“That’s another name for ‘heir.’”
“Ah. So he’d be close by, but not too close. Seeing how Marion treated her stepsons, perhaps a little distance is not amiss when attempting to live with one’s Scottish relatives.”
She nodded, the wind whipping long strands of her hair over her shoulders. “There’s also a gokman’s house—that’s for the guards—a kitchen house, and—oh, under the Watch Tower is the dungeon.”
“No castle is complete without a dungeon. Especially when you have cantankerous family members.”
“You laugh, but it’s said that Black Roack MacNeil threw his own parents into that very dungeon. They made a written complaint to the Crown about it, too.”
“I begin to understand why no country was able to subjugate this nation.” He looked back at the great castle. “As impressive as Kisimul is, the center of the bay is a poor place to build a fortification. If you were encircled by attackers in boats, you’d easily be starved or left without water.”
“And therein is the magic that is Kisimul Castle,” she said. “It has its own freshwater well.”
His gaze locked back on her. “In the middle of this saltwater bay?”
Her smile could only be described as smug. “Oh, yes. The well’s under shelter, too, safely tucked under the eaves of Marion’s Addition. So when there was an attack, the people inside the castle were safe and had access to both water and food.”
“Food from the storerooms?”
“And fish, too. There are ways to net fish without going outside the walls.”
“Amazing. Now that I know its secrets, I can’t imagine a better-situated fortification.”
“Sadly, its only weakness was from within its own walls,” Jane said. “Betrayed by her own laird.” She shook her head as if the thought were too bitter to hold, and then turned her back on the fading castle and faced the land.
Hearing the sadness creep back into her voice, Michael was glad when the captain of their ship yelled for the small crew to prepare to moor at the small dock at the head of the bay. A small grouping of stone houses and huts marked the town of Castlebay.
Soon they were standing on the sandy shores of Barra while the crew unloaded their belongings on a rather decrepit-looking dock that had made Jane’s mouth thin with displeasure. Ammon oversaw the unloading of their trunks, ignoring the stares of the crew, while Jane approached a youth who’d arrived at the dock in a cart pulled by a plow horse. From the snippets Michael overheard, she was attempting to hire the cart to take them and their luggage two miles down the shore to the inn.
Michael listened as Jane haggled the man’s already reasonable price even lower, her accent growing with the exchange though she’d regained her usual clipped manner of ordering people about. Satisfaction warmed him. Perhaps here, on this windswept isle, he’d discover the answers to the two greatest mysteries of his life: the location of the elusive Hurst Amulet, and the true history of the long-dead princess of Barra.
If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
CHAPTER 8
From the diary of Michael Hurst:
The skies over Barra seem to have the normal cloud cover one can expect from Scotland—gray and dismal, plump with rain, and with the promise of more ill winds than a soul can bear.
It’s so moist here that I would not be surprised to discover that mushrooms can thrive in midair. Even damper in spirit are the inhabitants. I’ve received nothing but suspicious looks and sullen stares since I crossed the border. What have I done but visit their wretched country and spread good English coin? Does that deserve such foul looks? I’ll never understand how Jane—sensible, commonsense, pragmatic, perfectly calm though sometimes annoyingly happy Jane—sprang from this wind-buffeted, dour-faced isle.
Michael leaned against the window frame and watched the rain beat upon the cobblestones. They’d arrived yesterday slightly after noon, navigating their way on a road that had been neglected until it was nearly impassable. It had begun to rain the second they’d carried the last trunk into the small farmhouse referred to as an “inn,” and it had rained ever since.
He’d gone to sleep with the thrum of a steady rain, and awakened to it. He eyed the muddy road that curved beyond the courtyard and wended a small distance along a bluff before the sea. The sea itself seemed beaten down by the rain, for it was as gray as the clouds above it, the only color the verdant green of the rolling hills. He scowled and turned from the window. Rain or no, he’d be damned if he’d sit in this tiny “inn” for an entire day.
