Текст книги "My wild Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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"What is causing the delay?" demanded a female voice with a French accent behind him. He glanced back to find Angelique striding forward, her eyes blazing wrath and her blue silk skirts swishing.

She held a small pistol in her hand.

"God's blood," Lachlan muttered.

"My lady! You must not." Two of the king's men chased her.

"Watch my back," Lachlan told Dirk and Rebbie as he started toward her. What a wee angel of vengeance she was. He sheathed his sword, plucked the pistol from her hand and escorted her back to the coach. They halted by the door.

"Listen to me, Angelique," he whispered in her ear. "You will stay within the safety of the coach until I settle this." Her floral female scent startled his senses and stirred his body with lust at a very bad moment.

"But—"

"I am the laird here and I will protect you, the lady. Not the other way around." He kept his tone firm but gentle.

"But this is my home. I grew up here and they cannot keep me out!"

"Nor can they keep me out. I alone must show them who is leader. You must trust me on this. I will send a message to Kormad he cannot ignore."

She grasped his sleeve and appeared as if she might argue further, but her mouth became a firm line. "Have a care," she said and released him.

"Always." He winked, leaned quickly forward and gave her a peck on the lips. Her jaw dropped.

Smiling, he opened the door and motioned her inside. She obeyed but held out her hand for the pistol, giving him a stern look.

"Put it away before you kill yourself with it," he whispered, relinquishing the wee weapon. "Don't allow her out," he told the royal guard. Lachlan wanted to continue smiling because she worried about his safety but he forced it away. That kiss had been too brief and he was in need of more.

He again faced the "leader" of this ragtag group of rebels, praying the whole of the Drummagan clan did not side with them and Kormad.

***

Angelique peered out the coach window, Camille beside her, watching Lachlan and his swaggering, confident stride. He had kissed her, damn him, and distracted her, seized control. Now what if he got hurt in this ridiculous sword fight?

"We could've settled this peacefully if he'd listened to me."

"You were brandishing a weapon just as he is," Camille said.

"Oui. But I was not going to use it." Well, only if she had to.

"A man always prefers to show force alone. And look how well he does it."

Angelique snorted. But yes, he did do it well. She admired the commanding way he brandished a sword. "Are you observing my husband?"

"No more than anyone else." Her friend gave her an innocent look. "Are you jealous?"

"Non. But make sure you do not become his mistress or I will have to disown you and find a new companion."

"Do not worry, Ange. I much prefer his friend."

"Which one?"

"Look." Camille pointed.

Lachlan moved with skill and grace as he engaged the shorter man in swordplay. They parried and thrust. A hint of a wicked grin played upon Lachlan's mouth. To him this was but a game. Did he not realize his life was in danger?

What do I care?

But she did care, for whatever reason. He had protected her and helped her escape Kormad and his men. As well, she had grown used to his smiling eyes and tall, muscular body…which she had seen every bare inch of. And taken note of every scar and bulge of muscle.

Metal clanged and flashed in the bright sunlight while Angelique held her breath. Swordplay was much like a violent dance of death, beautiful and dark. She had not hated it so much until this moment.

The men of both sides shouted encouragements.

A sword flew up into the air and tumbled to the ground. "Sacrebleu," she whispered before Lachlan turned and she saw he still held his sword. "Grâce à Dieu. He has done it."

"Did you have any doubt?" Camille asked.

Angelique shrugged and kept her eyes on the action.

Kormad's man, now unarmed, backed away, tripped over a rock and sprawled to his back. Standing over him, Lachlan pressed the tip of the sword against the man's throat. "What are you called?"

"Edward."

"Well, Edward, I shall spare your life if you deliver a message for me."

"A m…mes…message, m'laird?"

In Angelique's estimation, Lachlan looked a bit too pleased with himself.

"Aye. Tell Kormad if he wants this castle, to come get it himself, if he is brave enough. It belongs to Lady Angelique and me." He nicked the man's cheek. Blood trickled from the small wound.

He included me first. Pride swelled within Angelique, and a warm spot inside her chest softened for Lachlan.

Stepping back, he sheathed his sword. "Get up. Gather your men and go."

The prone man lurched to his feet and stumbled away. Four men rushed past, following him.

"Does anyone else wish to challenge me or leave with your friends?" Lachlan asked.

No one moved.

"Anyone else loyal to Kormad?"

