“Climbing trees? I thought all lasses did was play in the meadow and make daisy chains.”
She wrinkled her nose. “How dull. I much prefer playing high in the trees with the fairies, or flying on Starlight’s back among the clouds.”
He couldn’t help grinning. “Of course. How could I forget? So,” he prompted, “you were given the task of mending your gown.”
“Aye. But I hated sewing, and the day was so pretty, and I was eager to find Jeremy. So I cast a spell, ordering the gown mended, then went off on a grand adventure with my friend.”
“The troll.” He didn’t know why the thought of this imp spending her days with a troll should amuse him so, but the mere thought had his grin widening. “And just what was your grand adventure?”
“We filled an entire bucket with roseberries, then sat in the heather and ate all of them without getting sick. Afterward we played hide-and-seek among the clouds on Starlight and Moonlight, and I won. Best of all, I went for a swim in the loch, while Jeremy watched from shore.” She laughed at the memory. “Trolls hate water.”
“I see.” He was laughing, too. He couldn’t help it. She was just so delightfully fresh.
She sobered. “Of course we hurried home in time for supper. We were rarely late for a meal. But when we got there, Bessie was nowhere to be found. The fire had burned out—the kettle cold. When Mum and Gram returned from tending Allegra’s garden, they took one look and knew I’d shirked my duty. Mum said, ‘You lazy child. Rather than bother to sew, you cast one of your spells, didn’t you?’ I knew there and then I was in trouble. So did Jeremy.”
“How did your mother know about the spell?”
Avoiding his eyes, Gwenellen traced a finger along the curl of lace on the fine cloth beside her plate. “I’d failed to look up. If I had, I’d have seen poor old Bessie floating among the clouds, wrapped in my torn gown.”
“In the clouds? What caused her to float?”
She shrugged. “A little misstep on my part.”
“A misstep?” He bit back the laughter that had begun to rumble deep in his chest.
“I was certain I’d asked for a gown made anew, and instead was given a maid gone askew.” She brought her hands to her lap. “Or something to that effect.”
He covered his mouth and stifled a chuckle. “How long was poor Bessie up in the air?”
“Most of the day. Poor thing. She…suffers from dizziness when she even steps on a stool.”
There was no holding back the laughter now. It roared up from deep inside and bellowed forth. Between peals of laughter he managed to ask, “How did you get her down?”
“Mum cast a spell. By the time the poor old dear was back on the ground, her head was spinning so, she had to be helped to her bed.”
The image had him laughing all the harder. “I’ll bet she wasn’t too happy with you. How did you make it up to her?”
“I promised to do all her chores for a week. But after only a day, she said she’d never recover her strength if she had to continue to eat the swill I called cooking.”
“Oh, my lady. You’re such a delight.” He closed a hand over hers. “Tell me. Are there many more stories like this one?”
“Scores of them, I fear.” Though she’d initially been embarrassed to admit her foolishness, she now found herself laughing along with him.
He squeezed her hand just as Mistress MacLean and the servants returned to offer second helpings.
Leaning close he muttered, “I want to hear every one of them.”
As he accepted bread warm from the oven, he realized his heart felt lighter than it had in months. He glanced at the woman beside him and knew it was because of her. Just listening to that soft, breathy voice that seemed to wrap itself around his heart and whisper over his senses, had him feeling wonderfully relaxed.
“Tell me more about your home, my lord. Why is it called an abbey?”
“One of my ancestors lost her lover on the field of battle, and vowed to never love again. She received permission from her father to set aside a portion of the estate for a chapel and abbey, to study in the company of holy women. When the countryside was overrun by barbarians, the castle was destroyed and all inside were murdered. But when the barbarians attempted to storm the abbey, they were repelled by some unseen force.”
Fascinated, Gwenellen sipped her ale. “An unseen force? Were these holy women gifted with…certain powers?”
Andrew arched a brow. “There have been rumors of that through the ages. But of course, no one knows for certain.” He broke open a biscuit, attempting to push aside the little doubt that had suddenly crept in to tease him. It had been easy to ignore such things when he’d been convinced that there were no such things as witches. Now, he realized many of the things he’d held as myth might, in fact, be truth. “My ancestors never rebuilt the ancient abbey, choosing instead to add on a fortress which is the current castle.”
“If that be true, then we are on holy ground, my lord.” Gwenellen spoke softly, to keep from being overheard by the servants.
He shook his head. “I know nothing of that. But it is my home, and I have no intention of seeing it overrun by invaders again.” He waved aside a servant who approached with more food. “Would you care for anything else, my lady?”
“Nay.” She was too excited to think about food. No wonder her gift was so strong, so sure, here in this place. This man’s ancestor had been one of the ancient ones blessed with very special gifts. Of that she was certain.
“You’re suddenly quiet, my lady.”
Andrew’s voice brought her out of her thoughts. “I was enjoying this fine food and the warmth of this place.”
He glanced around, trying to see his home through her eyes. “It is warm and comforting. Always, when I returned from the field of battle, I felt a sense of peace at arriving home. But I’m not certain if it was the building itself, or the people who lived here.”
