Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The deep, disembodied voice sounded educated, soothing, even sensuous. Adela's tension increased nonetheless. "But who are you?" she demanded.

"Just a man, my lady, who finds the sound of a young woman's sobs distressing. Is there naught I can do to help you put things right?"

"No, sir, nothing," she said, embarrassed that he had heard her crying.

"Will you not tell me what has distressed you so, Lady Adela?"

"Faith, you know who I am?" Her embarrassment increased. Even in the chilly dampness she felt her cheeks burn at the thought that he had witnessed her uncharacteristic and most unladylike display of emotion.

"I recognized your voice," he said. "In view of what happened, I should say that you have cause for tears. But, clearly, yours was no ordinary arranged marriage if you care so much for your loss that you fled here to indulge your sorrow."

A suspicion stirred as to who he must be, for only one man other than Ardelve had shown interest in her that day. But surely guests at Roslin did not usually wander about the castle by themselves, let alone all the way up to its ramparts.

"Pray, sir, tell me your name?" she asked.

"My name is not important," he said. "Indeed, 'tis better that you continue to think of me as just a friendly voice in the darkness."

"Are you a friend of the Sinclair family?" she asked.

"Aye, a good friend."

"I wondered, because strangers do not normally come up here alone."

"I suppose not," he agreed. "However, tonight even the so-careful Sinclairs would scarcely expect an enemy to take a stroll around the wall-walk. Hugo Robison is famous for his ability to protect this castle."

"Sir Michael Sinclair, as well," Adela said, knowing that Michael served as master of Roslin when Henry was not in residence.

"Aye, but you change the subject, my lady. I was told you scarcely knew your husband. Do you indeed grieve so deeply for him, or for another cause?"

"In truth, I do not know why I was weeping," she admitted. In the silence that followed, she tried to sort through her thoughts and feelings, then added, " 'Tis more likely that I was crying because I can not weep for Ardelve."

"I don't understand," he said. "If you cry but cannot cry for him, then for whom were you crying?"

"You make it sound like a bard's riddle," she said. "The truth is simpler. You see, this morning I had no feelings at all. It seemed very odd, because a woman ought to be happy on her wedding day, don't you think?"

"Were you sad?"

"I felt nothing."

"Why do you think that was?"

"Faith, sir, I don't know. I do not know why I am talking to you when common sense tells me I should not even be here. Yet I am saying things I would not normally say to anyone, and I have no idea why. If I could see, I think I would have fled immediately upon hearing you speak. I'd never have entered into this absurd conversation with you."

"You may certainly return to your chamber if that is what you want to do," he said, still in that same calm, soothing tone. His voice was having an unusual effect on her, for it seemed to touch something deep inside, warming her in a way that was unusual but seemed desirable. She wanted the sensation to continue.

"At least you do not order me to go," she said. "Most men I know would say that I should return at once and lock my door. They would scold and insist that I ought not to stand here talking to you as if I knew you."

"You are perfectly safe talking to me," he said.

"You may say so," she said. "But I doubt Sir Hugo would agree."

"Hugo's opinion in such a case matters not one whit to me."

More certain than ever of his identity, and amused that he would dare to defy Hugo, she allowed herself a near smile. "I doubt you would say that to his face."

"Perhaps not," he agreed, and she heard a smile in his voice.

She was silent, and a moment later, he said, "I know about your abduction, of course. That must have been a terrifying ordeal."

"It was not pleasant," she said. "He snatched me right off the kirk steps at my wedding. The priest had just asked if anyone objected to our union when four men rode out of the woods nearby. Everyone thought they were just tardy wedding guests, except they wore masks and rode right to the steps, and their leader—"

"Waldron of Edgelaw."

"Aye, he rode right up to me. I thought he had a message, so I stepped forward. He just scooped me off my feet and rode off with me."

"Horrifying," he murmured.

"Aye, but he did not harm me. Nor do I believe he ever would have."

"I am sure you knew him better than I, my lady."

A certain sharpness in his tone made her stiffen. "I know only that I had no real cause to fear him," she said, firmly suppressing the irritating memory of how much the menacing Waldron had terrified her—especially in the beginning.

"I don't know that I've heard an explanation of why he abducted you," he said. "Did he ever supply a reason for such insolence?"

"He said it was vengeance for wrongs done to him and to the Kirk," she said. "I own, I never understood that, and I … I do not like talking about it, so if you …"

"Forgive me," he said as she sought words to explain. "I should not have probed into so personal a matter. 'Tis a failing of mine that I can never seem to keep my curiosity in check when something, or someone, interests me."

The comment stirred again that mild, twitching sense of humor. "You should meet my sister Isobel, sir. Your curiosity can be as nothing to hers. She asked so many questions that I finally lost my temper, or as near as made no difference."

