Two

Scotland

1583

M airead MacLeod threw her hands out against the sides of the passageway, her foot hanging half off the top step of the steep circular stairs that led down to the great hall, and struggled to keep her balance.

She looked over her shoulder, fully expecting to find the lad she'd just encountered, but no one was there. There was no one in front of her, either, which led her to wondering if she might be losing her wits. She was normally quite steady on her feet, but that perhaps came from the necessity of living in a hall full of men with swords and tankards and foul tempers that needed to be skillfully avoided. She looked about herself one last time, then shook her head at her own foolishness. There was nothing there to stumble over save her own imagination.

‘Twas possible she thought too much about too many things.

And what she was thinking about at present was how to get herself out of her brother's keep without being marked so she could finally be about the business she'd intended to see to that morning. She brushed her hand over the pouch she'd sewed to the underside of her apron just to make certain it contained what it should, then made her way down the stairs to the hall.

"Auntie Mair, save me!"

Mairead found her arms full of her niece who unleashed a torrent of more words than any bairn of five summers should have been full of, mostly complaints about her brothers—both the older ones and the three younglings trailing after her like ducklings—and supper and the length of the day that had included more chores to do than she'd been pleased with. Mairead pulled Fiona behind her and faced off with her nephews who were hard on the gel's heels.

"Have you nothing better to do with your energies than torment your sister?" she demanded. "Go improve your minds or sharpen your swords—nay, ‘tis time for supper already. Go help with the tables."

"I'll see to them, Auntie," the eldest of the brood said. He shot her a quick smile. "I did attempt it before, but there are just so many of them. Siblings, not tables."

Mairead reached out and ruffled the hair of her brother's firstborn. Young Ambrose was a quick lad and perhaps a bit too accustomed to keeping his half-dozen siblings in line. It would likely serve him well in the future, though, so she handed Fiona over to his care, then considered the state of the keep and her chances of escaping the same.

Her father was sitting in his accustomed place by the fire in his great chair, silent and watchful. He could manage little more than that, unfortunately, but Ranald MacLeod was laird still for as long as he drew breath even if it were in name only. She noted the men about him who kept watch, though in truth they weren't needed. There wasn't a soul in the keep who wouldn't have leapt to his defense should it have come to that.

Well, perhaps not everyone, but definitely the man sitting near him on a bench pushed up against the wall, his head leaned back against the stone, his snores coming as regularly as the tides. Snores were, though, far preferable to the fantastical things her uncle Lachlan was wont to natter on about. Her father was usually his best audience, but it wasn't as if her sire could have heaved himself to his feet and run off to a quiet bit of meadow for some peace.

The rest of the men were still outside, lingering a bit longer in the fresh air before they were forced to come indoors. She understood that, no doubt better than she should have. She had no call to train with the sword or hunt game, but she had her small flock of sheep to look after which kept her free of the hall for as long as the weather allowed it. That time outside afforded her not only peace for thinking but also freedom from the incessant demands of her brother who had wed himself a girl who couldn't manage herself, never mind a keep the size of theirs.

"Mair," a voice said sharply.

She realized her brother was standing in front of her. By the tone of his voice, she suspected he might have been there for a bit. She nodded to herself over the look of irritation on his face. She wasn't entirely certain why she was generally the focus of his ire whilst his wife and her own younger sisters escaped. Knowing the reason likely wouldn't change anything, so perhaps there was no point in trying to divine it—

" Mairead ."

She schooled her features into an expression she hoped was pleasant enough and fixed her attentions on her elder brother. "Aye?" she asked politely.

"Supper," Tasgall said shortly, "for us, then take some to Deirdre before you feed yourself. She's ill upstairs, which you already know." He started to say something else, then frowned and turned away.

Mairead didn't trouble herself with speculating on what that might have been. Tasgall was the laird in everything but name, so he'd become accustomed to everyone jumping to his commands. She humored him out of respect for her father and because she loved his children, but it went no further than that. She watched him greet her trio of their younger sisters with consideration, but she half suspected he was no fonder of them than he was of her. They were ridiculously lovely, though, so perhaps he strove to keep them pacified until he could use them as pieces on his board.

She blew out her breath, rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, then turned and marched herself off to help with supper.

It seemed an endless number of hours later that she managed to carefully set a stool down by the hearth in the kitchens and perch atop it without scraping it against the stone. She looked around herself, but all were comfortably senseless. She'd already promised Cook she would keep the fire going for a pair of hours, so she expected privacy for at least that long—privacy and a bit of light for examining what she did her damndest never to bring inside her father's keep. That treasure would still be hidden in a spot far from the hall if there hadn't been such a terrible storm the day before and she hadn't had to run home so quickly down the meadow. She knew she wasn't entirely safe inside, but perhaps it was late enough that the kitchen lads and lassies would sleep through her dangerous activity.

