She smiled against the puppy’s soft coat, feeling his tiny, warm breath against her cheek. Were it not for the troublesome way men had of assuring their lineage as Isobel had confided to her, she would almost welcome the laird’s attentions. Her smile faded. He must never suspect the lack in her, the increasing difficulty she had keeping her mind focused on producing an heir. Never would she allow him to think her less than a proper wife.

  The lads returned with more buckets and Isobel on their heels. Eaden quirked an eyebrow at the woman as she lingered inside the door, wringing her hands in indecision.

  “Could I help milady with her bath?”

  Eaden gave Isobel a steady look. “Nay.”

  “But Kirsty . . .”

  “ Kirsty isnae needed, either.” He motioned her toward the door.

  Mary watched the interaction between Isobel and Eaden, remembering Ina’s warning against Isobel. She smiled faintly. Isobel tried so hard to help. Ina had to be wrong about her. Besides, Eaden did not seem discomfited by her presence or friendship.

  “Thank you, Isobel,” Mary called as she replaced the sleeping puppy in his basket. “I can look after myself.”

  Isobel stared at Mary, her brows pulled together in concern. Mary gave a discreet shake of her head. I remember your warning, she meant to convey. With an answering nod, Isobel turned and left the room.

  Eaden thanked the lads as they finished their chore, this time latching the door behind them as they left.

  “Ye can remove your robe, now,” he informed her as he added the steaming water to the tub, testing the temperature with a thoughtful look. Mary stared at him, completely at a loss for words. Did he expect her to take a bath now? In front of him?

  Eaden glanced up, wiping his wet hands on his shirt as he rose to his feet. She eyed him warily as he approached her. He gently tugged the belt from her hands, loosening it to let it fall to the floor.

  “There are many different ways to love,” he whispered. “Ye do trust me, don’t ye?” He frowned at Mary’s slow nod and sighed. “Och, well. The heat from the water’ll loosen yer muscles and the fire will help keep ye warm.”

  He bowed in a grand gesture, inviting her to climb into the tub. She looked down, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded in her chest as she climbed over the rim. The water simmered hot against her skin, but he quirked one eyebrow, challenging her to complain. She sank beneath the surface of the water, groaning as the heat bit into her sore muscles.

  “Lean forward.”

  Feeling too utterly weary to question him, she rested her arms on her bent knees, cradling her cheek against her forearms. The scent of roses drifted on the steam and she opened one eye as Eaden began to slowly rub her back with the soapy cloth. Her breath left her in a purr of pure bliss as he moved his hands slickly up the column of her neck. She rolled her head to give him greater access.

  And as she surrendered herself to the slow, soothing motion of his hands, one by one, her muscles relaxed.

  “Are ye feeling better?” Eaden murmured against her hair. He idly continued to soap Mary’s body, allowing himself the growing warmth in his belly.

  Remembering how sleep softened her defenses against him, he wondered if she had relaxed enough to respond to gentle lovemaking this night. He breathed deeply, the scent of flowers rising from the water and Mary’s moist skin. Quickly he rinsed the soap from her, brushing his hands down her arms as he worked. The water lapped softly over her skin, and Eaden decided he couldn’t wait.

  “Mairi?”

  A faint sigh escaped Mary’s lips and Eaden stared at her in wry disbelief as his stirring passion faded dejectedly beneath his wife’s delicate snores.

  Light from the fire licked across her wet skin and Eaden gently wiped a bit of soap away. His fingers smoothed across dainty muscles, slick with bathwater, and he sighed as his ministrations elicited no response from his wife.

  “Ye are a vexation to me, lass.” He grabbed a linen from the stack on the hearth and shook out the folds. He tossed it over one shoulder and bent to lift Mary from the tub. Cradling her against him, he wrapped the warm cloth about her, ignoring the water soaking his shirt. He carried her to the bed and, pushing back the coverlet, laid her on the cool sheet. With a lingering hand, he finished drying her.

