Flame

Chapter 10

10

The stillness, taut and charged with hostility, hung suspended in the air over the warriors in the Great Hall. The threat of violence lurked in every corner, and the few audible murmurs poisoned the air with low, menacing growls. On the walls, armed hunters and dying animals glared down from tapestries amid the mounted heads of deer and elk and boar.

And at the head table, the two leaders seemed to be making no serious attempt to dispel the gloom or to ease the tension.

Gavin Kerr stared thoughtfully at the crystal goblet in his hand. The wine, red and potent, glowed in the light of the fire in the great hearth. It was difficult for him to ignore the seed of suspicion that the priest had planted in his mind. From the time he’d greeted the Earl of Athol and his men, a coldness had taken control of him, driving his actions. Gavin knew he was not very proficient at hiding his feelings, and he was certain that the tall, lean Highlander had read the distrust in his face. Now, sitting at the long table with the haughty, silent man, he wondered if John Stewart was indeed responsible for the deaths that had taken place here last fall. Athol had reasons for desiring revenge, and he had the opportunity.

The Lowlander eyed the men crowding the hall. Tonight, before everyone had seated themselves at supper, Gavin had drawn his steward, Allan, aside, and had questioned him again about that dreadful night. The steward had told him that when the fire was out—when it was clear that no survivors existed—the Earl of Athol and his men had immediately left Ironcross Castle. Nay, Allan told him, they had not bothered to stay so long as to bury the dead. What would drive a man to flee such a catastrophe, Gavin wondered. If not the demons of guilt, then...what?

Gavin knew some of Athol’s warriors. There were some very fine fighters among the Stewart company. Indeed, too many hands rested on the hilts of swords in the flashing light of hearth and torch. The warriors from both sides were watching them carefully, taking their signals from the two leaders. Edmund had seated himself with his men by the door to the courtyard, and Gavin could see Peter amidst his fighters.

Gavin knew the value of his own men, and he knew they could win a fight against Athol’s company. But it would be a b****y victory, and for what? This was no time or place to settle the crimes of the past. Besides, he reminded himself, he had no proof...yet. He still needed to give the man the benefit of the doubt. After all, the Earl of Athol carried the blood of the royal family in his veins. John Stewart had been cousin to James IV—the king whom Gavin had honored above all men. Spilling John Stewart’s blood would require irrefutable proofs of guilt.

He turned to the nobleman sitting at his side. Athol’s hair had been adorned with thin braids that mingled with the rest of the long, dark red locks that he wore down his back. A bit of a dandy, Gavin thought, eyeing the jewel encrusted broach that held his tartan of red and green in place. He would not make the mistake of underestimating the man, though. He had seen Athol wield a sword at a number of tournaments, and his speed was lethal.

Gavin forced himself to speak. “We have begun work on the south wing.”

Athol lifted his goblet of wine and drained it. “I knew your Border men were renowned for their prowess in battle.” His face had the faintest trace of mirth in it. “I didn’t know they were builders as well.”

“My lads would tear down and rebuild the gates of Hell if I commanded it.” Gavin stared out at the tense fighters who were watching them with the eyes of hawks. He lightened his tone perceptibly and looked back at his guest. “I’ve already sent a man to Elgin to fetch the needed carpenters and stonemasons. I plan to rebuild that wing as it once was.”

“You waste no time.”

“From what I understand, when you’re laird of this keep, time is a precious commodity.”

“Time is precious for all of us,” Athol replied vaguely, before turning his gaze again on the Lowlander. “But tell me, Gavin Kerr. Do you believe in the curse of Ironcross?”

Gavin filled up his guest’s cup and then did the same for himself. “You have lived in this region for all of your life. What do you believe?”

The Highlander paused thoughtfully as he brought the wine to his lips. Then he let his gaze range over the Hall before returning to his host. “What I believe matters naught. But it appears that history is on the side of believing.”

“Then you believe in these curses and ghosts and the violent death that goes with being laird of this keep?”