Especially not this inn. His bedchamber was appallingly small, the floors creaky, the bed narrow and far too short. The mattress was lumpy, too, and damp. But worst of all were the thin walls. He’d hardly slept, able to hear every step Jane took, every murmur she made, every turn she made in her creaky bed. There was only one comfortable part of his room and that was the pillow—which he’d belatedly realized must have been placed there by Jane. His pillow must have been stored in her trunk, too, for her lavender scent filled his senses every time he tried to sleep.
He’d been awake when Jane had risen at dawn from her creaky bed after finding her spectacles on the table nearby—he’d heard the scrape of the metal rims as she’d pulled them close. When she’d thrown open her shutters to peer outside, he’d been unable to keep himself from imagining what she looked like—her long dark hair mussed as she stretched and yawned, then padded barefoot from the window to the washstand before dressing.
If he closed his eyes now, he could see her slender figure as she—
Blast it, I’ve slept in the same tent with that woman with nothing more between us than a curtain. Why am I so aware of her now?
Whatever had caused it, he’d better stay in his room until his blood cooled—though, at this rate, he might be here until Michaelmas. Scowling, he reached for his shirt, which was hanging on a peg by the bed.
He finished dressing and went downstairs, having to duck along the narrow passage. “Bloody hell, was this house made for children?” he grumbled as he turned the corner into the common room.
Jane was already there, looking neat and unflappable as ever. Beside her stood their landlady, a woman named Mrs. Macpherson, who was as tall and thin as her husband was round and short. She glared at Michael to let him know she’d heard his comment before she thunked a steaming pan of food on the plank table before the fireplace.
Jane frowned at him. “Hurst, Mrs. Macpherson brought us breakfast. Her husband is seeing to the horses in the barn, as Turner’s ship landed this morning and arranged to have them brought here.”
Her tone clearly let him know what she thought of his lack of manners.
The last thing he felt like doing was apologize, but he could tell that Jane would settle for nothing less. Grinding his teeth, he inclined his head toward their landlady. “I’m sorry I’m a bit ill-tempered this morning. I haven’t had my coffee yet.” He glanced at Jane.
“Ammon’s making your coffee now and will bring it as soon as it’s ready.”
Mrs. Macpherson folded her thin arms across her chest, her jaw a thin line of disapproval. “That servant of yers aboot scared me nigh t’ death this mornin’. He came creepin’ into the kitchen and—”
“Creeping?” Michael asked, lifting his brows. “He’s well over six feet tall.”
Mrs. Macpherson flushed an ugly red and said in a defensive tone, “He walks wi’oot a sound, he does. Like a ghostie.”
“There seem to be a lot of ghosties on this island.” Michael walked to the table to look into the steaming skillet. “Whatever’s in that skillet smells delicious. It’s making my stomach growl and—” His head thwacked into a low-hanging beam. “Ow! Bloody mo—”
“Mrs. Macpherson,” Jane said immediately, even as she winced. “I’ll ask Ammon to make more noise when he walks.”
Mrs. Macpherson gave a sharp nod. “Thank ye, miss.”
Michael had clapped a hand over his head and was now glaring about t
he room as if trying to decide which piece of furniture he should throw first, so Jane said in a soothing voice, “Hurst, just sit down. If you stagger about, you’ll hit your head again, and this time it could hurt one of the beams. This is an old house and was not built to take such abuse.”
He growled but sat on the bench at the table. He tried to put his legs under the table, but it was too low. “Blast it, this house is tiny.” He locked an icy stare upon the table, as if to freeze it into growing longer legs.
Jane had to press a hand to her mouth to cover a giggle. He was right—everything in the house was built for a family of much smaller stature. While it all fit her perfectly, Michael’s towering height didn’t fit in any part of the room. Unfortunately, no one had ever built a real inn on Barra. Instead, over sixty years ago the enterprising Macphersons, after building a new house on the bluff behind the farmhouse, had converted their old home into the island’s only inn.
Jane was just glad it was available. She turned to the housekeeper and smiled. “Thank you for bringing breakfast, Mrs. Macpherson. It smells wonderful.”