Angelique noticed a tall, skinny man off to the side, clothed in dark brown leather, holding a sword behind his back. His face was hard as he watched Lachlan, like a terrier intent upon his prey.

"Who is the steward here?" Lachlan paced before the remaining clansmen, looking into the face of each one. When he turned his back, the thin, suspicious man charged forward, his sword aimed directly at Lachlan's back.

Chapter Five

Murder in his eyes and his mouth pulled into a grimace, the stranger charged Lachlan's back with the broadsword.

"Mère de Dieu." Angelique lifted her pistol. Holding it steady with both hands, she aimed at her target and fired. The pistol popped and the recoil jarred her teeth.

Crying out, the traitor flipped to the ground and slid a few inches. His sword clattered away.

Lachlan ducked, his gaze darting to the groaning man she'd downed, then to her. "What the devil?"

Where did I get such reflexes? She coughed against the thick smoke, stared at the pistol and lowered it with shaking hands spotted with black powder.

"You have done it again, Ange!" Camille said. "Maybe someone would hire you as a mercenary."

"Do not jest with me so."

Now was the time to assert her power, before Lachlan and the clan. He would not lead alone. Carrying the pistol, she climbed down from the coach and strode forward, trying to conceal how her knees shook.

Lachlan stood over the traitor. "Lock him up," he told two of the Drummagan men. "Have someone see to his injury." Blood soaked the man's right sleeve. Lachlan turned to one of the king's retainers. "If you would, see they do what they're supposed to."

Two brawny Drummagans carried the man away and two retainers followed. Lachlan shifted his attention to Angelique, his expression showing mild amazement—or was it amusement? Oui. Again, he had the smiling eyes which taunted and teased, but now she glimpsed a bit of pride there as well. Perhaps he had underestimated her before, but now he saw what she was capable of.

Get accustomed to it, she wanted to say to him but faced her clan instead. "Do you know who I am? Lady Angelique Drummagan, countess of Draughon in my own right. The rightful heir and daughter of John Drummagan. Lachlan is my husband, the earl and chief. We are laird and lady here. This is our home. You will put away your weapons and let us pass."

Lachlan sidled in close beside her, his sword again drawn, and put his arm around her shoulders. She savored the way he always wanted to protect her, but she'd shown him she was strong enough to protect him as well. And she wished he'd remove his arm before he felt her tremble.

The worried gazes of the male clan members shifted from her to Lachlan and back again. She looked into the eyes of each one, some of them vaguely familiar, from her childhood, and others foreign to her. They must trust and respect her and Lachlan. For this to happen, they must see no sign of weakness or fear.

"You have the look of your father, lass," the man directly in front of her murmured, then dropped his gaze and went down on one knee. "M'lady. Pray pardon."

His was one of the familiar faces. What was his name? Byron? Bryce. No, Bryson. "Are you Bryson?" she asked.

"Aye, m'lady." He grinned, a light of awe entering his brown eyes. "I was sword-bearer for your father."

"I remember you." She glared at the armed men behind him, meeting the wild, pale eyes of another man she recalled. His thick beard had gone white. "Heckie," she said. "You were Father's bard."

He winked. "Indeed, m'lady. And I can recite the clan's history back to the time of Noah."

His ridiculous comment caught her off guard and she smiled.

"You've grown into a lovely young lady, lass. Glad I am you've returned to us so another chapter of the Drummagan story can unfold." He laid down his sword and knelt.

One by one, the rest of the men put their weapons upon the ground and knelt.

"We are grateful for your loyalty." She curtsied, feeling a bit of awe herself.

"Indeed, good men," Lachlan said with a bow. "Now if you would please, open the gates."

One of the men lurched up and fumbled with the lock.

When the black iron gate swung back, she strode forward, her legs a bit stronger now. Lachlan walked beside her, the retainers and his friends following.

"We shall all assemble in the great hall at supper," she called, almost stepping in a pile of horse dung, one of many littering the bailey. "Clean this place forthwith! It is no better than a pigsty." She held a fondness for her clan, but they would not shirk their duties or view her as weak. She had observed her father giving orders often enough.

Once she and Lachlan climbed the stone steps and entered the great hall, she saw that it was much cleaner than the outside and looked just as it had during her childhood. She inhaled the sweet scent of fresh rushes and pungent herbs scattered about the floor.

When she was a child, Heckie and other clan members had told the stories depicted on the large, colorful tapestries that decorated the stone walls. A barrage of nostalgic memories flitted through her mind, most bittersweet. She truly had loved this place. And missed it more than she realized.

