Page 7 of The Story of his Highland Bride
Draping the garment back over the chair, Jackson eyed the other two pieces of attire, which perplexed him the most. One was a thick, pure white woolen thing, with a worrisome image woven into the front: a yellow circle with two black dots and a black curve that vaguely resembled a smiling face. A symbol that he did not understand or recognize. The other troubling item—or, rather, items—were the shoes she had been wearing. They were black, with a sturdy sole, crafted from a material he had never seen, with a small flap protruding from the back that signaled they belonged to aDr. Marten.
How many people has she stolen from on her travels?Jackson shook his head, dispelling the thought. When Eloise awoke, she would be able to tell him herself.
“We ought to leave her until she stirs,” he declared, taking Lennox by the arm and dragging him outside the bedchamber.
“But what if she steals from ye, too?” Lennox protested.
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Do I have to do yer work for ye? Post guards at this door, and then, even if she does nick somethin’, she willnae get far with it.”
“Aye, M’Laird. Right away.” Lennox hurried off, leaving Jackson in the hallway, though his mind was still within the bedchamber, thinking of the unusual woman who lay sleeping.
The year of our Lord, 2016?He mulled over her impossible words, and the wild laughter that had ensued. The more he thought about it, the more it saddened him, for there could only be one plausible reason for what she had said: the injury to the back of her head was worse than it appeared, chipping away at the poor girl’s mind until, eventually, there would be nothing left.
“M'Laird. Good afternoon to ye.” A stern voice turned his head.
“Kaitlyn, there ye are. I’ve a favor to ask of ye.”
Kaitlyn Eanraig was one of Jackson’s most loyal maids, if not the most loyal. His grandmother liked to say that he trusted Kaitlyn the most because she was plain in appearance, with mousy hair, small eyes, and skin that had been marked by a pox in her childhood. But Jackson knew better; Kaitlyn was his most trusted maid becauseshehad never attempted to flirt with him or sneak into his bedchamber in the middle of the night, and every task he set her was done without complaint.
Kaitlyn thumbed toward the bedchamber. “Is it to do with the strange lass that Lennox was just screechin’ about?”
“In a way, aye.” Jackson made a note in his mind to ask Lennox to be more discreet. The last thing they needed was Father Hepburnactuallypaying the castle a visit. “Might ye fetch appropriate garments for the lass? What she has with her will cause trouble, and I’d like matters to be dealt with as quietly as possible.”
Kaitlyn smirked. “Have ye told Lennox that?”
“Nae yet. Foolish of me, but I dinnae think I’dhaveto tell him.”
Kaitlyn dipped her head in a sort of bow. “I’ll fetch garments, though Old Joan sent me to add some tincture to the lass’ bandages first.”
“Well, daenae touch anythin’ that ye see in there,” Jackson instructed. “Nae the lass’ bag, or attire, or the strange stone that’s on the writin’ desk.”
Kaitlyn narrowed her eyes. “Is there somethin’ more I should ken, M’Laird? Is she—” The maid trailed off, but her expression asked the same question that kept racing through Jackson’s mind: was the strange lass really a witch? And, if so, how dangerous?
“Even I daenae ken that,” he answered. “For now, we’re to be… cautious.”
The maid nodded. “Always, M’Laird, though I’ll be scared of goin’ near the lass now.”
“Daenae be scared,” Jackson assured, “just… cautious, as I said.”
He watched Kaitlyn enter the bedchamber, catching another glimpse of Eloise, who had shifted once again in her sleep. Now, she lay on her side, the blankets all the way down to her hip, revealing milky, smooth skin and the dip of a curved waist… andsomething else that made his heart jolt in alarm. On the rise of her hip, a red letter ‘A’ surrounded by coiling vines stood in stark, angry contrast to the white of her skin: a mark, clearly inked by evil hands.
In that moment, he knew what he had to do—he had to be rid of her the moment she awoke, for if word of that mark reached anyone beyond Faulkner Castle, there would be nothing he could do to stop a burning.
4
“Have ye ants under yer kilt or somethin’? We’re supposed to be suppin’ a warmin’ drink together, and now I’m afeared ye’ll wear a hole in the stone and fall through it!” Jackson’s grandmother scolded from her armchair in the ironically named ‘Sun Room.’ Lorraine Buchanan was a fierce, hardy, and amusing woman who had reached the ripe old age of seventy without so much as a cold.
Jackson halted, only half aware that he had been pacing back and forth. “Sorry, Nan. I’ve a lot on me mind.”
“As all ye fine and noble Lairds do, but when it’s our time together, ye sit and spend that time with me, nay on whatever ledgers and tithes and wars are knockin’ about in yer head.” His grandmother took a pointed sip of her spiced plum tea. “Unless, there’s somethin’ fairer snatchin’ away me only grandson’s attention, eh?” She winked, gaining a withering look for her less-than-discreet remark.
“If ye’re speakin’ of the lass, ye’re clawin’ up the wrong tree,” he retorted. “Well, ye’re nae, but it’s nae what ye think it is.”
He had not stopped thinking of the blood-red mark since leaving the hallway outside Eloise’s bedchamber, two hours ago. It haunted him, not least because of the location of it. Of course, he’d seen plenty of gruff old warriors, and even a couple of equally gruff old female warrioresses, who had the mark of the old ways marking their bodies and faces, but they were marks with a purpose he understood. Moreover, they were imprinted on the skin of Scots, not a peculiar Englishwoman.
And the Scots who wear those marks with pride are takin’ their lives into their own hands, with priests like Father Hepburn on the hunt for anythin’… ungodly.Jackson scratched his stubbled chin in confusion, for the placement of Eloise’s mark seemed deliberately hidden; not something that his eyes were supposed to see. If Kaitlyn and Old Joan had seen it too, they would not say a word, but the longer Eloise remained in the castle, the risk of gossip spreading would increase.
“She’s very pretty,” his grandmother said, grabbing his attention.