“Aye, there’s eggs and bacon, and some bannock and a nice pot of tea.”
“Where’s Ammon with that damned coffee?” Michael slid the skillet closer and peered inside.
Jane and Mrs. Macpherson shared a look. “Men,” Jane said under her breath.
“Lord love ’em,” Mrs. Macpherson agreed. “I’ve often said tha’ men who canna—” The innkeeper tipped her head to one side, her gaze suddenly locked on Jane. “Excuse me, miss, but now that I see ye in the light, ye look a mite familiar. Are ye related to the MacN—”
“No.” The word burst from Jane’s lips before she realized she meant to say it.
Mrs. Macpherson’s brows shot up. “I’m sorry, miss. I dinna mean to insult ye.”
“Oh, no, no! I’m not insulted at all. I’m just—I’m not related to anyone who lives in”—Jane waved a hand—“Scotland.”
“Not one?”
“No. Not one.” Jane realized that Michael was now watching her with interest. Blast it, just go back to staring
at your breakfast and let me handle this. She smiled at the
innkeeper and said in her best voice for negotiating with difficult people, “My name is Miss Jane Smythe-Haughton. I recently returned from Egypt. Mr. Hurst here is a brilliant explorer, and I am his assistant.”
“Egypt, eh? That’s far away, is it no’?”
“Very. We’ve discovered many important historical finds. I lived in Egypt and the surrounding countries for the last fourteen years. Before that I lived with my parents, who are from—” Her mind, up until now flicking along at a brilliant rate, chose that moment to freeze. And it didn’t freeze a tiny bit; it froze into an icy, unthinking block.
Later, she’d wonder if her inability to finish the sentence came from an odd sense of guilt at denying her own father on the very soil he’d once presided over, or if it was something subtler; but whatever it was, she couldn’t find a single word to finish her sentence.
Mrs. Macpherson glanced uncertainly at Jane, and then at Michael, and then back at Jane, suspicion growing. “Yes, miss? Your parents are from?”
From where he sat at the table, Michael’s deep voice rumbled, “Miss Smythe-Haughton’s parents are from Cheapstowe, I believe. Isn’t that right, Jane? They lived there from the time Jane was born until she was a small child.”
Cheapstowe? Jane was only vaguely aware of that particular area of London.
“Oh?” Mrs. Macpherson said. It was a polite “Oh?” one that implied that the listener had heard quite enough, but apparently Michael wasn’t finished.
“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “They had to leave once Jane’s father was thrown into gaol for—what was it, Jane? Forgery? Thievery? I can never remember.”
Why, you—
“After Mr. Smythe-Haughton was sent to gaol, Jane’s poor mother, Mrs. Smythe-Haughton, was forced to make her way by becoming a s—”
Jane managed to make a strangled noise, her voice still locked tightly in her chest.
Michael’s brows rose and he said in a polite tone that was as unlike him as it was maddening, “Yes? Did you say something?”
The humor in his blue eyes finally loosened the invisible bonds that held her voice. “Thank you, but I’m certain Mrs. Macpherson has heard more than she wished to know. She doesn’t need to hear my entire family history, unsavory as it apparently is.”
He leaned back in his chair, though it creaked noisily. “I was just trying to help.”
She didn’t deign to reply, but firmly thanked a gawking Mrs. Macpherson for the lovely breakfast and assured her that their accommodations were lovely, all the while herding her to the door. Soon Mrs. Macpherson was bundled back into her cloak, the hood up to protect her hair from the rain as she scurried out the back door to the small kitchen located across the garden behind the inn.
That done, Jane joined Michael in the common room. Since he couldn’t fit at the table, he’d filled two plates with the contents of the skillet and had carried them to the small table by the window. He’d pulled two seats up and now slid one of the plates toward the empty chair. “I thought we’d eat here.”
She gathered the napkins he’d left behind, then sat in the chair and scooted closer to the table. “Ammon should be here shortly with the coffee.”