“Perhaps I do.”

Gavin took a long moment before continuing. “Then why did you press your claim to be the laird of this holding? Do you not value your life?”

A sudden flush darkened Athol’s expression.

“It is no secret,” Gavin continued, motioning for a serving lad to bring more wine. “You and Sir John made no attempt to hide your feelings on the night he died. As I hear it, this Great Hall was filled with onlookers, as it is now.” Calmly, he paused as he refilled both of their cups. “But why should you want it so badly, and then leave it the next morning—barren, unprotected, and ripe for the taking?”

“You push the bounds of a new...friendship.”

“Do I?”

“Aye. It’s none of your business what went on between the MacInnes lairds and the Stewarts of Athol, and I owe you no explanations for anything I do. But I’ll tell you this. My claim was fair.”

Gavin returned the man’s steady gaze for a long moment. “Perhaps that is so...friend.”

Athol hesitated and then reached for the goblet. Several of the visiting warriors were restlessly stirring in their seats—as were Gavin’s men—but no weapons had yet been drawn.

Athol’s look at Gavin told him that his neighbor was also very aware of the nearness of a confrontation. After taking another drink, the earl spoke again, clearly trying to keep his voice calm. “How...how much progress have you made in that wing?”

Gavin paused a moment and then nodded, acknowledging Athol’s effort to diffuse the potential violence between their men. “You can see for yourself.” He rose from the table. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

From the commotion in the kitchens, she had known the keep was overflowing with guests—and she knew who the visitor was. But Joanna still had a ghostly reputation to maintain.

It had been a difficult day for her, though, and one without sleep. The cursed laird had his man and Allan exploring the passages for most of the day. After she had returned from the tower chamber, she had kept an eye on them, trailing them as they made it as far as the subterranean tunnels, but not so close that they had any idea she was there. Oddly enough, Allan didn’t seem to be very familiar with the passages, and so the two hadn’t been able to go very far. They never even came close to the south wing. But Joanna was becoming quite weary now. Real ghosts, she supposed, don’t need much rest.

But at last the deed was done, and Joanna smiled as she closed the panel beside the hearth in what had been the study. The passage entry where she had nearly been caught by the new laird was of no use to her now—with the floor all torn away and the panel nailed shut—but another small panel on the opposite side of the hearth was close enough for her to continue plaguing the man.

So after everyone had settled down to their supper in the Great Hall, she had crept back to the laird’s room, taken her portrait once again, and brought it back here.

Once, long ago, Joanna had prided herself on her strength and perseverance. Admittedly, she had even been a bit mischievous as a lass.

It was good again to have a chance to be human again.

Gavin glared at the smiling image.

It took great restraint on his part not to curse out loud at the sight of the portrait hanging yet again on that blasted wall. Drawing in his breath deeply, he scowled at Edmund, who stood at his elbow gaping dumbly at the picture.

Tearing his eyes from the painting, the laird tried to pretend that nothing was amiss. Gavin stepped into the open area and continued with the explanation of the renovations he had planned.

“As you can see, we’re still in process of pulling down those walls. My thought is to rebuild, using a style that I’ve seen in my travels.” Gavin hesitated, noticing that his guest had not followed him into the room. Athol remained standing in the entry way, his eyes focused on Joanna’s portrait. As the Lowlander looked into the earl’s face, he sensed something far different than what he had expected to find there. For Gavin saw no guilt, and his jaws clenched tightly in response.

There was longing in Athol’s eyes as the man gazed on the portrait.

Gavin turned away, fighting off the insane possessiveness that he could feel flooding through him. And it was insanity, he knew. He wanted to shrug off this intruder, climb the ladder, and carry the picture back to his chamber. As he had done before. As he would do again.

Athol broke the awkward silence, and his voice was husky, almost reverent. “I didn’t know anything survived the fire.”

“She did,” Gavin put in shortly.

“Why have you left her there?”

“To oversee the work.”

