MacGregor's Daughter_A Scottish Historical Romance Page 5
"Watching over your mistress, are you, lads?" he whispered, before once again closing the door between them. He drew back the thick window covering, opened the wooden shutter, and shivered as the cold enveloped him. He peered through the glass. Snow was still falling. He was thankful the lass had made it to Blackstone when she did. Even so, if not for the dogs, they would never have found her before she succumbed to the cold.
With the lass weighing heavily on his mind, Alex left his bedchamber and made his way downstairs to the great hall, where the tables were being set up to serve the first meal of the day.
Drostan was sitting by the fire and smiled when he saw Alex. "How does the lass fare this morn?"
"She's not yet awakened, and the hounds stayed with her the entire night."
He raised his brows. "'Tis most obvious she's no stranger to those two."
"Aye, 'tis certain, and part of the riddle plaguing me. As of now, I've a great many questions, with no answers. Questions about the dogs, Grant, and especially Ceana."
His friend nodded. "Aye. 'Tis indeed a dilemma."
Across the room, Willie came in from the outside, brushing the snow from his cloak.
Alex motioned him over.
"Aye, laird?" he asked, warming his hands over the fire.
"What of the warhorse the lass was riding?"
Willie shook his head and snorted. "Some horse, he is. He tries to bite or trample anyone who gets near. How the wee lass rode him, I dinnae ken. "
Alex had wondered the same thing the night before. "Do you fancy a look at the horse before breaking your fast?" he asked Drostan, rising to his feet. "I didnae get a good look at him last night. Perhaps he can give us an idea of who Ceana might be."
"I'm right behind you."
"Best first fetch your cloak. The snow is coming down as heavy a goose feathers. I'll meet you back here." Alex returned to his bedchamber and grabbed his own cloak, but before he left, he opened the inner door and peered inside. Flora was adding peat to the fire. "How does she fare?"
The servant slowly shook her head. "She's not opened her eyes, and her feet appear to be no better."
He blew out a long breath. "Perhaps she just needs more time. I'll return later."
"Aye, laird."
Drostan was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. Once they were outside the castle, he stopped and turned to Alex. "I'm going to ask you the same question you asked me last night. When are you going to find yourself a wife and sire an heir to Blackstone?"
Alex blew out a breath, as he raked his fingers through his hair. He knew damn well where the conversation was headed and had no interest in going there. "I've found no one who appeals to me."
Drostan snorted. "Nay, and you never will, until you put the past behind you and move on."
How could he move on? "I will—when I'm good and ready."
Drostan gently squeezed his shoulder. "'Tis time you had a family—a life of your own. How long has it been since you bedded a woman?"
His face heated. Whenever Alex even thought of making love to another woman, guilt sliced through him like a sharp double-edged sword. "Tis none of your business," he snapped and walked away.
Drostan caught up with him. "Alex, it's been two years since you lost Rowena."
His heart stumbled at hearing her name. He stopped and glared at Drostan. "I damn well ken how long it's been, but it'll never be long enough."
"You're as a brother to me. I wish only to see you happy."
Alex nodded and sighed. "I know you do." 'Twas not Drostan he was irritated with—but himself. He truly wanted to get on with his life—wanted a wife and bairns, but Rowena's memory haunted him and held him back. Sorcha had introduced him to lass after lass, hoping that one of them would make him forget, but none of them had—for he never gave any of them a chance. "Let's speak no more of the matter today and go see the stallion."
They crossed the bailey, hearing the commotion inside the stable long before they reached it.
"What the devil is going on?" Alex shouted as he went inside.
"'Tis the warhorse, m'laird. The beast is tearing his stall apart," Fergus, the stablemaster, yelled above the noise, frustration clear in his aging voice. "James went to remove his saddle, and he tried to bite the lad's arm off."
Alex frowned. "Was he badly injured?"
Fergus shook his head. "Nay. The stallion's teeth but grazed him, before he made it out."
