Heat Of The Knight. Jackie Ivie

cleared his throat. “One more heft, another bit of swing, for as long as the last one, and I can fetch it. We’ll all be in where it’s dry, and the others will thank us for it. As well as all the MacHughs that have gone before. The dead MacHughs. The hero MacHughs. They’ll thank us, too.”

      His voice was solemn and contained an indefinable quality that had Lisle bowing her head, despite herself. He was right. They were going to fetch the chest containing the names of the MacHugh heroes, or they weren’t going back in. It was a Scot thing.

      “Amen,” Lisle replied, finally.

      “One more good heave and we’ll have it, lass! Trust me. You lift it, and I’ll do the rest.”

      He was in a crouch, bare feet sticking out of his black breeches, and ready to crawl beneath the mass the moment she raised it. Lisle put her hands on the end of the ladder that was now at her eye level. That’s what came of having one end deeply buried in the roof-beam mass and the other at a crazy angle, reaching up with its bare limbs for more rain. She jumped up.

      The beam lifted, held perpendicular by the ladder, which was in the same position. Lisle kept her elbows locked, held her breath, and didn’t move a thing. She didn’t dare. The entire structure was groaning, and bending, and swaying and shimmering with raindrops, like some beast seen coming up from a deep loch by a clansman on a fogged morning, with a good dram of whiskey to fortify himself to the seeing.

      The beastlike structure wasn’t the only thing complaining. Lisle felt like the cords in her throat were going to come through the skin, her lungs were burning with the denied air, and everything from her waist down felt like so much dead-weight.

      Then, the ladder snapped, sending the shock of it straight to her stiff arms, weakening her position as a counterbalance, and shifting everything. The middle of the debris pile rose, before collapsing into itself in slow motion, allowing her to see every bit of it, and knowing that, once again, God wasn’t answering the prayers she’d been winging in her thoughts. Chunks of masonry, plaster, wood, and heaven only knew what else flew up with the motion.

      Lisle couldn’t close her eyes to it, although she sent the command. Everything was in open-eyed horror before Angus shot out, shoving a little chest in front of him. Then, the image of him was obliterated by what looked and felt like one of the ladder rungs, as it hit her squarely on one side of her nose, giving her the first black eye of her life.

      The ground, or what could just as easily be hall flooring, was as hard, unforgiving, and cold, and wet as it had looked when she was standing on it. It felt worse, once she landed on her backside and felt it filling every bit of her own once-gorgeous nightgown with the rainwater mix. There was nothing for it. She sat there and tried to cry.

      Angus was at her elbow then, all concern and anxiety.

      “Poor lassie,” he called her as he helped her to her feet.

      Lisle had a hand to her eye, making certain it was still there, before she dared open it. She welcomed the smaller man’s arm about her shoulders as he led her over the debris field and back to the dry spot of hall where everyone else had been huddled.

      Lisle was grateful there weren’t any mirrors left on the walls as she allowed the group to lead her to the kitchens. Not that she cared anything about how she looked at the moment, but she still possessed some vanity, and at one point in her recent past, she’d been known as a beauty. To have that changed in such an ignominious fashion would be the height of indignity.

      Actually, the height of it was what greeted her when they reached the kitchens.

      There was a fire burning, warming the enclosure for the first time in weeks, and shedding its golden glow onto the beautiful red bricks that lined the room. Everything felt warm and safe, secure, and eternally wrong.

      “There’s a fire going. Bless the Lord.”

      “Angus,” she said, stopping his praises with the way she said his name.

      “What is it, lassie?”

      “We haven’t got any wood.”

      “But we have, too. Look at the proof yourself. Feel it. Is na’ that the nicest thing you’ve ever felt? Let’s get a good look at that nose of yours. You may have broken it.”

      “Angus,” Lisle said again, in the same deadened tone.

      He frowned. At least, she thought it was a frown. It was difficult to make out through the steamed mist rising from her soaked, woolen coat and nightgown, and the way her eye was swelling.

      “Aye?” he replied gravely.

      “Where did we get wood for a fire?”

      “From me.” The black devil named Monteith pulled away from the wall and approached. He looked like he was frowning, too, in the minute glance she gave him.

      “You’re not welcome.” Lisle moved to cup her eye again.

      “You need to put some cool water to that to keep the swelling down,” he replied. “It might also help with getting those slivers out.”

      “Dinna’ you hear me? You’re not welcome. Leave.”

      “The other ladies doona’ feel the same, Mistress MacHugh.”

      “My aunts doona’ know who you are.”

      “He brought us a log, Lisle,” Aunt Fanny answered, her hands holding a cup of what smelled like tea; real tea. They hadn’t had tea for over a year.

      “You sold us to the devil over a log?” Lisle asked incredulously.

      “It was wrapped in a fancy green ribbon,” Fanny replied.

      There wasn’t an appropriate response. The MacHugh honor was stained forevermore, over a ribbon-wrapped log. It was laughable, if anything ever was again.

      “You have my thanks for the log. Now leave,” Lisle said.

      “It’s going to be frightfully painful soon, too. You really should get some cool water—”

      “And if you doona’ leave, I’ll have you shown out.”

      There wasn’t anyone in the castle with enough strength to make him do anything, herself included. She stood to her full height and glared at his neck with her uncovered eye.

      “You should read one of my offers before sending them back, or whatever you’ve been doing with them.”

      “There’s naught I’d ever sell to you, Lord Monteith. Leave,” she replied, in the same calm, collected, completely false voice. Everything, everywhere else on her, was screaming it.

      “I dinna’ offer for anything you own, Mistress.”

      “Nothing anyone else owns is for sale to you, either. Leave.”

      “Here.”

      He lifted a hand, holding out another missive. Lisle took it and walked carefully over to the cheerful fire, burning in the same manner in the fireplace, and tossed it in. It wasn’t easy, since her sense of depth was off. She didn’t know that came from only having one eye at her disposal.

      “Here. I have more.”

      She turned around. He had another held out. It sounded like he was smiling. Nothing could be worse. Actually, several things were. Alarm bells were ringing in her ears, and they accompanied the shivering going over both arms and ending at her fingertips. It was the chill, she told herself. That’s all it was. She was wearing a satin gown, pleated and embroidered, and stuck to every bit of her with the clammy feel of moss and slime.

      She walked over to him, ignoring how it felt to have her gown plastered to her legs, took the proffered, wax-sealed, folded piece of paper, returned to the fire, and tossed it in, too.

      “Here,” he said again.

      Lisle’s good eye opened wide as she swiveled to face him. Her other eye protested