Her father's ornate oak chair sat at the elevated high table. How she wished she could see him proudly sitting there one last time, his russet hair gleaming in the firelight. She could not imagine this place without him. He belonged here much more fully than she did.

He had sometimes remarked in anger he wished she'd been a boy. But at other times, he looked at her with kindness and stroked roughened but gentle fingers over her cheek. Often, when he returned from trips, he brought her a baby doll or some other trinket.

"Angelique," Lachlan whispered in her ear.

Realizing the whole of the household was assembled before them, Angelique blinked back the burning in her eyes and tried to wipe the past from her mind. Several of the female servants and clanswomen curtsied or bent their heads in respect.

"A good day to you. I thank you for your service. The castle looks splendid." Was that the right thing to say? She glanced up at Lachlan as if he would know.

"Indeed." He tucked her hand around his elbow. "'Tis a lovely home."

"I am Angelique Drummagan. Some of you may remember me from when I was a child. My mother took me to France when I was nine but I always missed this place. This is my husband, Laird Lachlan MacGrath Drummagan, your new chief and the earl."

The women curtsied again.

He bowed. "'Tis my great pleasure to meet all of you."

The women, especially the younger ones, did what all women did around Lachlan—stared as if mesmerized. She wanted to snap her fingers to break their collective trance. Ninnies.

"We have traveled from London and would like to rest a bit before evening meal. Please see that the guests in our party and the king's retainers are well cared for," Angelique said, her tone a bit more irritated than she'd meant. Clearly if Lachlan wanted a paramour—or several—to warm his bed, he'd have no trouble finding such among this lot.

The servants curtsied and disbursed, murmuring amongst themselves. A giggle or two reached her ears.

A round, gray-haired woman rushed forward with a wide grin. "Welcome home, m'lady! You may not remember me but I was your nanny when you were a wee bairn. I'm so pleased you've come home again, and with such a strapping and handsome lad for a husband."

"Thank you, Mistress Mayme. Oui, I remember you. We used to play games together. And you told me many stories. I have not forgotten them."

"Bless you, child." The older woman patted her arm. "I will show you and the laird to your chambers so you may rest. We've kept them clean and maintained these last months because we expected your return, though we didn't ken when. I'm so glad Kormad wasn't allowed to take over." She kept up the chatter the entire time they climbed the narrow spiral stone stairwell and entered the master's chambers, Lachlan following.

"As you recall, this was your mother's suite," Mistress Mayme said. "And the laird's suite is just beyond, with a door connecting the sitting rooms. I hope you will find it to your liking, m'laird."

"I'm sure 'twill be excellent."

"I had best get busy and see that the evening meal is prepared properly. Let us know if you have need of anything." She hastened away.

Angelique entered the sitting room that used to be her mother's. Was that her mother's perfume lingering in the air? A blend of lavender, violet and ambergris. Angelique half expected her to be sitting in her favorite chair by the window. She moved forward, as if through a dream of the distant past. The chair was empty, of course, but the view the same, sheep grazing on the rolling hills. Beige stalks of grain waiting to be harvested in the fields. And in the distance, the sparkling River Tay; her mother had loved looking at it.

"I thank you for saving my life," Lachlan said behind her.

Angelique jumped, her blurry gaze darting to where he stood just inside the doorway.

He moved forward. "Is something wrong?"

She dabbed at her misty eyes and tried to put the past behind her, but not before Lachlan touched her face. "Why are you crying?"

"I am not." Chills showered over her from his warm hand. His concern, his every touch felt like affection. But it was manipulation, she knew. She would not allow him to draw her under his charmed spell. A man such as Lachlan inside her soul would cut her to bits and leave her bleeding. Heavens. Each day she found him more appealing. And each day she told herself he could not be trustworthy or faithful…but those things, she wanted above all.

She paced away from him, shoving her fragile, daft emotions behind the cold protective wall, then turned. "Shooting the traitor…it was the least I could do for mine own husband, a man who trusts too easily."

Lachlan stiffened. "I would've stopped him if you hadn't."

"Indeed? Before or after he stabbed you in the back?" This was what she needed to forget her nostalgia—a good dose of reality.

"I'm not daft. I ken what you're doing." Amusement returned to his eyes. "Unsheathing your claws, wee hellcat. The rose is becoming thorny again, hmm? And considering what you did out there, I'm thinking you're a bit too cocky for a lady."