Just as the three men reached the stall, the horse kicked out his hind legs, battering the wall of the stable. Had it not been constructed of thick oak, he might have succeeded in breaking through.
Alex shook his head. "I'm having a difficult time believing Ceana rode this wild-eyed devil."
Drostan shrugged. "Perhaps he belongs to her. She could have tamed him since birth."
"'Tis possible, but somehow I doubt it."
Fergus shook his head, as he stroked his snow-white beard. "Nay, this stallion belongs to no lass. The owner of this horse had considerable strength, to give him a beating as would leave such marks as the horse carries."
Followed by Drostan and Fergus, Alex entered the stall next to the stallion's and peered over the wall. Across the horse's rump were several welts and sores, both healing and fresh.
Alex cursed beneath his breath. The animal had been sorely mistreated. "The whoreson who left these marks deserves naught less himself."
"Aye," Fergus agreed. "A pouch was fastened to the saddle. I was just about to take it up to the castle. I'll have the lad fetch it. James?"
The stable lad poked his head out of the tack room. "Aye?"
"Bring the laird the pouch we took off the stallion."
James disappeared back into the room, then reappeared with a black leather pouch, which he handed to Alex.
"Much thanks, lad," he said, eager to find out what—if any—answers its contents might hold.
WHEN CEANA FIRST AWAKENED, she thought she was in her bed at Teineaer Castle, and all that had happened was naught more than a horrible dream. But then she had opened her eyes and found herself in an unfamiliar bedchamber. Her two beloved wolfhounds lay on the bed beside her, which came as a complete shock—though a pleasant one. By the looks of it, she was inside a castle—and a fine one at that. More than likely, 'twas the one she had stumbled upon during the storm. Thank the saints, someone had found her before she had perished in the snow.
A warm tongue licked her hand. She smiled down at Ross and ruffled his thick brown coat. Never one to be left out, Duff shoved his wet nose beneath her other hand, and she scratched him behind his floppy ears. "I'm not certain how the two of you found your way here, but I'm most glad you did," she whispered.
In a chair beside the bed, a young woman sat dozing, a servant—judging from her mode of dress. Ceana looked around the bedchamber, beautifully decorated with elaborately embroidered bedding and window coverings. Matching cushions covered the window seat, and a deep green wool rug hid most of the floor. The intricate carvings on the dark wood of the bedposts, headboard and wooden canopy above, displayed amazing craftsmanship. A large oak chest sat in one corner, and a cabinet stood next to it. This was no ordinary guest bedchamber, but most likely belonged to the lady of the castle. But why had she been placed there?
She moved her right foot and winced from the intense pain. The same thing happened when she moved her left. Tears burned her eyes, and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying out.
"Are you in much pain, lass?" a man asked her.
Ceana jumped. She had not realized anyone else was in the room—save for the servant. She turned toward the sound of his voice and her breath froze in her chest. An attractive young man—most likely in his twenties, with shoulder-length hair as black as a raven's wing—and eyes just as dark—smiled at her from the open door between the rooms. "What's the matter with my feet?" she asked, once she found her voice.
He frowned. "I'm afraid they've been frostbitten," he answered sympathetically.
He came farther into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed. "The healer believes you'll not. Flora, there, has been tending you as she's been instructed."
At the mention of her name, the servant's eyelids popped open. She jumped to her feet and curtsied. "Forgive me, m'laird."
He smiled. "Flora, fetch the lass something to break her fast, and grab a bite for yourself while you're about it."
The servant girl curtsied again, then headed for the door.
"And leave the door open," he ordered.
He was a gentleman indeed, not wishing her reputation damaged.
Once Flora had gone, he took her seat. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Alexander MacPherson, the Laird of Blackstone Castle."
Then it must be his wife's bed she was in. "I'm most appreciative of your kind hospitality, Laird MacPherson."