“He’d bloody well be.”
She placed her napkin in her lap and placed his in front of his plate.
“Thank you.” He dropped the napkin into his lap. “You’re lucky I saved you any; I’m starving.”
She picked up her fork. “It’s more than the daughter of a forger should expect.”
His eyes sparkled. “You didn’t like that, eh? Did it make you miss being the daughter of the laird?”
“It didn’t make me anything except surprised—although I owe you for saying something. I don’t know why I couldn’t think of an answer to her question, but I couldn’t.”
“I’m surprised a person with your experience in telling elaborate fables should have difficulty in thinking up such a simple tale, but I suppose it’s a different issue when you have to think quickly rather than spend time thoroughly developing your story.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” she replied blithely, cutting her bacon into small bits. “I’m also sure that my skills will grow over time. I just need to practice, practice, practice. Did I ever tell you about the dragon I owned when I was a child?”
“No, and you’re not going to. Our landlady thought she recognized you.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Did you really think you could return here and no one would know you?”
She was putting marmalade on her toast, but she paused long enough to grimace. “I had hoped so.”
“If our landlady saw the resemblance, then others will, too. You need to have your story ready or you’ll be discovered.”
She nodded, feeling oddly chastised. Perhaps it had been naïve of her to hope to escape notice, but it had been so many years and she’d experienced so much in life as Miss Jane Smythe-Haughton that she felt like a different person from that girl of so long ago. A girl who really had died, as far as she was concerned.
She realized that Michael was regarding her from beneath his lashes, his expression inscrutable.
She hid a sigh. His dark hair was too long again, falling over his brow. His dark skin gleamed golden in the wan lamplight, and his eyes were thickly lashed and the darkest of blue.
An odd heaviness sat in the pit of Jane’s stomach. She knew him so well, and yet there were times, like right now, when she felt that they were miles and miles apart.
She pushed the marmalade pot toward him. “Perhaps I was foolish to think no one would recognize me, but you really didn’t give me time to think it through. I didn’t know we were coming to Barra until we were under way, and I couldn’t say no. Plus, the amulet is here, and we’ve been looking for it for so long. I couldn’t turn my back on
the opportunity.”
“I can’t fault you for that. I’m rather excited about it, too.” He glanced at the rain-washed windows. “If it will just stop raining.”
“It’s getting lighter. Hopefully, it will be down to a mist by this afternoon.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then we don cloaks and go anyway. It’s the rainy season now, so it could rain for days. We can’t let it slow us down.”
“Lovely. This almost makes me miss the heat of Egypt.”
Jane had to grin. “As wet as this is, nothing will make me miss the heat of Egypt.”
Ammon entered from the back door carrying a pot of coffee on a tray.
“Thank Ra,” Michael muttered.
“Watch your head!” Jane called to the servant.
She needn’t have worried, for Ammon’s dark gaze was already fixed on the closest beam. He set down the tray, then removed his dripping cloak and hung it on a peg by the fireplace. Then he reclaimed the tray and came to the table, ducking another beam on the way.
Michael leaned forward as coffee was poured into his cup, the fragrance lifting his spirits. “Ammon, you are a saint.”
The servant chuckled, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. “I knew you’d need your coffee, sir. I daresay you did not get much sleep in that small bed.”
“I noticed that you escaped to the barn. Was it comfortable?”
“Yes, sir. I made a bed of hay and slept well indeed.”
“No leaks?”
“A few. No more than expected.”
“Very good. Take care you dress warmly. This cold, damp air can be difficult if you’re not used to it. How are the horses? Were they affected by the crossing?”
“No, sir. Ramses is restive, though, and will need to be ridden.”
“Have him and—” He looked at Jane.
“I’ll ride Alexandria. We’ll leave within the hour.”
The servant bowed. “I’ll tell Turner to saddle the horses. Will there be anything more, sir?”
“Not now. Thank you for the coffee.”
Ammon inclined his head again and then returned to the fireplace, ducking beneath the low beams as he collected his cloak and left.