Her face burned. She hated his damnable perceptiveness. Why could he not simply keep his distance? The distance she required for her own sanity.

"Non, you are the cocky one, sir. Very confident and trusting of strangers. I wonder if you are up to the task of leading this clan."

"Oh, believe me, I am." His grin disappeared and his jaw hardened. "And I shall be proving it to you."

She had to turn her eyes away from the determination lighting his. He would not fail without a massive fight to the death. But boredom might claim him first. He wouldn't be able to pursue his favorite pastime here. No elegant skirts to be lifted, only the serving maids'. But she was sure he would keep them busy.

"You will quickly grow bored here, I fear." I hope. Did she hope or not? What would it be like to lead her clan alone? To not be able to look upon his arrogant face each day? A face that—with its square jaw, sensual lips and intelligent golden eyes—threatened to cast a spell on her.

"I've never been bored, and I won't be here."

"You have never been married before, either. Have you?"

"Nay, but I have a feeling our marriage will never be dull." He winked.

She hated being an object of his twisted amusement. He didn't take her seriously. She must remedy that. "Mayhap I will be the one who is bored."

His grin appeared, broadened. "That, I consider a challenge, madame. I would never allow such a thing."

"Everything is not under your command or control." She forced the words out.

Lachlan moved forward, closer to her but she stood firm, her heartbeat accelerating. I do not find him appealing. Not his big, strong body nor his clean male scent. Not the seduction gleaming in his eyes, nor the smile on his sensual lips. Though she tried to convince herself these things were true, her instinctive side would not listen.

"There are different kinds of control. My own is very subtle." He bent to her ear and lowered his voice. "And I wager you will like it." His breath and lips brushed her ear; tingles raced down her chest. Her nipples hardened against her corset and she silently cursed them…but they craved his touch, his roughened but gentle fingertips squeezing them. His subtle control, his hot breath and wet tongue upon them.

Ma foi! She swallowed hard and tried to extract herself from beneath his seduction by turning away. She licked her lips and noticed they had become overly sensitized, as if craving… no, do not think it.

Several paces away from him, she gauged his reaction. He watched her from the corner of his eye, his gaze astute and delving.

She couldn't allow him to perceive even one small speck of her feelings, nor her uncontrollable and instinctive yearnings.

Clearing his throat, he strode away from her. "I'll be in the great hall…or 'haps outside, meeting some of the clansmen. I shall see you at supper." He bowed and exited.

Meeting the clansmen? He was trying to get ahead of her already, exerting his male power.

She ran to the door only to come upon two footmen carrying her trunk, several more servants and Camille waiting there.

Parbleu. She must see to them before she followed Lachlan.

***

During supper, Angelique sat beside Lachlan at the great hall's high table. She squirmed, wishing this meal finished. His friends, the king's retainers, the steward and his wife, along with Camille sat with them. The rest of the clan ate at lower tables, a loud drone of conversation echoing toward the lofty ceiling. Angelique couldn't recall half the names of the people who'd been introduced to her this evening. Some of them, she remembered from her childhood. With others, her mind drew a blank a moment after they'd given their names. What was distracting her?

She picked at her fish. She'd had no appetite since her illness on board the ship.

The way the clan—both men and women—watched her, flicking covert glances her way when they thought she wasn't looking, disturbed her. Were they suspicious of her? One woman in particular—the steward's wife—glared at her. What was amiss?

She wanted to edge closer to Lachlan's protective presence, though she forced herself not to. He was more pleasant to focus on than her clan, and nothing about him escaped her notice. He had cleaned himself up and changed clothes since she'd last seen him that afternoon. His voice rumbled in conversation with the steward, Fingall Drummagan, on his other side.

Rebbie sat by her on one side and Camille next to him. She only caught a few sentences of Lachlan's discussion as Fingall filled him in on the food and drink he was so proud of, where it came from and its cost. Rebbie seemed intent on distracting her with frivolous conversation she had no interest in, though Camille ate it up. Angelique wished to learn every detail of how the estate was run.

"The late Laird Drummagan, God rest him, preferred Gascoigne wine from Bordeaux. He considered it the finest of its sort and always imported large amounts so he'd never be without, you see." Fingall downed a long swallow. "Though he always insisted on ale served at midday meal. Our own ale, made right here on the estate. 'Tis the finest in Scotland."