“You were close to your father?”
“Aye. I suppose losing my mother at such a tender age, we drew strength from one another, because of our shared grief.”
“He waited a long time to take another wife.”
She saw Andrew’s smile fade and regretted her words. But it was too late. The wonderful smile was gone, and that dark, brooding frown was back as he picked up his tankard, draining it in one long swallow.
At once a servant approached and refilled it.
The housekeeper led a wench to the table and removed a linen covering from the tray she held. “Cook has made custard tarts, my lord.”
“None for me, thank you.” His tone was curt as he turned to Gwenellen. “Would you try the sweets, my lady?”
She shook her head, still feeling remorse at having spoiled his mood.
“Thank you, Mistress MacLean.” Abruptly he stood and offered his arm to the young woman beside him. “You’ll convey my thanks to Cook?”
“Aye, my lord.” The housekeeper signaled for the servants to stand aside until Andrew and Gwenellen took their leave of the great hall.
At the foot of the stairs Andrew bowed over Gwenellen’s hand. “I go now to my father’s old chambers to see to the ledgers. If you require anything, you need only ask a servant.”
“Thank you.” She watched him walk away, then, feeling oddly bereft, she turned in the opposite direction.
For a little while he’d actually appeared to be enjoying himself. She would have sworn he liked hearing about her home, her childhood in the Mystical Kingdom. But she’d spoiled everything by mentioning his father’s wife.
Though Andrew’s happiness, or lack of it, should mean nothing to her, she found herself brooding over it.
He ought to smile more often. When he did, he was so handsome and charming, he nearly stole her breath.
She stopped in midstride and touched a hand to her heart. Whatever was she thinking? He was a mortal. A Highland warrior, who admitted to spending a lifetime in battle. She was not like her sisters, content to sit by
the fire and wait for their men to return from war. She had no intention of staying in this place another day longer than was required of her.
Still, she couldn’t deny the little thrill she felt whenever he touched her. Why was that? Was this a power that all mortals possessed? Or was Andrew Ross different?
Annoyed with the way her thoughts kept circling back to him, she lifted her skirts, intent upon exploring the castle, and filling her mind with something other than the lord of Ross Abbey.
Chapter Nine
Gwenellen’s footsteps were muted as she walked along the garden path. Moonlight filtered through the branches of the trees, casting the ground before her in a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. Already the scent of charred wood and death was beginning to fade, replaced by the fragrance of roses just coming into bloom. Soon, she thought, the abbey would be restored to its former beauty. But the horror of what had happened here would not soon be forgotten, especially by the new laird.
As she passed the fresh graves, she waited for the voices, but this night they were strangely silent.
Moving along the curving strip of grass, she looked up. By the flicker of candlelight from the second-story balcony, she could see Andrew as he sat at his father’s desk, bent over the ledgers. She stood very still, studying his profile. He wasn’t so much handsome as rugged. With that wide brow and stern demeanor, and that lock of dark hair that seemed always in need of being brushed aside, there was a look of danger to him. But when he smiled, it was as though a torch had been held to a score of candles inside him, lighting not only his eyes, but also his soul.
He was, she knew, a good man, held in high esteem by his people. And if he thought too often about vengeance, it was understandable. Perhaps his father’s spirit would persist, and the cycle of violence would be ended.
A sudden chill breeze stirred the leaves and sent her scurrying back to the abbey in search of her shawl. Once inside she moved along the hallway, too restless to retire to her chambers.
Outside a massive door she paused, and read the ancient words carved into the wood.
“Let all who enter know the wisdom of truth.” Her voice was hushed as she deciphered their meaning aloud before stepping inside.
Logs lay on the grate, and many more beside it. No fire burned on the hearth, yet the room bore no chill. A fur-covered chaise was pulled close to the fireplace, inviting a cozy spot in which to rest. Instead of crossed swords hanging above the mantel, it seemed to be some sort of ancient wood carved into the shape of a circle. The sight of shelves soaring several stories to the wooden-beamed rafters high above had her sucking in a breath. The shelves were filled with books. So many books. She’d never known there could be this many in one place. Such an amazing store of knowledge, and all of it available to those who lived within these walls.
She touched a hand to the leather bindings. They were coated with dust, attesting to the fact that they hadn’t been used in a very long time.
Though the rest of the abbey had been torched, this room showed no effect from the fire. Not a single book seemed to be scorched. Was that why the servants hadn’t cleaned this room, or even bothered to lay a fire on the hearth?
Or could there be another reason? Were they afraid to enter? Could this be the room where the holy women met to share their knowledge?
A study of the titles of the books confirmed her suspicions. Written in the ancient tongues, they translated to The Art Of Ancient Healing. Calling Down The Spirits. Chants That Heal. Spells That Guard Against The Evil Ones.
As Gwenellen prowled the room, she caught sight of a spill of moonlight through a high, narrow window. It slanted on a leather-bound book just under the rafters. Unlike the others, dark with age and thick with dust, this one shimmered, pale and iridescent, like a beacon that called to her.
