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“I wonder, would you object, my lord, were I to visit the Drummonds this morning? I have a small gift for my goddaughter and had hoped to deliver it myself.”
Roselyn smiled at him from her cosy nest in their bed. A month had passed since the wedding feast for the departing couple and his wife had grown even more huge. Blair found her state utterly fascinating and would spend as much time as he could merely resting his hands on her belly and marvelling at the bumps and wriggles from within. He was both entranced and terrified in more or less equal measure. He would prefer that she not leave the sanctuary of his chamber until the bairn was safely birthed, but in this the last month before her confinement she seemed more energetic than ever. His attempts to persuade her to do nothing but eat and rest had proven fruitless. Delightfully obedient, his wife simply became morose and bored if she was instructed to remain indoors, particularly since the spring that year continued to bring so many pleasant, balmy days. She adored the warm caress of the sun on her face and the play of the breeze in her hair, and he supposed he could understand that. His wife was wondrously tactile, of necessity, and he would not deny her her pleasures.
“Very well, but please be sure to return in good time, well before dusk. You should take Meggie with you, and one of the grooms to drive the cart.” He had forbidden her to ride her little palfrey as soon as he knew of her pregnancy.
“I shall have Freya to guide me.”
“And Meggie,” he insisted, his tone stern.
“And Meggie,” she agreed.
Blair ate his noontime meal alone that day, and sorely missed Roselyn’s cheerful chatter by his side. He had become used to her presence, loved to listen to her observations of the people and events around her. She brought with her an awareness of new and different impressions which she shared with him, the myriad sounds and scents of his bustling home, the nuances of conversation between his rowdy clansfolk. She enriched his senses with her own and he could hardly recall a time she had not been here. He adored her, ‘twas that simple.
“How was the roast pigeon, Laird?” Elspeth clattered more plates before him, one laden with steaming carrots, the other with fresh-baked bread.
“‘Tis fine. As ever.”
“I flavoured it with pepper, Lady Roselyn’s suggestion.”
“Ah, yes, I had wondered.” His palate had been introduced to a range of new delicacies of late. Many of them were enhanced by the spices brought back from the Holy Land by crusaders and which Roselyn had urged him to purchase in order to augment their fare. It had been expensive but he did not begrudge the investment.
“We have saffron, too.”
“Indeed?” He took another slice of the aromatic pigeon.
“Aye, ‘twill be grand with the mutton. Lady Roselyn says so.”
“I am sure she is right. You do not miss Betsy, then? She has been gone a month now.”
Elspeth let forth a derisive snort. “That woman had a heavy hand wi’ pastry an’ could never manage to produce a half-decent broth, however good the meat. We’re best without her if ye ask me, Laird.”
“I see.” Blair reached for another piece of pigeon and wished he had not ventured into this conversation. And why had he allowed Roselyn to go out for the day? What was he thinking? He swallowed his final mouthful, swilled it down with a half-mug of ale, and left the table.
“My lord, I see something.” The voice of his lookout on the western battlement halted Blair’s progress across the bailey. He paused to squint up into the lowering sun.
“What is it, Hamish?”
“I dinna ken, sir, not exactly.”
Blair took the stairs at a run and strode around the stone parapet to where his guard stood. “Show me.”
“Over there, just this side o’ the brow o’ yonder hill. Moving slow, in this direction.”
Blair saw nothing at first as he scanned the expanse of heather, only just reawakened by the new season and starting to regain its golden glow. Then he picked it out. A small, dark silhouette emerged from the shade of a copse of trees. One figure, or perhaps two but he could not be certain. He peered into the distance, his concentration intense.
“‘Tis a child, surely…” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone around him. Others had gathered also, and all eyes were trained on the distant hill. Long minutes passed as the row of fighting men focused on the small figure.
“Not just a child, he has something beside him. A pony or donkey? A goat, perhaps?” No, even as he breathed the words Blair knew it was not a pony; the gait of the animal seemed wrong, uneven somehow. And the pair were making ridiculously slow progress.
Blair made up his mind. “Saddle my stallion, I shall ride out to meet them.” A man rushed off to do his bidding and meanwhile Blair remained where he was, his gaze locked onto the two incongruous figures making their torturous way to his keep.
The light shifted, a beam illuminated the pair, and at last he saw. Blair recognised the tiny, shuffling form.
“God’s holy bones, ‘tis wee Annie Drummond. And she has Freya at her side.” His heart lurched in his chest then sank. What the fuck was the little scullery maid doing out there on the glen with his wife’s dog? And where in God’s name was Roselyn?
Blair took the stairs down from the battlements two at a time and sprinted across to the stables just as the lad emerged with Bartholomew. He leapt into the saddle and turned the stallion’s head.