She shifted a bit closer to the fire and carefully removed her most precious possession from the pouch she'd made on the underside of her apron. She only had a trio of things she called her own: a ring of her mother's that she had hidden behind a loose stone in her brother's bedchamber where he would never think to look and the shawl she had woven for herself out of a pattern that had pleased her.

And the manuscript she held in her hands.

She'd managed to keep it hidden for the past year, but that was likely because she had a decent hand with a needle and thread and she'd taken great care to make certain no one looking at her would notice anything she might or might not have added to her apron. She pulled her shawl over her shoulder to shield her book from even sleepy eyes, then turned a bit more toward the fire so she could examine what she held in her hands.

That she could read at all was something of a miracle. Fitting, then, that she had a clergyman to thank for it, one who had simply appeared at the keep one stormy evening, begging for shelter. Strangers were a rare enough sight, but her father had always done his duty of offering hospitality to whomever had survived the weather long enough to ask for it. The bedraggled friar who'd collapsed on their doorstep a trio of years ago had been poorly clad and, once he'd warmed himself sufficiently, not terribly eager to carry on to find other souls to rescue. He'd offered his services to the laird and been granted leave to remain.

Knowing her father's lack of patience for long conversations, she'd kept the man busy with other things. Having him instruct Ambrose not only in his letters and sums, but in French and the King's English had seemed wise. Making a production of assuring her father she was willing to make the sacrifice to supervise her nephew as he sat through those lessons had seemed the very least she could do.

She'd never let on to anyone that she'd learned to read and tally numbers right along with her nephew. Whilst her clan wasn't particularly suspicious by nature, she'd never wanted to give anyone a reason to believe she might possess the supernatural talent of actually making sense of all those scratches on parchment. Besides, she was a score-and-five and too old to be anything but a maiden aunt to her brother's children. She'd been certain she would be useful to them by making certain messengers bearing the written word were actually reading those words faithfully.

She took a breath to steady herself, but that was the normal progression of things when it came to the astonishing manuscript she seemingly had care of. Once her hands were steady, she permitted herself yet another in an endless series of studying the thing to make certain she hadn't missed anything vital.

She ran her fingers over it, regretting the fact that at some point in the book's journey to her possession half of it had obviously been lost. The covering was torn and the rear half of the book missing. She knew the first because she could see where it had been damaged, and she'd suspected the latter because she'd realized at a certain point in her lengthy study that the sheaves of parchment bore numbers. She'd made a careful search of the area where she'd found the manuscript, half-buried as it had been in a bed of fallen leaves, to see if she might have missed any sheaves, but there had been nothing else there to help her.

That, and she hadn't been particularly eager to remain near the spot where she'd found it. The little house half an hour's walk up the meadow where the MacLeod's healer had lived for as long as Mairead could remember now stood empty. The previous woman who had lived there had disappeared a pair of years earlier and there wasn't another soul in the keep with the courage to take up that place, times being what they were. She had no use for silly rumors of witches and their ilk started by foolish souls with too much time on their hands, but that didn't mean she had any desire to take up residence in that house.

Nay, ‘twas enough that the forest had gifted her the book she dared call her own. She tilted the manuscript toward the fire and admired the painting on the outer cover. It was very fine, obviously something done in a particularly modern and elegant place—London, or perhaps even Paris. The book bore a title that she supposed had at least something to do with the faithful retelling of a history recorded on those very fine sheaves of parchment.

The Duke and the Kitchen Maid.

Obviously the man depicted there was the Duke himself. His blond hair was cut above his shoulders, his clothing clearly expensive, and his black boots that came almost to his knees shiny and well-made. There was a hint of what she had to assume were the kitchen lassie's skirts there as well, though she couldn't say for certain.

What she did know was that the Duke called a place named Birmingham home. He was fantastically wealthy, a bit aloof and reserved to those whose acquaintance he had not yet made, and he had been quietly living his privileged life full of many exciting escapades when he'd run into a serving gel—literally. She'd spilled the contents of a chamberpot onto his trousers, yet instead of striking her, he'd saved her from a thrashing by the master of servants and sent her on her way with a grave nod.

The scribe had taken great pains to point out that the kitchen gel had also indulged in her share of thrilling adventures. Not only was she fond of dressing in trews, she could shoot a pistol, best even sober men in games of chance, and toss back a shocking amount of port without it affecting either her aim or her ability to endure scorching looks from the Duke.

Mairead wasn't entirely certain what scorching looks were, but she suspected they might be a prelude to something truly shocking, such as kissing. She had never experienced either, but the thought left her feeling as if she'd spent too long by the fire and a trip to the back garden for a breath of fresh air was called for.