As soon as she said them, she wished she could take back the words. He was too easy to talk to, and she did not want to admit Isobel had plagued her until she had spoken more sharply to her than to anyone else since arriving at Roslin.

"Living with the memories must be difficult," he said.

A flood of memories, mixed and jumbled pictures and emotions, spewed through her mind before she said curtly, "I saw him hang a man."

The words leaped out before she knew she was going to say them. Others had asked what she remembered, but the memories had eluded her. Had anyone asked her what stirred her to tell him about that, of all things, she could not have said. The man's power to make her speak seemed well nigh devilish. But one could not unsay things, as much as one would like to.

Her words hovered between them, making her stomach clench.

He let the silence continue until she ached to demand that he tell her what he was thinking. But to do such a thing was beyond her. She could not recall any time in her life that she had made that demand of anyone but an erring servant or a younger sister. Even then, the reason for asking had been a desire to know what either Sorcha or Isobel—for it was most likely one or the other—could have been thinking to fling herself into the mischief that had earned her a scolding.

Just when Adela began to think she could not bear the silence another moment, he said, "What a shocking thing to see. Why did he do it?"

She had not let herself think about the reason before. For that matter, she had scarcely let herself think about any part of her ordeal. But without hesitation she said, "He did it to punish the man but also, I think, to frighten me. He wanted to show me what he was capable of, to make sure I would obey him unquestioningly."

"Some men do try to rule by fear, and Waldron was a villain, so likely you're right about him," he said. "Had the man he hanged done aught to deserve hanging?"

She shivered, her mind as black a fog as that which surrounded them.

Her companion was apparently content to remain silent, but this time the silence was no comfort. Images formed unbidden in her mind until she shivered again. Giving herself a shake, she said, "H-he told me he would help me. He said all I need do was …" She drew a shuddering breath, but still he did not speak. At last, in a rush, she said, "He wanted me to kiss him first. He was horrid!"

"Then, truly, he deserved to hang," he said firmly. "You need concern yourself with such vermin as that one no longer, my lady. The man was no better than your abductor. Both richly deserved their fates."

"What do you know of Waldron's fate?" she asked, aware that only a few knew the truth of it.

This time his silence held a different quality, and she felt instinctively that she had surprised him. But his words, when he spoke, came as calmly as ever, "I suppose I know what most do, that he has not been seen anywhere since your rescue and is sure to be dead. Hugo and the Sinclair brothers are capable men."

Adela did not reply. She wanted him to say more but only because his voice was so calm, so reassuring. He made her feel as if she could tell him anything. As the thought crossed her mind, she heard Hugo's voice in her head, or Sorcha's, reminding her that she was being foolish to trust a man she could not see, a man she would not recognize if she met him the very next day.

She would know his voice, though. She was certain she need only hear him speak again to recognize him anywhere. Her suspicion that she already knew his identity was stronger than ever, but not strong enough to tell him so—not yet. However, one thing did remain to set straight before their conversation ended.

"You are wrong about my abductor," she said. "He was not evil in the way that you and others insist he was. He did dreadful, evil things, but he was only a man with strong convictions whose beliefs differed greatly from ours."

"You are kinder to his memory than he deserves," he replied.

His voice was as calm as it had been all along, but she sensed something in it now that warned her not to debate that point with him. Still, no one else had come to know Waldron of Edgelaw's thoughts and beliefs as she had. She did not think she was just being kind.

"'Tis he who was kind to me, sir, in many ways. He talked to me, said I was a good listener, and I think he truly did believe the things he told me."

"Did you think he needed someone to listen?"

"Aye, perhaps."

"So he needed you."

That was, she realized, exactly what Waldron had made her think. "He may have wanted me to think so," she said as she thought about that. "But then, he just set me free as if I had meant nothing to him, even as a hostage."

"Did you want to mean something to him?"

"No!"

He did not speak, but she could feel his disbelief as if it were a solid mass in the air between them.

"He was horrid! He was—"

"Evil?"

Feeling anger stir, she shut her mouth tight and in-haled. Releasing the breath, carefully calm and controlled, she said, "You twist my words, sir. That is unkind."

"Perhaps so," he said equably. "We can talk more about this another time if you like, but I suspect you must be growing chilly up here."

"I hadn't noticed," she admitted, feeling as if he had let the wind out of her sails by so easily accepting her rebuke. Gamely, she added, "But now I do feel the cold, and in any event, I must not stay any longer. I am grateful for my brief time of freedom, but someone will doubtless be looking for me by now."

"Do you think so?" he asked. "I should imagine that at this hour everyone must believe you to be sound asleep."

"Is it so late? I confess I have no idea what the hour is."

"They finished serving the late supper over an hour ago," he said. "The entertainment was in full force when I left, and probably still is, but most of the ladies had retired. We'll doubtless soon hear the chapel bell toll Nocturnes."

