Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

Still, she seemed truly confused by her fall. Or addle-brained.

Colin considered himself a good judge of character. And though he intended to keep a watchful eye, he found himself beginning to believe that she was as she appeared. Not so much addled as injured. There seemed to be a goodness in her heart, a sweetness in her soul that called to him. A dangerous thing, he knew. Many a laird had failed to understand that a fair face could hide an evil heart. Had not his own father made such an error in judgment? The price paid for his father’s folly was still being exacted today. Darda was not a woman to be trifled with. As she had so ably proven.

The stranger could be here to relieve him of the last of the Gordon legacy. Hadn’t many a devious woman mastered the art of seducing a laird before betraying him?

Seeing the female and Jamie approaching, he put aside his troubling thoughts and forced himself to smile.

“Now that you’re here, we’ll observe the others.”

Jamie looked surprised. “Yer not joining in the hunt, m’laird?”

“There’s plenty of time, lad.” Motioning for Jamie to give them some room, Colin guided his mount to fall into step alongside Beth’s horse and found himself enjoying the way the sunlight turned her hair to spun gold.

“This place you spoke of. This New York. Do they all speak as you do?”

Beth nodded. “They do.”

“And that strange manner of dress when you first arrived, baring your legs as a Highland warrior, but wearing on your feet small bits of calfskin with daggers at the heels? This is also something your kinsmen wear in your country?”

Beth found herself laughing. “The heels aren’t really meant to be daggers, though I suppose they appear that way to someone who’s never seen them before. They’re considered fashionable in New York.”

“Fashion?” Colin frowned. “I’ve heard the women in the English court are consumed by it. Here in the Highlands we’re more concerned with surviving the cold and feeding our young. We are constantly at war, if not with neighboring clans, then with the English, who will never cease until we wear the yoke of oppression. We’ve no time for frivolous pursuits.”

Beth instantly sobered. “I’m truly sorry for your hardship. I hope it will give you some comfort to know that life will be easier for your heirs in generations to come.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Are you one of those who can see the future?”

“I . . .” Unsure how to answer, she merely nodded before looking away.

“Ah.” He drew the word out as he pondered this bit of wondrous news. “And do all your people in New York have this power?”

She swiveled her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“So you are one of the few.” He leaned close to place a hand on hers, lowering his voice so that Jamie wouldn’t overhear. “Have you come here to warn me, or to use your power against me?”

Again she felt the most amazing rush of heat, which sparked up her arm and sizzled along her spine, and wondered if this man had some sort of strange power as well.

“I would never . . .” Her voice caught in her throat, and she struggled to remember why she had come to Stag’s Head. To urge this man to sell that which was most revered by him. To persuade him to offer up his ancestral land for a modern development that would turn this idyllic paradise into a playground for the rich and famous. Her tone lowered. “No matter why I was sent, now that I’m here, my only wish is to help you in any way I can.”

“I wonder . . .” He kept his hand on hers for long moments while he stared into her eyes.

At last, satisfied with what he saw, he straightened and looked across at Jamie. “My guests have had enough time to thin the flock.” He removed his bow and reached into his quiver for an arrow, bearing the distinct eagle feathers adopted by his father and grandfather before him.

He watched the path of a bevy of quail and took aim. Once released, the arrow flew straight and true, and the bird fell to the earth, followed by another, and yet another.

Jamie was out of the saddle to fetch the game, which he tossed into a leather pouch before pulling himself back into the saddle, declaring, “A clean kill every time, m’laird.”

“You’ll see that all the game brought down this day is given to the villagers, Jamie. Enough to satisfy the hunger of every family.”

“Aye, m’laird.”

Colin gave a nod of his head before urging his mount forward, toward the cluster of men in the distance.

While Beth and Jamie watched from a nearby hillside, the hunters scattered across the verdant meadow, calling encouragement to one another and shouting triumphantly with each kill.

Though Beth abhorred the killing, she felt consoled by the fact that this contest would feed the poor villagers.

It was, she realized, another reason to admire Colin Gordon. He gave his guests a fair advantage, and he used the fruits of this contest to see to the needs of his people, who trusted him to look out for them.

By the time the sun was high overhead, a line of horse carts had filed across the meadow, where, under the care of Mistress MacKay, a tent was erected, and tables groaned beneath the platters of fresh salmon and mutton, and even a whole roasted piglet. There were baskets of bread and sweetmeats, and flagons of ale and mead.

The women, who had remained at the lodge to be pampered and bathed, arrived in a wagon, their gowns fluttering in the breeze like pretty wildflowers.

Once there, old Maura took charge of their comfort, offering them cushioned chairs beneath the cover of a tent.

A tall, regal woman in a gown of rich, royal purple separated herself from the others. From a distance, she was every inch a queen. Even her hair, in a coronet of braids, was topped by a circle of diamonds and precious stones that caught and reflected the sunlight.

As she drew near, Beth could see her face. Though her skin was unlined and her features perfect, instead of beautiful, she was frightening to behold. Her eyes were without light. Dead eyes, Beth realized. When she opened her mouth, her teeth resembled fangs.

“So, this is our unwelcome guest.” Her voice was the hiss of a snake. “You are the talk of the household. ’Tis said you are either mad or dangerous, and that you insinuated yourself into the laird’s fortress by feigning illness.”

Despite the woman’s obvious attempt to be insulting, Beth decided to deflect her temper with a smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Beth Campbell.”

The woman arched a brow. “So I have heard. A lie, of course. I am a Campbell, and I am familiar with every member of our clan.”

“Not all your clan, or you would know me. You must be Edwina, the laird’s stepsister.”

“I know who I am.” Edwina fixed her with a dark stare. “But I also know this. You are no Campbell.”

Beth saw the women’s heads turning as they easily overheard all that was being said. While she watched in amazement, before her very eyes the women turned into a flock of geese, their wings flapping, their beaks moving as though trying to speak, though no words came out.

By now she was accustomed to seeing these changes in the people here. But she couldn’t help wondering if she was imagining these dreadful changes, or if it was something about this place. Was it magical, mystical, or purely evil?

Beth was grateful when Colin’s horse stopped beside them and the laird slid from the saddle. Did he see geese as well? she wondered. Or was she the only one who saw these people as birds and other animals?

While Jamie took the reins, Colin smiled at Edwina, apparently unaware, or uncaring, of the transformation of the women. “I see you’ve met my guest.”