yet the laird instructs you to keep the linens
changed?”
“A fine, dear man, our laird, but a
bit dottled,” Betty confided.
A shuffling sound drew their attention
to the door, where a young man appeared, tall, and sandy-haired,
lugging Julia’s trunk.
“It will do there, by the wardrobe,
Tom.” Betty pointed to the exact place.
While Betty unpacked Julia’s clothes
and hung them in the armoire, Tom brought heated water for the
washbasin then transferred the empty traveling chest to the corner
nearest the door.
After his departure, Betty helped Julia from
her wet clothes and freed her from her stays, a most welcome
relief. After seeing to her face and teeth, she slipped into a
snowy white nightgown trimmed with violet ribbons and cascades of
lace down the front and at the sleeves.
Julia waited by the fire while Betty
readied the sheets, sliding a brass warming pan between them,
chasing away the chill. Yawning hugely, Julia turned in place to
heat her opposite side. Her gaze fell to the hood of the fireplace,
and she noticed for the first time an engraved crest bearing a
boar’s head — a rather ugly boar’s head — holding the shank of an
animal in its mouth. At the same time, the wind and rain battered
the windows violently, shaking them in their casements.
Julia shuddered and hugged her arms about
her. The Highlands were indeed a wild, inhospitable land.
“The sheets are ready, miss,” Betty
advised as she carried the pan to the hearth and emptied its hot
contents.
The maid’s words filled Julia’s heart
with joy. Climbing into the high bed, she melted into its downy
warmth. It felt so-o-o-o good. Utterly delicious.
“Thank you, Betty.” She smiled at the
young woman.
Turning down the lamp, Betty bid Julia a
good night and left.
Julia lay quiet a moment and gazed out
into the darkened room, listening to the wind and rain lash the
windows. The red-gold of the fire provided the room’s only source
of light, still it was enough to illuminate the furniture directly
before it, a portion of the walls, and the timbers
overhead.
What was it Emmaline had said? “If
only the stones could whisper their secrets, such tales they would
tell.” She imagined the stones of this room could tell many tales.
Now, in a way, she, too, was a part of its history.
She smiled groggily at the thought,
then dismissed it, turning into her pillow. She had caught a touch
of Emmaline’ s “fever.” Too much talk of ancient keeps and
chieftains.
She nestled into the mattress, her
eyes drifting shut, and sank into blissful oblivion.
»«
Dunraven Castle, September, 1437
Rae Mackinnon, Third Laird of Dunraven
Castle, quit the hall and climbed the spiraling stairwell to his
bedchamber. It had been a devil of a night, and his mood was black
— black as the moonless sky and as turbulent as the storm that
raged without.
‘Twas vexing enough that Dunraven
burgeoned with contentious guests, and new arrivals were expected
on the morrow, he fumed. But, now, cattle had been reived from
beneath the clan’s nose on this most wretched of nights.
He’d led his men out to assess the
loss and reinforce the guard. The deed had the markings of more
than simple thieving. It reeked of a trap, he swore it. But his
brother, Iain, would not be convinced. Despite the fiendish
weather, Iain had insisted they give pursuit, then quarreled with
him openly before the others when Rae ordered the men back to
Dunraven.
Rae vented a few choice expletives as he
managed the narrow steps. Pushing open his chamber door, he strode
past the ornate bed and halted before the great fireplace that
consumed much of the wall to his left. The weariness and disgust
escaped him in a sigh as he stared into the flames.
His gaze lifted to the engraving on
the deep fireplace hood — the head of a surly boar with a sheep
shank in its jaws. Rae’s lips drew into a grim smile. He felt as
snarly as the animal looked.
An ear-splitting crack of