"Midnight! Mercy, I had no idea I'd slept so long."

"You should be thankful. That you were able to rest is good."

"Aye, but I must go. It would not do to stay up now only to exhaust myself tomorrow. They are bound to plague me again about what I should do next—all of them. I shall want my wits about me when they do."

"Who is daring to plague you?"

Realizing that once again she had simply spoken her thoughts to him, she bit her lower lip in vexation. Really, he was a dangerous acquaintance. She should not be talking of such things with anyone and certainly not with a man who refused even to tell her his name.

Since she had learned enough to know his continued silence meant he would await her reply, she said, "I should not complain. I know they do it only because they care about me. They worry that I'll make some dreadful mistake."

"Nevertheless, it is early in the day to be plaguing you about what you should or should not do next," he said. "Tell them to go and boil their heads."

"Is that what you do, sir, when people plague you?" she asked.

"Not always," he admitted. "But unless I owe duty, loyalty, or particular respect to the person offering me unwanted advice, I have been known to do that."

She sighed. "I think it would be wonderful to be able to speak one's mind to people who flit about one like anxious gadflies, but I cannot do it."

"I thought all the Macleod sisters spoke their minds," he said.

"Then, you must have heard tales about Isobel and Sorcha, rather than about the other five of us," she said dryly.

"True," he said. "But neither of them seems at all meek."

"I do not think I am meek either," Adela said. "I do try to be tactful, though, rather than outspoken, unless I am truly vexed. I did finally ask everyone to leave me alone today, but only because I was still suffering the shock of Ardelve's death, and was so tired I could not think. Even so, I was as surprised as I'm sure my sisters and Lady Clendenen were when I snapped at them."

"Did they go away?"

"Aye, they did."

"Well, then."

When he said no more, she decided she would be wise to bid him goodnight before she admitted anything worse to him or someone else wandered up to the wall walk. It would not be a good thing for anyone to find her there alone with him—not that she believed for a moment that he would allow that to happen.

From what she already knew of him, he would be more likely to be as smoke in the dense fog, making no sound to betray his presence.

"Do you mean to stay up here?" she asked at last.

"I think that would be the wisest course, don't you?"

"I would like to know who you are."

"I'm glad you feel that way," he said. "I am also glad that we had this talk. I have much admired your courage."

"I have no courage, sir. I did only what I had to do. I tell you frankly that, even though I now believe I had little cause to fear Waldron of Edgelaw, I was terrified the whole while and for a good while afterward."

"But, my lady, that is the very essence of courage, is it not?"

"What is?"

"To do what must be done despite one's terrors. To act sensibly in a crisis is admirable. That you remain sensitive to others' needs and motives argues that you are kind, as well. I would like to know you better, to become your friend."

Adela stood very still, scarcely aware that her breathing had stopped until she felt the ache in her chest. She tried to remember if anyone had ever said such things to her before. She did not think anyone believed her to be unkind or to lack courage or sense, but she could not recall anyone ever defining her in such a way, certainly not as firmly as he had.

Nor could she recall anyone declaring that he would like to be her friend. She had friends at home, to be sure, but few from her own station in life and no one she could think of with whom she could share the thoughts in her head as she had with this man on this very strange night. She did not know what to say to him.

Then, and again without thought, the words came easily.

"I'd like that, but how can I be friends with a man whose name I don't know?"

"'Tis a rare challenge, but I believe you are equal to it. For now, though, you had better use that good sense of yours and take yourself off to bed."

"Aye, I should." But her reluctance to leave only grew stronger.

"We will meet again, I promise," he said. "Until then, know that whenever you need a friend, I am yours to command."

"A strange thing to offer, sir, when I should not know how to summon you."

"You need only let it be known that you need a friend, lass."

His words were perhaps apocryphal but nonetheless soothing to ears that more frequently heard criticism, carping, and unwanted advice.

Quietly, wanting nothing to destroy the momentary sense of deep peace he had given her, she said, "Goodnight, sir."

"Sleep well, my friend," he murmured.

Feeling her way back to the door to the stairs, she opened it carefully, half expecting to come face to face with a demand to know what the devil she was doing there. What would follow depended, of course, upon who had found her. But the worst that could come of it was a scolding, and now that she was a married lady, she mused, only her husband truly had the right to scold her.

With another sigh, she realized that with Ardelve dead, any number of people would be willing to step into his position as her guardian. Therefore, it would be best if she could return to her bedchamber without meeting a soul.

As she went downstairs, she strained her ears not only for noise below but for any above her on the stairway. But she heard nothing.

Having never explored the wall walk, she did not know how many access points it had, but she was as sure as she could be that it had more than one. And doubtless the man on the ramparts knew all the others.

The voice in the back of her head continued to insist that she knew who he was, that he had to be the hand-some stranger who had shown such interest in her, the man Lady Clendenen claimed to be her distant kinsman, Etienne de Gredin.