  “Ye would enjoy this more were ye awake,” he mourned. He lifted her arm and admired the smooth skin. “I know I would enjoy it more if ye were awake.”

  He eyed his wife, but there was no response. He sighed. “Ye shouldnae fight this, Mairi. I promised ye a good marriage—a good life for ye and our bairns should we be so blessed.” Giving her a kiss, he tucked the covers around her.

  He rose from the bed and stripped away his clothes. Taking a square of thicker linen, he wet it and quickly washed himself, then dried off and crawled beneath the coverlet. Wrapping his arms about Mary, he pulled her against him. She nestled her back against him, and for a moment he thought she would wake. But with a faint hitch of breath, she settled in his arms.

  “Ye will come to me willingly, Mairi. One day soon, ye will forget yer fear and accept me. This I promise ye.” Eaden hugged her tightly, breathing in her scent of flowers, and tried to convince himself she would soon forgive him.

  CHAPTER 24

  Heavy pounding rattled the wooden door in its frame. Ignoring the faint protest from her muscles, Mary rolled over, wide awake in the next instant. Already out of bed, Eaden stood with his sword in hand as he crossed the room. A reddish glow lit his skin, the pale moonlight from the window tinted a curious golden shade, mingling with the smolder from the hearth. Her heart pumped in alarm as Eaden yanked the door open.

  Ian stood in the portal, his face a pale oval in the shadows. “The stable’s on fire!” he barked urgently.

  Cursing, Eaden set his sword against the wall and collected his clothes as Mary scrambled to a sitting position, clutching the blanket to her chest. Eaden shoved one arm into a shirt sleeve and leaned across the bed. He gave her a hard, brief kiss then looked her straight in the eye.

  “Stay here.”

  Mary bristled at his presumptive tone, but swallowed both her hasty retort and her fear, nodding in assent. A surprised look came over his face at her easy compliance, but whatever else he might have said was interrupted as screams broke out below. Eaden lunged away from the bed and bolted out the door, shoving his sword into its scabbard at his side.

  Willing her legs to stop quaking, Mary threw back the blanket, reaching for her shift and robe at the foot of the bed. Her hands cold with apprehension, she belted the robe snugly about her waist, feeling somewhat better to have even this much protection around her.

  Hurrying to the window, she peered through its green panes, but even in daylight her view would have been distorted and dim. She could see nothing but the twisting red and orange shadows writhing across the pale grey stone of the castle walls like an enormous beast caught in its death throes.

  Mary fought with the single latch and swung the narrow window open. The stable was on the far side of the bailey, however, and opening the window did not improve her view. She stared with frustration at the fire’s reflection against the stone. A stable lad burst into her line of sight, leading a frightened horse. Hooves flailed the air as the horse plunged and reared, trying to break free from the boy’s determined grip. Other shadowed figures emerged to join them, the horses’ coats ablaze with reflected light, the stable lads thrust into darkest silhouette. Watching helplessly as they struggled to save their charges, Mary pressed her face against the glass, trying to see as far beyond the restricting pane as she could, certain Eaden stood in the middle of the madness. Her blood ran cold as her imagination fed her fear.

  With all her concentration centered on Eaden’s safety, she was unaware she was no longer alone until she heard the small creak of the door. Frightened, Mary whirled to face the intruder. Her knees buckled in relief as she recognized Isobel standing in the doorway, the candle light from the hallway framing her black cloak in a swirl of yellow and gold.

  Isobel beckoned frantically to her. “Hurry, milady!” she hissed. “There is need of ye outside.”

  Mary hesitated, remembering Eaden’s words. “Laird Scott told me to stay here.”

  Isobel moved away from the door, giving Mary room to pass her. “Ye must come now! Ye can see from the parapet.”

  It wouldn’t be exactly disobedience for her to go to the parapet, Mary reasoned quickly. Surely, he simply didn’t want her near the fire. If she could only see what was happening, she wouldn’t be so frantic with worry. She grabbed the front of her night shift and robe with one hand, lifting the hem from the floor, and hurried out the door. Isobel took a candle from the sconce at the doorway and held it high, lighting Mary’s way.

