Heat Of The Knight. Jackie Ivie

      “He’s not—I mean…we’re not…wed. He’s my uncle. Through marriage.” She was getting the words through wheezes of breath.

      “Where do I go to find him?”

      “Where do you find whom?” she asked, putting an emphasis on the last word.

      “Your husband. There must be some man on this continent capable of making you obey. So, where is he?”

      Her merriment died before his words ended, finishing off with several indrawn breaths held to the point of pain, before she let them out. She wasn’t looking at him with anything other than unveiled dislike and absolute disgust. Langston pulled back despite himself.

      “He’s beneath the sod at Culloden. Rotting beside every other Highlander that possessed honor and bravery and strength. Exactly where you should be,” she replied.

      Everything went completely solid, still, and quiet, and very focused. Langston swallowed. He raised himself to his full height before bowing mockingly to both of them. Then he turned and mounted Saladin before he said something he’d regret. The sound of his leather saddle creaking and the slight clink of his reins were the only breaks in the stillness. She watched him, and it didn’t look like she blinked the entire time.

      He knew exactly what he was going to do: the same thing he did with every other stiff-necked, pride-filled, arrogant, and judgmental Scot. He was going to make the MacHughs an offer they couldn’t turn down.

      Chapter Two

      Ornate, sealed, Monteith messages started arriving the very next day. Lisle sent every one back, unread, and once the emissary started leaving several of them behind, she resorted to putting them in with the smoldering peat they used for a cook fire, adding a strange odor to everything that came out of their oven. She’d have used a real fire to burn them…if she had one with which to do so. Building a fire took wood. Everything took something else; something that they didn’t possess and couldn’t afford. It was dire.

      She knew just how dire it was when the west hallway collapsed, sending a wall of rainwater into a hall where royalty had once walked, and waking everyone except the youngest lass, Nadine. That lass could sleep through a war, Lisle thought as she shoved her arms into the thick, woolen, unbending fabric making up the sleeves of the housecoat that doubled for indoor and outdoor use. There wasn’t anything else she could use. The trousseau that she’d spent so many years laboriously putting minute stitches in adorned her stepdaughters and aunts, unless it was of more use as a drapery or bed linen. That included every lace-bedecked, satin, and gossamer…

      Her thoughts stalled the moment her feet did. The hall roof had finally given into a rain that chilled and pelted and stole breath. She was experiencing all of it as she picked her way along the bricks and sod, the broken, rotted beams that had made up this section of the MacHugh ancestral castle.

      “Oh, my God!” The screech accompanied Aunt Fanny as she launched her skeletal, white, bridal-satin-clothed body through the rubble. It was Lisle that had to stop her headlong flight before she twisted an ankle, or worse.

      “Aunt Fanny! Stop that! You’ll injure yourself.” She was putting the same amount of volume into the words, but a mouthful of rain and wet hair muffled them.

      “The chest! Doona’ let it get the chest.”

      Aunt Fanny hadn’t much energy left in her body, and what she did possess, she’d just used. Lisle held to her and assisted her back, over chunks of indecipherable debris: an upturned chair—that was easy to identify—and what had once been a beautiful, grand tapestry depicting a faded, ancient battle that a Scotsman might actually have won, for a change.

      Lisle had to swipe a hand across her eyes to make out the safest path back to the broken-off eave, where a sleepy-eyed mass of MacHughs huddled. She was grateful for the coat, since there wasn’t much that could penetrate it, rain included.

      “Here. Take Aunt Fanny. Aunt Matilda? Come on, love. She’s distraught.”

      “Poor dear. Come along. I’ll get you a bit of spirits. It will do your body good, it will.” Aunt Matilda had an arm around the frailer aunt, and was trying to turn the woman away.

      “I canna’ go yet, Mattie. You doona’ recall it? I’ve got to get the chest. It’s priceless.”

      There was nothing priceless in the entire castle. Lisle looked back over her shoulder at wreckage that glimmered in what light was available.

      “What chest, love?” Aunt Mattie asked.

      “The war chest. Laird MacHugh’s personal effects. You remember it?”

      “Calm yourself. There was nae chest in that entire hall.”

      “Was too! It was in the deacon’s bench! She’s got to get it! I canna’ rest if she does na’ get it!”

      Her words ended on a wail, and they’d just gotten her over an illness that had lingered for months. Lisle set her hips and her shoulders.

      “If there’s a deacon’s bench in there, I’ll find it. I promise. Get to the fire—” Lisle stopped her own words, but it wasn’t soon enough. All the MacHughs were shivering and rubbing their hands over their arms, and hugging each other, and she’d just reminded them all of it. There wasn’t a stick of wood worth burning in the entire place. There hadn’t been since early spring. She swallowed and turned back to the mess that used to be the west hallway. There was wood now, once it dried out enough to burn.

      “Angus!” she shouted, but it wasn’t necessary; he was already at her elbow.

      “Aye, lass?”

      “Get me something to lift…this.” The pause came as she stumbled over a rain-soaked piece of something, ripping her coat, splashing everything else, and jarring her knee against a beam, paining her enough to make her cry aloud. She didn’t. She’d learned years ago that crying, sobbing, and self-pitying didn’t do much, except gain one a sore throat and an aching head, and sometimes both.

      “We’ve na’ got anything like that. If it had a use, we sold it.”

      “Then fetch the ladder!”

      “We’ve got a ladder?”

      Laughter was bubbling in her throat now, taking the place of any desire to cry. “You were using one to pretend to clean the rafters just this morn, Angus. When you thought I wouldn’t know you were actually running about, trying to discover where I’d hidden your pipes.”

      “I—? My pipes? Oh, bless me, lass, you’re right. I’ll be back directly. Directly. That ladder’s na’ much good, but we can use it for leverage and such.”

      “And I dinna’ hide them in the rafters, Angus!” She shouted it after his retreating back. He didn’t hear it. None of the others did, either. Those still interested in watching had gathered blankets about themselves, covering over the remnants of Lisle’s French-inspired trousseau they were wearing. She sighed and ran her hands along her hair, plastering it to her head with the motion. It was easier to see that way. It was actually a good thing her husband, Ellwood MacHugh, the last laird of the MacHughs, had filled his nursery with nothing save daughters. God alone knew what she would have used to clothe a boy.

      Angus was back, sending her stumbling several steps backward with the awkward way he held what was their ladder. They’d already bartered off the serviceable one, just as Angus had said. There was nothing left. The villagers wouldn’t take credit anymore. She couldn’t afford wood to cook and warm them, or flour to eat. They were almost reduced to eating barley soup without even barley in it.

      All of which made it strange that she sent every unbidden letter from the Black Monteith right back, unopened. The last time, Nadine had tears in her eyes at her stepmother’s stubbornness. They didn’t know what it contained. She did. Monteith was buying up land and property at an amazing rate, accruing his own personal kingdom. The MacHughs would rather starve to death before taking one thin shilling