Lachlan nodded, his neutral gaze shifting to Angelique. Was he angry about the way she'd challenged him earlier? She didn't know what had possessed her; she simply had to keep him at a distance. And sitting by him was not helping.

"We're glad you've come home, m'lady, m'laird." Fingall toasted them.

"I thank you," Angelique said.

"Mmph," said the woman sitting across from Fingall, his wife, Bernice. "'Twould've been better if the lady hadn't shot my brother."

Parbleu! The sister of the traitor?

"Close your mouth, Bernice," Fingall said in a low growl then gave Lachlan and her a placating grin. "I apologize for my wife. She often speaks when she should not."

"Your brother should not have tried to kill the new laird," Angelique snapped, sending the woman her most intimidating glare. "I will not abide such violence, treachery and insolence."

"Indeed," Lachlan said, his approving gaze locked on Angelique, then he winked.

Heavens, could he take nothing seriously? He could've died out there.

"My brother was not trying to kill him." The woman's tone was grumpy and defensive.

"Bernice!" her husband warned. "Shut your mouth."

She glared a hole through him. "She better hope he lives," Bernice muttered.

"Go!" Fingall pointed toward the stairs that led down to the kitchens. "I will deal with you later."

Once she stalked away, Fingall again apologized several times for his wife's poor manners and traitorous talk. "You don't have to worry about her, m'laird. I have her well in hand."

"I'm glad," Lachlan said.

Angelique hoped the man she'd shot would live, in truth. But she did what she felt right at the time, acted on impulse to protect Lachlan. But she feared Bernice would cause trouble. She might even try to poison their food. If the two lived in the castle she would have to see about securing them a cottage in the nearby village. And Bernice would be relieved of her duties here.

Moments later, a fiddler struck up a tune. Perfect time to make good her escape. Angelique excused herself. Lachlan's perceptive gaze trailed after her toward the stairs and she prayed he would not follow.

***

Sleep eluded Angelique for the next hour, no matter that exhaustion weighed her limbs and scratched at her eyes. She pounded her fluffy pillow covered in a clean, lavender scented linen case. The raucous music filtering up from the great hall—mostly bawdy Scottish jigs—ground on her frayed nerves.

She had too much on her mind, but at least part of her clan made her feel welcome. Mistress Mayme had assigned a trained lady's maid, Inga, to Angelique as well as a chambermaid. Inga had helped her undress and take down her hair while the chambermaid had built a cozy fire, then they'd left. Angelique stared into the flames, trying to sort through the mayhem her life had become.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Angelique jerked upright. What if Bernice had come to exact revenge for her brother? No, maybe Camille, finally tired of the celebration, stopped by to wish her a bonne nuit.

Angelique rose, pulled on a dressing gown over her smock and approached the door. "Who is it?" she called, trying to adopt the habit of speaking the Scots variant of English instead of French in hopes her clan would accept her more quickly.

"'Tis me, Angelique," Lachlan said.

His baritone voice pronouncing her name in that Highland accent spread a pleasant shiver through her. But he could be here for the "wedding night" bedding. She froze. Sacrebleu. Why hadn't she barred the door?

Too late; it opened. Her pulse-rate spiked and she backed up a step. Lachlan entered with a basket and closed the door. "I missed you at the céilidh."

"I was too tired to stay for the music and dancing." She clenched her hands, trying to hide her unease. "What is in the basket?"

"I couldn't help but notice you ate hardly anything at supper. And who could blame you what with the way Bernice went on? So I brought you some bread, cheese and wine."

"I am not hungry," she blurted before his generous concern could breach her defenses.

"You must be. You ate only two or three bites. I wouldn't be accused of starving my wife." He broke a small, soft chunk of bread and held it before her lips. It smelled heavenly and she noticed her appetite had returned. She opened her mouth and he pushed the bread inside.

"Good, hmm?" He took a bite for himself, sauntered toward the fireplace and dropped onto the settle. "Come. Sit."

What was he scheming? She did not wish to become cozy with her husband. But he did not seem threatening at the moment. When she sank into the plush cushion beside him, he broke a bit of the hard yellow cheese and offered it to her in the same way. The fire warmed her legs in the inviting dimness. While they chewed, the silence stretched but it was not an unpleasant moment.

"Bernice won't be working in the castle anymore," he said.

"Did you speak with Fingall about it?" Perhaps she should have done that, but she had only wanted to escape the animosity and everyone's scrutiny. She had to show more strength tomorrow.