A shiver passed through her, and she knew, in that instant, that she had to have this book. It was, she sensed, the font of ancient secrets. It would tell her all the things she needed to know to hone her gifts to perfection.
But how was she to get it?
As an idea came to her she glanced around, making certain that there were no servants in the hallway. Seeing no one, she extended her arms, closed her eyes, and began to chant the ancient words.
When she’d finished, she opened her eyes. “I command you, take me high. To yonder shelf I wish to fly.”
The minute the words were out of her mouth she lifted ever-so-lightly off the floor and began soaring toward the high wooden beams.
Pleased with herself, she relaxed, ready to enjoy the ride. When she was level with the highest shelf she reached out for the book that shimmered and pulsed with an inner glow.
The moment her hands closed around it, she was aware that something had gone terribly wrong. The power deserted her, and she started to drop like a stone. Desperate, she grabbed onto the shelf and was able to hang on, barely, by her fingertips.
The book crashed to the floor far below and was forgotten as she strained to keep from tumbling after it. Sweat beaded her brow as she struggled to tighten her grasp on the edge of the shelf. But with each breath that wheezed from between her parted lips, she could feel herself slipping.
She chanced a look down. At once the room spun and she felt the dizziness take hold. She closed her eyes and swallowed back the nausea that threatened. With each breath, her slick fingers slid closer to the edge of the shelf, threatening to dash her to the cold stone floor.
Even if she managed to survive a fall from this distance, she had no doubt that she would suffer broken bones, as well as a great deal of pain.
Andrew shoved away from his father’s desk and pressed a hand to the back of his neck. He resented the amount of time needed to balance the abbey’s ledgers. It was a task his father had accepted with good nature, and one Andrew found tedious and annoying. Column after column of numbers that had to be tallied. Flocks of sheep and herds of cattle to be divided. Crops to be harvested and distributed among the clan.
He wanted to be a good and honest laird to his people. But the task seemed overwhelming. He needed to see that every widow and orphan was given a place in his household, so that they wouldn’t have to worry about their next meal, or the coming winter. He would have to train those men who remained, those too young and those far too old, in the art of defending their land and people, before their enemies returned.
That part, at least, appealed to him. He was more comfortable with a sword in his hand than a quill and parchment.
Seeing movement in the garden he strode to the balcony and watched as Gwenellen moved slowly along the path. From this distance she appeared other-worldly, with moonlight turning her hair to spun gold, and a sprinkling of stardust at her feet. She paused and he thought she was looking up at him. Could almost feel the warmth of her touch as it slid ever-so-softly over him.
Had he imagined that touch? If so, why did the warmth linger on his flesh?
Stepping back, he watched until she disappeared beneath the balcony and stepped into the abbey.
The ledgers were forgotten. What he wanted, what he craved more than life itself at this moment, was to hear her voice. To see her face. To touch her.
Aye. He needed to touch her. Now. This very moment.
He strode from the room and descended the great stairs. When he reached the main level he never paused, but was drawn along the hallway until he stopped in front of the open doorway leading to the ancient library.
He stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. What he saw had his heart stopping. Gwenellen was hanging by her fingertips from the very top shelf, just beneath the rafters.
He was across the room in quick strides. His voice, when he finally found it, was gruff, but he was determined to hide his fear from her, lest it make things worse. “Fancy finding you here, my lady.”
Gwenellen looked down, eyes wild, voice little more than a breathy whisper. “Thank heaven you’re here. Can you help me? I fear I can’t hold on any longer.”
He glanced around, hoping for a ladder. Seeing none, he sighed in frustration. “How did you get up there?”
“I tried one of my spells. It seems to have…gone awry.”
“I see. Why not try another and get yourself down from there?”
“I’m afraid I might find myself in even graver peril than I am now.”
“For once you seem to have shown a bit of wisdom.” In a glance he gauged the distance, the danger, then planted his feet. “Let go, my lady, and I’ll catch you.”
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
She shook her head, and even that simple movement brought her to the very edge of the shelf. She scrambled for a better grasp, but could feel herself slipping. “From this distance I’m likely to kill us both.”
“I’ll just have to take that chance. Let go, my lady.” His tone hardened. “Now.”
Gwenellen had no choice. At that very moment she felt herself slipping free and falling, falling. She waited for the crash, the pain. Instead, just before she hit the floor, she was caught in arms of steel and engulfed in warmth.
Andrew held her close and pressed his lips to her temple, willing his heartbeat to steady. He’d thought, in that one terrible moment before impact, that he’d misjudged, and would drop her. He’d seen, in his mind’s eye, the look of her, dashed upon the stone floor and shattered like a helpless bird. It had wrenched his heart as nothing else could have.
He masked his fear with anger. “Little fool. What were you thinking?”
Feeling the sting of his hot breath on her cheek, Gwenellen was awash in so many emotions. Shame. Fear. And a great welling of relief that she’d been saved from her own folly.
When at last she found her voice, she managed to whisper, “There was a book. On the highest shelf.”
“A book?” Still holding her in his arms, he waved a hand. “There are hundreds of them. Why did you have to choose one that posed such risk?”