gave her a push toward the bed. “You’re weary. Sleep.”
He seemed to be completely unaffected by what had happened, which was depressing. “Will you at least let me say something?”
He reached out to her face, making her flinch. All he did was wipe away a tear that had run to her jaw.
“You regret what we did?” he asked, keeping his palm against her cheek.
Lucy didn’t need him to be understanding, because that was when the laird was at his most dangerous.
“You’re right. We had sex, and it’s not a big deal. Never mind.” As he snapped her shackle around her wrist she said, “I’m not tired. Unchain me and I’ll go for a walk, and then come back.”
“’Tisnae the time for a wench to flounce about the keepe alone.” He sat down on the ticking beside her. “You need sleep.”
She glared at him. “You’re not the boss of me, you know.”
“You need sleep,” he repeated, brushing her hair back from her brow, “as do I. Take your rest in my arms, and you shall ken but sweet dreams.”
He wanted to seduce her again, Lucy thought, and then something reckless and contrary inside her made her scoot over to give him room.
As soon as he stretched out beside her she cuddled closer, not caring if he read anything into it.
His warmth and strength wrapped her in a cocoon of safety, and when he pulled her on top of his chest and began slowly stroking her hair she sighed with pleasure.
“Why are you being nice to me?” Lucy asked as she grew drowsy.
His hand moved from her hair to her back. “You’d rather I beat you as I did Dorchad today?”
“You beat up Dorchad?” Lucy was impressed in spite of herself. “Why would you do that?”
“I’m laird. I may beat anyone.” He looked into her eyes. “Even stubborn wenches who refuse permit me my rest.”
Tair always tried to act like a bad guy, even when he joked with her. “You’re not a man who abuses women, or you’d have done that already.”
A chuckle rumbled low in his chest. “True men dinnae beat women. Only cowardly facks use their fists on the weak and helpless.”
Lucy lifted her head. “What about men who throw women over their shoulders?”
“’Tis a compliment I did thus to you. You’re no’ a feather.” As she started to scowl he kissed her lips. “’Twas toss you over my shoulder or on the ground.”
Lucy wanted to bite him, but Tair considered that foreplay. “I take back what I said at the spring. The rest of the clan may be good guys, but you’re a bad man. A very bad man.”
He uttered what sounded like a wordless agreement and tucked her head under his chin. “Close your eyes, or I shall prove you right again.”
Exhaustion already had her drooping, and she couldn’t summon the energy to roll off him.
He shifted her legs by nudging them between his thighs, and then sighed.
The warmth of his breath sieved through her hair and caressed her scalp, and his hands never stopped rubbing those slow, wonderful ovals on her back.
Lucy wanted to purr like a cat, she was so comfortable.
Maybe that was why she finally told him about Justin.
“He would have murdered me the day I came to you,” she told him. “I had a vision where I saw what would happen if I stayed. I didn’t make any wish to come here. The cluet brought me to your time to fulfill someone else’s wish—I think.”
His hands went still. “When we find that facking rag, shall you wish yourself back to your time?”
“I don’t know.” A few days ago she would have said absolutely, yes, the minute she touched the enchanted fabric. Now she wondered if the life she’d left behind would be snuffed out by Justin or someone else like him. “Maybe the only way I can live is to stay here. ”
“Then stay.” He rolled, putting her on her back, but remained beside her rather than on top of her. “Stay and be mine, wench.”
Her eyes stung, making her blink a few times. “You know Dorchad won’t like that. Neither will Sgathan and Cath.”
“They’re no’ the boss of me,” he said, mocking her earlier chide.
“You’re immortal, but I’m not, remember?” Lucy watched his face, but his expression didn’t change. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Never shall I,” he promised.
“Wouldn’t you rather sleep with a willing wench?” Lucy said, trying to stall what she was sure she shouldn’t tell him. “You have several hundred around here.”
The lone dimple appeared on his left cheek. “You’re willing enough, I reckon. You dinnae wish gift me the victory yet, ’tis all.”