As Adela approached her own chamber, she wondered why she had not taxed him with that suspicion. It had been so easy to talk with him about anything else, so easy to say whatever came into her head. Yet she had not given him the slightest hint that she suspected his identity.

She was reaching for the latch on her door, it struck her that Lady Clendenen had said that her cousin had come from France. But the man in the fog had spoken as an educated Scotsman. He was not a Highlander, though. Or, if he was, he'd spent more time in the Lowlands than at home. But then, Lady Clendenen had said naught to indicate that his first language was French or that he was, himself. If she remembered correctly, her ladyship had said only that his antecedents were French.

Having reassured herself, Adela lifted the latch and pushed open her door to find cressets lighted, as well as a low-burning fire.

The trim, redheaded maidservant who had looked after her since her arrival at Roslin jumped up from a stool by the hearth. "Och, me ladyship," she exclaimed. "I thought mayhap ye'd gone to the garderobe tower, but ye were gone so long!"

"Aye, but I am back now, Kenna," Adela said calmly.

"I'd been looking in now and again to see did ye want supper or aught else."

"Just bed now, but thank you."

"I laid out your shift, and there be warm water in the ewer."

As Adela moved to attend her nightly ablutions, she thought back to the man on the ramparts and knew she was looking forward to meeting Lady Clendenen's cousin with much more eagerness than any so-recent widow had a right to feel.

Adela's erstwhile companion, having opened the stair-way door again and listened to her soft footsteps descending, waited until he could be certain she had reached her room in safety. With watchers everywhere, both inside the castle and out, she would come to no harm if she did meet someone. Whether she realized it or not, even if she reached her room in solitude, at least a few would know by morning, if not before, that she had been wandering about.

If they were already concerned about her state of mind, as well they should be, considering all she'd been through in past weeks, her midnight rambling might cause more stir than he thought it warranted. She would recover from her trials faster, God knew, if the well-meaning womenfolk would give her some peace.

He had known before today that she was a beauty. But seeing her earlier in her form-clinging velvet wedding gown with her honey-gold hair streaming in thick waves down her back had stunned him to speechlessness. Her full, soft breasts had thrust hard against the plush golden velvet, fairly clamoring to fill a man's eager hands. His body had stirred instantly in response and stirred now at the memory.

At the time, one of his men had suggested that perhaps he ought to close his mouth before something flew in that he'd liefer not swallow, which had recalled him rather sharply to his wits. He remembered that moment uneasily now.

The Macleod sisters were all renowned beauties, but when people at Roslin spoke of them, they spoke first of the beautiful lady Isobel, who had married Sir Michael Sinclair, and next of Hugo's wife, the lady Sorcha. She was just as lovely as Isobel, but more often they spoke of her daring and her way of putting her chin in the air whenever someone suggested she should not do something she wanted to do.

A few spoke of their younger sister, the lady Sidony, but she was more elusive, less likely to draw notice. Moreover, Sidony was Sorcha's opposite in temperament, having always, they said, followed her lead in whatever they did.

If he had favored one over the others, it had been Hugo's lady, Sorcha, but he could not deny that something about the lady Adela had attracted him the first time he'd laid eyes on her, the previous summer at the installation of Prince Henry of Orkney. In the midst of the chaos attending that event, she had remained calm and in control of herself—except when she had cast a basin of water over Hugo's head. Michael had described that event to him in gleeful detail.

He just wished he had been with them at the time to witness that splendid moment himself, for with that one act, she had endeared herself to him forever, if only for blunting some of Hugo's impudence. Later, he had seen her only after her abduction, injured, shabby, and bewildered. But now…

Shutting the stairway door and turning back to the parapet, he shook his head at himself. He was at least seven kinds of a fool for even thinking about her, about any of them, for that matter. Such women were not for the man he had become.

Without land of his own or prospects for acquiring any, he had naught to offer her. Land, after all, a man either inherited, received as a royal reward, or acquired in a marriage settlement. But his father would leave him nothing, the present royal family was more likely to take land than to grant it, and in any marriage with land involved, the lass's father would expect her chosen mate to bring something equivalent to the marriage.

He could offer a wife only his knightly skills and his belief that the past nine years had taught him to master his volatile temper—nearly always. Nine years before, when he'd offered his services to the Sinclairs and Hugo, he had done so as a simple serving knight, without thought or concern for aught but his immediate future. And for nine years, the life had suited him. He had been content. But now …

He remained standing in that impenetrable darkness for a long while, hands braced on the damp parapet as he listened to rushing water far below and wrestled with his thoughts and memories. At last, realizing the fog had penetrated his heavy cloak and would soon soak him to the skin, Sir Robert Logan heaved a sigh, gave a last thought to what might have been, and took himself off to bed.