As if the man had been awaiting his arrival, the wooden door of the cottage opened and the dark monk, Dubhán, emerged, pulling the door closed behind him and crossing the graveyard with a bright smile on his face.
“Laird Cameron, a pleasant surprise,” he said. “Good day.”
“Good day, Dubhán. I came to apologize for the brevity of my hospitality last night. My attentions have been spread thin since my arrival.” He held out his hand, revealing the tiny egg. “An offering for the saint of the cave.”
“Ah,” the monk said, taking the small oval and holding it up between thumb and forefinger as if to examine it. “It is just the thing.” He lowered the egg with a genial smile. “The path is treacherous, as I have said.”
“I’d hoped you would lead me,” Tavish ventured.
“Gladly,” Dubhán said. “But I have traveled it many times. And the rain has only increased its hazard. I would not dare to forbid my lord passage, but it would be a shame for you to give up Roscraig when you’ve only just taken it, even if it is for a greater reward.”
Tavish laughed. “I’ve kept my feet upon many an ice-slicked deck in the midst of a winter gale, Dubhán. I have no fear of a muddy path.”
The dark man gave a bow. “As you wish, laird.” He then tucked the egg inside his robes and walked straight toward the edge of the cliff, where the bright sunlight glinted over the wide expanse of the firth like diamonds rolling over gray velvet. As Dubhán came to the cusp of land, he turned back to Tavish. “We begin here.”
Tavish looked down. There didn’t seem to be a path at all, only a flat stone jutting out from the cliff a hand’s breadth below where the grass poked out into the breeze. He looked back to Dubhán.
“That’s the path?”
Dubhán nodded and smiled. “The way is narrow, laird.”
Tavish raised his eyebrows at the monk.
Dubhán laughed. “Have no fear. If it is his will, we will be preserved. Only mind the vines—one slip when the wind blows just so…”
“Only mind the vines,” Tavish muttered as he neared the cliff edge and pushed back the heavy curtain of ropy climbers. He saw the water of the firth foaming around the rocks far below. “I think I’ll concentrate on not falling to my death.”
“Also advisable, laird,” Dubhán agreed in an admiring tone.
Tavish took a deep breath and then stepped after the monk, Dubhán’s whispering Latin hissing by his ears on the cliff breeze.
* * * *
Frang Roy stood in the entry hall, looking about himself uneasily at the bustling strangers weaving over the corridors and the courtyard overlooking the firth. They all seemed busy and comfortable with their duties—as if they had always called Roscraig their home. No one was paying him any mind, and the nosy old woman who had denied him on his previous visit was nowhere to be seen.
He made his way into the spiraling stone corridor that led to the east tower, his senses on high alert for anyone who might question his presence. At the doorway to the great hall, Frang paused. The room had been transformed into a stately and fine chamber, the likes of which he could never recall seeing in the old stone keep. Shining candelabra, colorful tapestries; there was even a muted portrait of three strangers hanging on the wide chimney—the first painting Frang Roy had ever seen in his life.
He stared at the piece of art for several moments, and his frown increased. Then he continued up the stairs, his intended destination the chamber that lay above the great hall, but Lady Glenna’s room was empty. Frang returned to the entry corridor and crossed it, jostling the line of servants descending the western stairs and forcing them to juggle their carefully balanced trunks and furnishings.
The door was open to a chamber on the second floor, and Frang stood a moment in the doorway, watching the woman at the window, her back toward him. Glenna was wearing a fine gown he’d not seen before, one that lent exaggerated curves to her slender frame, and a tall, ornate head covering that hid her curls.
Frang Roy stepped into the room just as she turned.
“Oh!” she said. “I thought you’d all gone.” She walked toward him.
It was not Glenna Douglas. This woman was red-haired, with wide eyes and a bow mouth; voluptuously made and dressed. Frang froze.
“I suppose you might as well take that dreadful thing next,” she was saying, frowning distastefully at an old, handsomely carved chair.
“Where is Lady Glenna?” he blurted.
The woman’s frown turned decidedly more ominous as she looked at him directly at last. “How should I know?” Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down, as if at last truly seeing him. “I understand from the other servants that the laird has forbidden anyone from addressing the girl who lives here as lady.” She paused. “I don’t recognize you; where are the other men?”
“Takin’ a rest,” Frang said carefully.
“Overexerted already, are they?” the woman said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—father says country servants are lazy. Any matter, stop calling her lady.” She looked at Frang expectantly. “Well?” And then gestured to the chair.
Frang stood still. “Where am I to take it?”