He grinned, and her heart lunged against her chest. "Please, call me Alex. And who might you be, lass?"
She had known he would ask her sooner or later. But she could not very well tell him she was a MacGregor, could she? For all she knew, he could be in alliance with the same Campbells who had murdered her family.
When she did not answer him immediately, he blew out a long breath. "Very well. If you dinnae wish to tell me about yourself, then please allow me to tell you what I already ken about you. First and foremost, you're a lady," he stated matter-of-factly.
She raised a brow. "You appear quite sure of yourself."
He grinned again. The effect it had on her was quite unsettling. "Aye, I am. I dinnae find many peasant lasses on my doorstep clothed in fine woolen gowns and wrapped in ermine-lined cloaks."
She could not help but chuckle. "You're correct, laird. I am Lady Ceana MacDougal." Her grandmother had been a MacDougal, so she had not entirely lied, and she had been using the MacDougal name for the past seven years.
"I see. From whence do you hail?"
"Dunstaffnage—near Oban." It had once been the ancestral home of the MacDougals, her grandfather had told her as much, but it had been taken from them by the king and given to the Campbells many years before. She prayed Alex was unaware of the later.
He nodded. "You've come a long way in frightful weather. Would you mind telling me why?"
She suddenly looked away.
What was she hiding? Was she running from something—or someone? For now, he would leave it at that. He would ask her again later, or perhaps she would decide to tell him on her own—once he gained her trust.
He scratched Lug behind the ears. "The dogs like you."
She smiled. "I've a certain manner with animals."
"Such as with the warhorse you were riding?"
She innocently bit her lower lip, and his breath hitched in his chest. "If not for Cree I would be dead, I'm certain of it. Is he well?"
"Though he has downright destroyed my stall, he has a belly full of oats, and none the worse for wear. He's an amazing animal, with exceptional breeding. And I should ken, for I breed and sell horses." He decided not to mention the marks the horse carried. "Does he belong to you?"
Instead of answering, she turned her attention to the wolfhounds.
Judging by her actions, the answer to his question was no. "I'll not query you anymore today, but that doesnae mean I dinnae expect some answers soon. Do you understand, lass?"
"I understand," she said quietly, keeping her gaze on the hounds.
Flora entered the bedchamber carrying a tray filled with food and drink.
He rose to his feet. "I'll leave you to break your fast, but I'll return later to see how you're faring," he said, then left the room, closing the door behind him. He frowned. The MacDougals had not lived at Dunstaffnage for centuries. For what reason had she lied? At least she had given him the same name she had given Art. Shaking his head, he exhaled loudly and headed down to the great hall to break his own fast with Drostan.
When he reached the high table, his friend looked up from his porridge and smiled. "Why are you grinning like a child at Yuletide?"
Alex laughed and took his seat. "Ceana is awake," he whispered.
"Ahh. That explains the grin. And how is the lass?"
"Her feet pain her greatly, but otherwise, she appears to be well."
Drostan nodded. "'Tis good to hear."
He picked up a bannock. "Until last night, I had settled in for a quiet, tranquil winter. Then from out of nowhere, Ceana appeared amid a snowstorm, riding a warhorse that most warriors would steer clear of. And the wolfhounds I purchased two days ago wouldnae give a second thought to ripping out a man's throat to protect her, and then there's Art Grant, a total stranger who claims he kens her."
Drostan chuckled and finished off his porridge with a chunk of warm bread.
"And despite all the unanswered questions, I've not felt so alive in months," Alex admitted, mostly to himself.
"I thought as much. I've not seen that twinkle in your eye in some time. Now, tell me. What did you learn from the lass?"
"Not much, only that she is Lady Ceana MacDougal, and hails from Dunstaffnage." He shook his head, then downed his goblet of ale.
His friend frowned. "Dunstaffnage? Why would she say such a thing? The king took the castle and lands from the MacDougals and gave it to the Campbells long ago."
