Page 19 of Alec

“Fair day, Armorer.” Kelso came out of the passage and winced as he heard the slightly muffled sound of wood cracking. “Mayhap you should seek out our war master later, after his head’s had time to cool.”

Kelso had a fresh bruise on his chin that had begun to fade. He also had no memory of what was to come for him with the new moon, and Rory could not tell him. Explaining why he had come in search of Alec would mean revealing too much of what he knew as well, so he nodded and accompanied the guard back to the stronghold.

Since Kelso liked to talk about the newcomers, he asked in a whisper, “Did you see the new arrival?"

“Aye.” The guard grinned. “She seems a sweet lass, and quite fetching. Her hair near reaches her waist, and ’tis the color of chestnuts roasting in a hearth.”

He went on to describe Olivia Gibson in detail for him, even shaping the air with his hands to demonstrate her curves. Despite his enthusiasm, Rory noticed how his gaze searched ahead and around every corner they passed.

“Do you look for someone now?” he murmured when Kelso ran out of words.

The guard grimaced. “I hoped to speak with my lover. ’Tis something amiss with her.”

Rory knew exactly what was plaguing Elspeth. He had witnessed from a dream he’d shared with her that she had given herself to the two mortal men she most desired. “Mayhap you should simply give her all of your affection now.”

“I do.” Kelso gave him a narrow look. “Do you ken something I dinnae, Armorer?”

To answer that with truth would only drive him to madness, so he shrugged. “That lass ’tis as kind and giving as the best of ladies. You’re a fortunate lad.”

“Aye, and half in love with her.” The guard sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Much as I wish to hold back my heart, I cannae altogether. She’ll ever own a piece of me.”

Again, he wished he could speak the truth, and tell Kelso that in three seasons he would have no memory of Elspeth or their dalliance. If he did, the guard would ask how he had learned such things, and why he would forget the chambermaid. It would be better, Rory thought, to have a word with the lass herself.

Elspeth needed to share pleasures with someone other than a man forever doomed.

He parted ways with Kelso with a whispered farewell and went into the kitchens, where Doon had all the kitchen maids busy cleaning and sorting root veg. Sculleries trotted back and forth with buckets of fresh water for the soaking basins and rinsing sinks. In the hearth some water with bundles of herbs and cut up veg bubbled in a huge cauldron, adding a rich scent of wild garlic, onions and kale to the air.

“Una, dinnae trim so much of the stalk from those leeks. Sorcha, bring up another basket of turnips. The laird and his lady both desire my veg pottage for the evening meal, which means the whole lot of them shall ask for it.” The cook emptied a pot of strange-looking brown lumps onto her worktable. “If you’re hungry, Armorer, there’s meat and fruit left from the morning meal in the cold pantry.”

Doon had never regarded him or treated him any different than his brothers, which Rory always appreciated.

“My thanks, Mistress.” He eyed the odd lumps she was rinsing in a bowl of clean water. “What call you those?”

“Some manner of root veg from seeds Healer grew from the bird jobby he collects. ’Tis a nasty habit, but now and again we do get some new foods from such.” Doon held up one of the lumps and sniffed with disapproval. “I dinnae ken this ’twill prove worth the trouble. Took near on five seasons to get a wee crop, and he took half to cutup as seed for the next.” She frowned. “Pototoes? Patataes? Och, I cannae recall the name. What troubles you, lad, that you’d linger and listen to me molligrant?”

Although the cook was his favorite vassal, he would not burden her with his troubles. “I like your grumbling.” Although he didn’t expect her to laugh, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the drawn look to her mouth. “Mayhap another scullery might ease your burdens with such.”

“’Tisnae rinsing veg that tires me,” she said, setting the lumps aside. “’Tis no’ having sleep.” He raised an eyebrow at her as she dried her hands on her apron. “’Tis dreams of the red-haired wench that plague me since the clan was cursed.”

Rory went still. “A lass with red hair?”

The cook waved a hand in front of her face. “Enough of my foolishness.” Her sharp eyes shifted to his. “Milady sent me up with brew this morn. That newcomer lass sleeps like a weary bairn. The gossipers claim our war master kept her in his bed the first night. Never once did he that with any other.”

“He desires to protect her,” he couldn’t help saying.

“Good. ’Tis high time that stone heart of his cracked.” She nudged him with an elbow. “Stop fretting, lad. In time your brother shall follow the path the Gods set before him, no matter how badly you or I wish to give him a good, hard shove.”

Rory leaned over and kissed her gaunt cheek. “My thanks, Doon.”

“Charmer.” She gave him one of her rare smiles. “Get on with you.”

Over the next week Olivia found life at Dun Talamh to be both fascinating and reassuring. Thanks to her time in France, she knew how to live comfortably in twelfth century style, and adapted quickly to the more primitive conditions in the spell trap. Other outsiders she had met had repeatedly warned her about the total lack of modern conveniences, but she honestly didn’t miss them. Wearing gowns, using a wash stand, warming herself by a hearth and waking with the sunless yellow-green light of dawn seemed to make her grow lighter and happier every day.

The best part was that she didn’t have to leave. She could stay and live in the castle forever, eating whatever she liked, in a body that made her look just like other women. It was as if all her wistful dreams had come true.

After being given permission to explore the stronghold, she spent a great deal of her time doing just that; it took her nearly a week to tour most of the complex. Everyone proved very kind, although some of the maids didn’t seem so happy to see her speaking with the male vassals. A few even muttered some unkind things about her within her hearing, which worried Olivia. She finally went to talk to Inga Holm, the clan’s chatelaine, as she was in charge of all the maids.

“I’m afraid it’s pure, petty jealousy,” the lovely blonde woman told her as she arranged some cut flowers in a pottery vase. “The yearly binding ceremony will be held in a few weeks, and nearly all the girls have already picked out the new men they want to marry. If one of them prefers you, it means they have to make another choice, or offer themselves to our clansmen.”