  Together they slipped down the stairs and skirted the edges of the great hall. Bustling servants ignored them as they careened about the room, carrying buckets of water and other items Mary did not stop to wonder about. A large well in the bailey lay near the stables and Mary shuddered to think of the dangerous flames requiring so much water taken from the cistern near the kitchen.

  She scarcely spared a thought to the activity in the hall, intent on making her way to the parapet so she could find Eaden in the crush of frantic activity outside. For a moment she was separated from Isobel as a servant stumbled, spilling a flagon of water on the floor between them. Mary halted uncertainly at the bottom of the narrow stairway, the way blocked by darkness unlit by either candle or torch.

  Mary waited for Isobel, but the woman swept her cloak away from the puddle of water and looked up impatiently. “Go!” she cried, lifting her candle high. Mary peered at the stairwell where the dancing flames of the room’s candles did nothing more than intensify the shadows beyond their reach. Chiding herself for her superstitious fear of the ghost of Lady Fenella, she gulped in a deep breath and fled up the stairs, fright for the unknown mingling with the fear for those who battled the fire raging below.

  Mary reached the top of the stairs and rushed into the smoke-filled night. The stars and moon were vague points of light veiled behind thick wreaths of smoke, tinted red and gold by the flames shooting into the midnight sky. Far ahead, a soldier stood guard on the parapet, his attention torn between his duty and the activity in the bailey.

  Mary fled across the stone floor and leaned over the high wall, searching the swarming mass of bodies far below. They formed lines with buckets passing from one man to the next. In their haste, they splashed water onto the ground and it shimmered in the firelight with the dark viscosity of blood.

  The stable lads were young and slight of build. She quickly dismissed them, looking for the tall, dark form of her husband.

  “Keep the water coming!”

  Suddenly, she spotted him next to the stable, his arms waving, directing the action. Stripped to the waist, dark smudges streaked his torso. Mary prayed the marks were soot and not blood, but she had no way to tell.

  A thundering noise filled the night and Eaden threw an arm over his head defensively. The eaves of the stable split with a rending sound and fell in a shower of sparks and flames. Mary shrieked in terror and flung a hand toward Eaden, trying to stop the nightmare unfolding before her.

  “No!” The single word, so loud in her ears, was swallowed up by the voracious crackle of the fire and the shouts of the men in the bailey. Frantic, Mary glanced around, but, save the guard who could not leave his post, she stood alone on the parapet.

  Something pale fluttered in the wind, catching her attention. She swung toward the stairwell opening where a form, clad in white, billowed and swayed. An unearthly keening filled the air and Mary clapped her hands over her ears, backing away in fright from the apparition.

  The figure lifted a draperied arm, pointing toward the fire in the bailey. Unable to help herself, Mary turned her attention back to the scene below. Eaden lay on the ground in a sprawled heap, smoldering timbers rolled to one side.

  Mary trembled, fighting back the tightening panic rising in her throat. Beside her, the ghost approached the parapet wall, and Mary shrank away, a hand to her throat in terror. The spirit turned to the scene below, but Mary was unable to look away from the figure, the cowl of her gown pulled around her head, setting her face in impenetrable shadow. The apparition leaned far over the edge of the wall and her draperies floated on the updraft, making her seem as though she were about to take flight.

  Lady Fenella’s story slid through Mary’s mind and she gasped as the ghost bent even further over the wall, moaning and wailing the loss of her love. Mary tore her gaze away, searching for Eaden’s fallen shape. He was not there.

  Abruptly the keening sound ceased and Mary caught sight of the white form as it pitched over the edge of the parapet, the gown floating for a moment on the rising, heated air of the blazing fire below.

  With a horrified cry, Mary lunged forward, reaching for the fabric as it floated toward the ground. Her momentum caused her feet to leave the floor and she grabbed in panic at the smooth stone wall. She teetered over the edge a moment before losing her balance altogether. Her fingernails frantically scrambled for a hold and she cried out in fear.