"Aye. They don't reside at the castle anyway. They have their own home on the outskirts of the village. His good income is enough to provide them what they need."

"Grâce à Dieu. Bernice is a menace. And her brother did try to kill you. C'est qu'il est goujat! Did Fingall take offense at me?"

"Nay. He continued to apologize and wished to make it up to us."

"I pray she is the only disloyal one left."

"As do I. All the Drummagan clansmen I've met have sworn their allegiance," Lachlan said. "Tomorrow, Dirk, Rebbie and I will begin training them more rigorously. In the event Kormad attacks, we shall be ready."

The thought of an attack or battle produced an icy sensation in the pit of her stomach. "Do you think he will?"

"I cannot rightly say. But he won't give up easily." Lachlan offered her another piece of bread. When she tried to take it into her hand, he shook his head and pressed it to her lips. She ate, watching him carefully. His tiger's eye gaze gleamed in the firelight as did the trace of dull gold stubble on his jaw.

"When would you like to have the second wedding and the feast?" he asked.

She swallowed, surprised at this change in subject. "After my wedding gown arrives from London."

"A week and a half, then? If your gown doesn't arrive within a week, I shall send someone to London to fetch it." He gave her a bite of cheese, his finger carelessly grazing her lip, then popped a bite into his own mouth. "The women of this clan make good cheese, aye?"

She nodded; indeed it was better than most of the French cheeses. But she feared what made this cheese so tasty was that he was feeding it to her. Never had a man done this before.

He uncorked the half bottle of wine and offered it to her. "'Tis Brabant."

She was not accustomed to drinking from a bottle but it seemed like a fun thing to do. She turned it up. After two sips of the wine sweetened with honey and spiced with cloves, she passed it back to him. He drank a long swallow, then licked his lips.

The primal side of her craved another sip so she could place her lips where his had been. What an insane thought. She recalled the way, at their wedding, he had kissed her possessively, his tongue darting into her mouth in a startling and disturbing manner. The memory sent heat searing through her.

"Would you like to work with the other women on planning the wedding and feast?" he asked.

She swallowed hard, shoving the memory away and suppressing her reaction. "Oui."

"Arrange it as you desire."

Desire? She scrutinized his neutral expression, then nodded.

He stood, stretched and yawned. "'Tis late." He headed toward the door. "I'll leave this in case you get thirsty." He sat the corked bottle of wine on a table.

"Merci."

He bowed. "Good night."

"Bonsoir. Where are you going?" she blurted, then hated herself for it.

Pausing, he hid a grin, unsuccessfully. Wickedness entered his eyes. "I could stay, if you wish?"

"No. I was just…never mind."

His heated gaze lingered upon her for a moment longer, then shifted. "I might have a wee dram of whisky, if that meets with your approval."

"Oui. Enjoy."

"Sleep well." He bowed again.

The door snapped closed. She could not believe he'd truly walked out without trying to kiss her.

Whisky? He had evaded her question nimbly by not telling her where he would drink the whisky. Was it an excuse? Had he already found a paramour here at Draughon?

Hmph!

She had not saved his miserable life only to have him embarrass her the first night here. After putting on her slippers, she crept to her sitting room and listened at the door that joined his. No sound. She strode through his sitting room and paused at his bedchamber door.

No giggles or moans. He'd had no time to bring a woman back here.

She tapped softly, then harder. Silence. Holding the candle aloft, she eased the door open and entered the empty room. Sidestepping his trunk in the middle of the floor, she moved toward the bed. A servant had turned down the covers, neat and tidy. She plucked his whisky flask from the bedside table and shook, the liquid inside sloshing. If he had only wanted a nightcap, why would he not drink it here? Where had he gone?

To a woman's bed elsewhere in the castle?

What was he up to? Maybe she could find him without his knowledge. At the cold fireplace, she removed the rock at the bottom, where the hearth connected to the wall. She pressed the metal lever with her foot. A screeching clang sounded behind the tapestry. Cringing at the noise, she glanced back at the door, then picked up the fire poker.

Careful to keep the candle flame away from the fabric, she burrowed behind the tapestry and pushed open the hidden door to reveal a narrow spiral stair. Spider webs crisscrossed before her. She used the poker to clear them away, then descended into the musty darkness. Debris and rubble crunched underfoot, poking up into the bottom of her leather slippers. Likely no human had ventured here in over a decade.