All in all, she could scarce believe that such a lass existed, though perhaps ‘twas more difficult to envision a man such as the Duke who had put himself in harm's way to save that lass a sharp blow. Then again, her father had never struck her and she'd always managed to step out of her uncle's way if the flat of his hand had been accidentally aimed in her direction. Knowing his fondness for ale, she suspected that her uncle was simply throwing his hand out to keep his feet, not intentionally meaning to strike any of his kin.

Her brother was a different tale entirely, but she'd learned early on to avoid him when he'd either had more than his share of strong drink or too much responsibility.

She wondered about the gel described in her book, though, more particularly where she'd come from and how she'd come to have work in the Duke's hall. No doubt she was from London, for surely clothing so fine wasn't to be found in Edinburgh.

The final thing that puzzled her was the tongue the manuscript used. The words weren't in her language, nor in French, nor in the King's English that she had taken such pains to learn right along with Ambrose, though sounding them out carefully—inside her head where she wouldn't be marked—had suggested that they might be some sort of English.

The letters used in the Duke's diary had been difficult to make out at first, but she'd done what she could there as well. She'd given it quite a bit of thought over the past year and decided that perhaps it was simply a very sophisticated variant of the king's tongue spoken only by those high-born souls living in the south. Whether or not she was pronouncing them properly was beyond her ken.

What she was certain of was that the tale was nothing less than a faithful history of the Duke of Birmingham, a city she was certain was a very famous and notable place south of Hadrian's Wall.

"Bloody fool, get yerself out of my way!"

Mairead shoved her book—for that was what the clergyman had termed wee collections of the printed word—quickly under her apron and safely into its pouch, then stood and made her uncle a spot near the fire. She helped him sit on the sturdiest chair she could find, then resumed her place on her stool as if she'd had nothing better to do.

"Don't suppose you'd fetch me ale," Lachlan said wearily.

"I wouldn't want to wake anyone," she whispered. "The stew might suffer tomorrow because of it."

He nodded, which she found to be something of a relief. He continued to speak, though, which was less of that same sort of thing.

"You'd best be careful out minding the sheep and goats," he said, nodding knowingly.

"I always am," she said soothingly.

"You're not nearly as handsome as your sisters, of course, but the forest won't see that."

"I'll remember that—"

"Best do more than just remember it," he said crossly. "The faeries there, gel! Either they're making off with a MacLeod—even an unhandsome one—or they're leaving behind magical gifts. You'll avoid anything you find, if you're wise."

Mairead smoothed her hand over her apron before she could stop herself. Magical gifts were one thing; a book left behind by a nobleman taking his life in his hands to travel into the Highlands and drop it a quarter league from her home was quite another. Surely.

"I won't go into the forest, uncle," she assured him.

"See that ye don't, gel," he said, yawning. "See that ye don't."

She couldn't consider her promise a lie because her uncle hadn't specified which forest to avoid and she never went into the one behind her home to the west. She had very vivid memories of her father's wounds after he'd been attacked by a boar there. The animal's head had been stuffed and hung over the mantel until he'd finally roused himself enough to demand that it be taken down.

The forest to the north and east, the part that surrounded the healer's house, the part that led toward Cameron lands, though, that was different. Healers had lived there occasionally without undue peril. She had found her book there, so obviously even men managed to come and go without injury.

Her uncle moved his chair closer to the hearth, put his feet as close to the fire as was reasonable, then leaned his head against the stone of the wall behind him. "Faeries and bogles," he said, smacking his lips sleepily. "Don't forget the tale of Laird Jamie and his bride. They walked into the forest… one evening at twilight…"

Mairead watched him as he surrendered to sleep, something she envied as she never managed to have enough of it. That might have been because she generally avoided sleeping upstairs with her sisters and settled instead for a scrap of floor in the kitchens.

A bit like the lass the Duke had described in his history.

Or, rather, the half of his history that she had. She couldn't help but wonder about the man and what had happened to him after his activities in the pages she'd read. Had he returned to Birmingham and taken up his duties in his fine house? More importantly, what had become of the kitchen maid? The girl had been mocked for being unhandsome and uneducated, which likely had presented its share of difficulties.

Mairead looked into the fire and considered the difficulties of her own life. She was herself very plain, something she'd been told her entire life and had confirmed for herself by several looks in still lochs and the occasional polished bit of steel. She was not unlearned, though, and her father—when he'd been able to voice an opinion still—had quietly complimented her with quick smiles on her damnable curiosity—his words, not hers. She imagined he was very aware that her three younger sisters would always catch the eyes of whatever men came to see what sort of bride Ranald MacLeod might have on the fire, so to speak, where she would be relegated to fetching ale and serving soup.