  “Mary!”

  Hands grabbed at her, pulling her back to the parapet, and she clutched her rescuer’s arm.

  “Milady!” Isobel’s voice hissed in her ear. Tears of relief sprang to Mary’s eyes, blurring her vision.

  “Mary!” Ranald shouted again, his voice sharp with fear. Mary wiped her eyes and turned to face him as he hurried toward her.

  “Where is Eaden?” Mary gasped.

  “He’s gone to question the men from Bellecourt about the fire.” Ranald grabbed her upper arms and shook her. “What are ye doing here?”

  “I had to see. I had to know he was all right.”

  “Ye nearly fell over the wall,” he stormed at her, and Mary looked closely to be sure it was Ranald and not Eaden who railed at her.

  “I saw Eaden.” She gestured helplessly. “I saw the ghost . . . she fell over the edge . . .”

  “Dinnae be daft,” Ranald retorted. “‘Tis no ghost up here. She’s no’ but a story to keep the bairns off the stairs at night.”

  “But I saw her—and Kirsty said . . .” Mary paused, seeing the dark frown on Ranald’s face. He was more than cross with her, and in no mood to discuss the merits of a ghost story. She turned to Isobel. “Did you not see her?”

  “Nay, milady. I saw ye leaning too far over the wall, but ye were alone.”

  “But, she fell.” Mary snatched her arm away from Ranald’s grip and ran to the wall, peering over the edge, ignoring the gasp and hot words of warning from both Ranald and Isobel.

  Ranald bolted to her side, jerking her away from the edge. “Ye muckle-headed . . . What are ye doing?”

  Mary motioned to the ground below. “I saw her fall. I know I did. She should be on the ground right there.”

  Ranald leaned over the wall. He shook his head. “Lass, there is nothing there. If a ghost did jump, there’s no reason to believe ye’d see her lying on the ground.” He loosened his grip on her arm. “Come away, now. Eaden will want to know ye’re safe.”

  With a final glance below, Mary reluctantly turned away, rubbing her arm where Ranald’s fingers had gripped. “I know what I saw,” she insisted stubbornly.

  Ranald sighed. “Lass, it doesnae matter what ye did or dinnae see. What matters is ye could have fallen to yer death.”

  “Why did you come up here?”

  “I was returning to the hall. I looked up and saw . . .” His voice trailed away as he stared at her.

  “What did you see?” Mary whispered as the bottom fell out of her stomach at his expression.

  Ranald scrubbed his head. “I saw something white fluttering on the edge of the wall.” He stared at Mary. “It could have been ye, no’ a ghost.”

  Mary glanced at her robe. Its pale green velvet fabric was heavy and unlikely to flutter in the wind. She turned to speak to Isobel, but the woman had vanished.

  “Isobel wore a black cloak. Mine is too heavy to flutter. Do you not believe me?”

  Ranald’s face set in grim lines, and even in the dark Mary could tell he would not comment further.

  Mulish ass, she thought with a sigh of discontent. A frisson of warning slid down her spine and she turned once more to look into the bailey yard below. She saw neither fabric nor body lying on the ground below. Where could it have gone?

  And, if not the ghost of Lady Fenella, who, or what, was it?

  CHAPTER 25

  Eaden closed the bedroom door, weary and troubled by more than the burning of the stable. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension across his shoulders. A hot bath and a warm woman would be high on his list of priorities right now, but a moment of peace would have to do while he sorted out the rest.

  Out of the corner of his eye he watched Mary cross the room to the puppy’s basket. He took refuge in the cushioned chair near the window, angling himself so he could see his wife and still prop his feet on the edge of the bed.

  She rested a finger on the lip of the basket, tilting it slightly toward her as she peered inside. Her shoulders tensed and she let out a cry of distress. Bounding from his chair, Eaden strode quickly to her side. Looking over her shoulder into the basket, he saw the unnaturally stiff body of the puppy and needed no explanation.

 

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