Alex nodded. "Precisely. Evidently, she doesnae wish anyone to ken where she's from. But, I think Ceana may tell me the truth, once she feels she can trust me. If not, then I'll have to find it out for myself."
"When do you intend to tell Grant that she has awakened?" Drostan nodded toward the stranger, sitting alone in the corner breaking his fast.
"Soon. But first, I wish to see Ceana's reaction when she learns he has followed her here to Blackstone."
"Good thinking." Drostan winked at the servant girl filling his cup, and her cheeks pinked.
"Then I'll allow Grant to visit with her—in my presence, of course."
"Of course. Seeing their reaction to one another will tell you much."
"I'll come find you before I talk to Grant if you'd like."
"Aye, I would."
Taking a bite of his bannock, Alex studied Grant. Something about the man bothered him—something he had yet to put his finger on. Could he be the one Ceana was running from?
THAT NIGHT, ALEX LAY awake in bed, watching the flickering shadows of firelight dance across the floor of his bedchamber, and listening to the rattle of glass, each time the wind gusted against the window.
Ceana had been at Blackstone for but a few days, and yet, she had taken over his thoughts. There was something about the lass that drew him, made him want to be near her. He remembered the pouch he had been given at the stables that morning. Perhaps he should have a look at its contents. Alex got out of bed, lit a candle in the fire, and sat down at the table. After untying the binding, he poured out the contents of the pouch.
Several coins and pieces of jewelry spilled onto the oak table. Each was lovely and worth a great deal but told him naught about Ceana he did not already know. Then he realized there was something else inside the pouch. He gently shook it, and a gold locket and chain fell out. He opened it to find two miniature portraits. One of a man, and the other a woman, who bore a remarkable resemblance to Ceana—but several years older. He suspected they were her parents. But where were they? And what was their daughter running from? He knew Ceana was running from something, for what other reason would a young woman go out alone, and risk both life and limb in a snowstorm? Alex did not yet know the answer to that question, but he meant to find it out—one way or another.
Chapter Five
Once Ceana had finished breaking her fast, Flora left to return the platter to the kitchen. Willie had taken the dogs for a run, leaving her without so much as her pets to fill her time. Four days she had been ly
ing in bed and would be daft if she did not get out of it soon. Carefully, she swung her legs over the side, clenching her teeth against the throbbing pain in her feet.
A knock sounded at the door. Flora must have returned. "Come."
Alex walked into the room, leaving the door open behind him. His long hair had been recently groomed and covered his broad shoulders like a dark mantle. When he looked at her, his appealing mouth spread into a broad grin, which she was certain had unnerved many a lass, for it most definitely did her.
Her heart drummed against her chest, as she drew the bedclothes across her lap. The man is far too attractive for a woman's own good, her mother would have said.
"You're sitting up. Good. How are your feet?"
She shook her head. "I fear they're no better. They pain me greatly, even after taking the potion the healer left."
"I'm sorry." And he truly was, for Ceana could see it in his expressive dark eyes. "The healer was adamant that you dinnae try to walk until your feet are healed."
She sighed. "Flora said as much, but if I continue to just lie here, they're never going to improve. Besides, I've always hated being in bed—unless I'm sleeping." She should have kept that last remark to herself and scolded herself for her own naivety. Men and women did far more than sleep when they were in bed. The servant girls at Teineaer had told her as much—and more. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.
He chuckled. "A good portion of the ladies I ken would lie in bed all day if given the opportunity," he said, clearly oblivious to her discomfort.
Saints above! Had he meant what she thought he had? Of course, he would know many such ladies. A man as handsome as Alex MacPherson would have an abundance of women ready to warm his bed. Perhaps, even now, he had a mistress staying at Blackstone, ready to satisfy his every desire. The thought did not set will with Ceana and caused an odd sort of ache in the pit of her stomach.
"Would you like to move to the window seat? 'Tis a beautiful morning, with the sun sparkling like jewels on the blowing snow."