Athol’s eyes darted to Gavin. A glimmer of wry amusement flickered in their depths. “I see that the madness that runs rampant in these hills has affected you as well. I would pay a fine price for that painting if you could bear to part with her.”

“She’s not for sale,” Gavin said shortly, ready to usher his guest out of the chamber. Edmund and a few men stood in the corridor beyond Athol.

The earl was not ready to budge from where he stood. He almost smiled at Gavin’s response. “Perhaps this is not a good time to discuss the matter.”

“There will never be a good time to discuss it.”

Athol didn’t seem convinced. Still rooted to the spot, he again looked longingly at Joanna’s portrait. “I knew the grandmother well. She was quite attached to the lass.”

“Aye. What of it?”

“I was wondering if you were going to honor her wish.”

“What do you know of Lady MacInnes’s wishes?”

“I know she wants the painting for herself. She sent word to me last winter after the fire. She wanted me to ride down here and see if...if Joanna’s portrait had survived the blaze.”

“But you didn’t come back.”

Athol stared at him. “Nay. I didn’t come back.”

“Why?” Gavin pressed. “What was it in this destruction that you couldn’t bring yourself to look on? They say it’s hard to return to a place where one feels...” He paused, pretending to search for the right word.

“Once again you’re meddling in my business.”

Gavin gestured to the chamber behind him. “I see the destruction in a keep that now belongs to me. It’s my business to learn the truth.”

“This truth that you’re after has nothing to do with me. What went on between John MacInnes and me that night was the same quarrel we had been having for some time. That night, though, so many were present.”

“And that night, disaster followed.”

“A disaster that had nothing to do with our disagreement.”

“There are others who feel differently.”

“They can all burn in hell,” the earl exploded. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re nothing but a pack of cowardly dogs. If you look closer...laird...you will see that each one of them...well, you will see that there is more here beneath the surface than meets the eye. And far more reason for murder in some than you will find in any debate between the MacInnes and me.”

Gavin looked at Athol’s flushed face and saw it best to let the matter drop, for now. “Whatever happened, it was a waste of life, was it not?”

The Earl of Athol stared at his host for a long moment. “Aye, Gavin Kerr. A great waste.”

Joanna awoke with a start.

Tucked away in a passage beneath the Great Hall, the young woman listened carefully. She must have dozed off, crouching next to the wall, but she was unsure what had awakened her.

Quietly, she stood up. As she moved confidently through the darkness, she considered how much bolder she had become of late. She knew that they had returned the painting to the laird’s bedchamber just before he had retired, and as she reached that level, a thrill coursed through her. Aye, she thought, she would steal the thing again and no one would catch her.

But as Joanna closed a sliding panel behind her, a chill ran up her spine and she thought, suddenly, how fragile a looking-glass image can be. Someone had been through this passage, and not long before her. The smell of oil from a wick lamp was heavy in the enclosed space.

Pressing her back against the wall, the young woman stood motionless and considered her next move. The laird—rightfully so—was becoming irritated with her mischief. No doubt that was why he had sent his men to probe the passages earlier in the day. She peered through the darkness down the passage. She was only a few dozen steps from the laird’s chamber. Could he be setting a trap for her? Could he himself be waiting to discover her? To her shock, waves of fear mingled with an insane sense of excitement and—though she denied even the thought of it—anticipation. She had been alone too long, she thought, biting at her lip.

She shook her head, becoming angry with herself for such silly, fanciful notions about the handsome laird. True, the man apparently seemed smitten with her portrait. But how would he react if he were ever faced with her in the flesh?

Perhaps it would be best if she were to give up her mischief for the night and let the poor soul rest in peace. She must not take foolish risks, she thought, scolding herself silently. With that thought in mind, Joanna turned and started away down the stairs.

But before she had gone even a step, the smell of death penetrated her senses.

She bolted forward through the darkness, following the trace of smoke.

Her heart pounded. Her eyes teared. Her hands shook.

Could it be that she had failed him as well?