That was just as well. She had no use for the men who pushed her out of the way so they might have a better view of her sisters. Even her brother was embarrassed by her, which suited her well enough there. His children found her to their liking, which was lovely. Also, when she finished with her serving of food and ale to family and guests, she always had a spot waiting for her by the fire in the kitchen where she could be safe and warm.

But what she truly wanted… she looked into the fire and supposed it wouldn't be an untoward thing to actually admit what she truly wanted for a change. She took a deep breath and allowed herself to admit the truth: She wanted to find the Duke of Birmingham and give him back his book.

And once she had his gratitude and attention, she would ask him very directly what he had done with his kitchen maid. Had he left her behind at some other hall?

Had he done the unthinkable and made her his wife?

"Mistress Mairead?" a voice whispered.

She pulled herself away from her contemplation of the fire and smiled at the young lad standing there hesitantly. "Aye, John?"

"I've come to watch the fire, if you please."

"Thank you, lad," she said. She pushed herself to her feet, turned the stool over to him to use for the remainder of the watch, then found herself a spot near the hearth and sat down with her back against the stone.

She leaned her head against the wall, closed her eyes, and waited out the night.

She left the keep at dawn, mingling easily with the lads whose business it was to tend the animals and relieve the night-time guards. She promised one of the fostering lads who didn't seem quite awake yet a second portion of supper if he kept an eye on her sheep for a bit, then made her way quickly along the edge of the meadow and to the forest surrounding the healer's croft.

No one lived in the little house, of course, because the last witch had disappeared, though Mairead had always suspected the woman had run off with the priest who'd come from Ireland to save them all. Perhaps she'd grown tired of being called things she wasn't, which was one of the reasons Mairead refused to accord that wee hut any supernatural properties. ‘Twas a house and one where a sensible woman might have peace and quiet and dry her herbs by the fire if she so chose.

Mairead supposed if she'd been able to, she would have taken up that place in her father's clan. She had enough learning to understand the various types of herbs the good Lord had provided for them to use in healing brews and poultices. The souls that made up her clan were sturdy and healthy, so perhaps there wouldn't have been too much use for her skills, which would have left her with enough silence to actually entertain the odd thought or two.

She stopped on the path that led to the house and looked around as if she were merely interested in what might be growing along the path. Finding herself alone, she pulled the knife from the back of her belt, removed a large square of bark from its usual place in the fifth tree from the doorway of the croft, then carefully removed her book from its hiding place under her apron. She had wrapped it in a spare piece of plaid as well earlier that morning, just to make certain it remained protected.

She put it in the hollowed-out spot she'd discovered long before she'd found her book—no doubt someone else had decided a tree could spare a bit of itself for such an activity—then replaced the piece of bark.

She put her hand over that place and wished that she could, for once, have someone step in front of her and protect her. Just once.

Which was a foolish desire and had nothing to do with her life. She had her brother to avoid, her father to watch over, and more callous and unpleasant remarks to endure from suitors who arrived and found her simply too plain to be endured for the rest of their lives.

She wondered briefly about Laird Jamie and his lady wife… but surely that couldn't be anything but folklore. Tales of magical things found in the forest were best saved for children. If their clan's bard occasionally ventured off into that sort of thing whilst about the critical task of keeping the clan's history fresh in his mind, well, life wasn't always bloodshed and darkness.

She wondered what sorts of stories might have been related by the scribe who had written down the Duke of Birmingham's tale.

She took a deep breath, then took another look around herself to make certain there were no faeries peeking out from behind trees to see if she might suit a piece of their mischief, then turned and walked away before she lingered overlong. No sense in tempting fate—or any number of her kin—to be more curious about her doings than necessary.

She walked out from under the last of the trees and came to an ungainly halt.

There was a man walking toward her. He wasn't wearing light-colored breeches and a dark coat; his trews were a bluish color that she would have found at the loch that lay farther east from her home and his coat was black. She honestly had no idea if he wore boots or not.

What she did know was that the morning sun peeking over the mountains behind her had fallen on his hair that was still the color of golden summer grasses. She could scarce believe her eyes, so she rubbed them, then looked again.

He was gone.

She whirled around but only found herself with a face full of morning sunlight.

Well, it was obviously something… she took a deep breath. She didn't believe in faeries or sprites, though she wasn't above the odd charm put in her pocket or the willingness to concede that there were a few mysterious happenings in the distant aforetimes of her clan.

She shook her head, then turned away from the sun and continued on her way. She had spent far too much time looking at the painting on the front of her book and it had inflamed her frenzied imagination—her uncle's words, not hers, though he was scarce one to be criticizing anyone else for that sort of thing. She hadn't just seen a fair-haired man walk past her; she had seen a shaft of sunlight and drawn a finely fashioned lad out of her imagination.

She rubbed her arms and walked quickly back to the hall to get on with her endless list of sensible, unmagical tasks.

Life was far safer that way.