“There’s nae shame in fetching one’s own water, Tav. Heaven knows I’ve done so all me life, for man and beast. Including you. Go on,” she insisted with another flap of her hand.
Tavish grinned at his mother’s scolding, and then he and Lucan Montague led the mounts through the wide entrance hall to the rear opening. The men broke into a trot as they ducked beneath the portcullis into the rain once more and dashed toward the stable.
Tavish’s grin widened even as the lightning flashed around him and the storm bore down on Tower Roscraig.
My stable.
* * * *
Frang Roy waited until the old woman had pulled her girth into the blackness of the west tower doorway and he could hear her breathy exertions descending the stairs before he stepped into the passage, returning his belt to his waist.
He was angry. Angry that Glenna had opened the door to the travelers. Angry that she had granted them entry. It was careless, even with her childish display of the old man’s derelict sword—it could have been anyone at all come to the tower. At this very moment, he should be putting his terms to Glenna once more, forcefully if need be, and with whatever discomfort necessary for her to accept his will.
She would not have refused him this time.
Then Frang recalled hearing the jingle of coins placed into Glenna’s hand by the pushy stranger at the door, and his frustration dissipated like the smoke from an extinguished wick. He was a patient man. He’d waited all these years; another night would make little difference.
He walked to the door and let himself out, closing it carefully—soundlessly—behind him.
Chapter 3
Glenna’s arms strained with the effort of pulling the thick rope through the pulley suspended over the well until at last the bucket appeared from the depths of the dark hole set in the stone floor. She wrapped the rope in a figure eight around the stay, but before she could reach out to take hold of the bucket, the old woman from the entryway hobbled into the cellar and stepped to the edge of the well.
“Allow me, milady,” she said and removed the handle from the hook with a grunt, her thick arms taking the weighty bucket down with ease and without spilling so much as a drop.
Glenna had soaked her skirts each time she’d drawn water.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
“The set’s a bit high up for a wee thing such as yourself.”
“I don’t usually draw the water,” Glenna answered immediately and then regretted her words. Even though she’d taken her son’s pitiful payment readily enough, some strange manner of her pride didn’t wish the old woman to know that the few servants Roscraig once boasted were now all dead or had fled the hold. Her mind filled with the memory of the Tower’s gouged door, the pounding and shouting from beyond…
“Hmm” was Harriet Cameron’s only response. But the old woman seemed to be studying Glenna’s flushed face in the gloom of the cellar. “You look familiar to me, milady. Do you travel often to Edinburgh?”
“Nay.” This time it was Glenna’s turn to be noncommittal. “Thank you.” She reached out to take hold of the bucket, but the woman turned it just out of her reach.
“Milady, I couldna allow you—”
Glenna cut off the old woman’s protests by striding forward and seizing the bucket handle, pulling it away as she passed to the stairwell. “This way.”
The bucket was heavy—much heavier than when Glenna usually carried it. She tried to measure her breaths without obvious strain as they gained the first level and continued to climb up the spiral corridor.
“O’ course, you would know if you’d been to the town or nae, but I do vow I’ve seen you before.” They arrived at the upper level, and Glenna stopped before the chamber door nearest the stair to catch her breath and wait for Harriet Cameron to hobble toward her. “Forgive me, milady; the journey astride has fair crippled me. Biggar, perhaps?”
“What?” Glenna asked with a frown, the word still breathy, to her dismay, from the exertion.
“Perhaps I caught sight of you at the shearing in Biggar.”
“I’m afraid not,” Glenna replied and then turned to open the door as the clatter of boots on the stone steps beyond grew louder. She gestured through the doorway.
Glenna followed Harriet Cameron inside and set the bucket down inside the room, waiting with pounding heart for the two men to join them, berating herself for leaving her father’s sword in the cellar. She felt very vulnerable with such strangers in the house, one of whom had been able to talk his way inside before Glenna had even known she had decided to open the door, it seemed now.
Tavish Cameron entered without any trace of wariness, a pair of satchels slung across his wide, rain-wet shoulders, the Englishman garbed head-to-toe in black strolling at his heels. His gaze found Glenna at once, and she noticed that she caught hold of her breath in her chest as his blue eyes boldly took in her appearance.
“Ah, my…lady,” he said while reaching inside his short cloak to retrieve the parchment he’d shown her earlier that was tucked between his shirt and doublet. He was unrolling it even as he approached her, causing Glenna to bring a hand to her throat instinctively, her feet to carry her back farther against the door behind her.
“I understand that your father is refusing visitors, but if you will show him—”
