TROUBLES GATHER
The wind blew fitfully across the field, ruffling Dougal's cloak and snapping it about his legs. He gathered it about him and focused on the man who faced him, frowning to hear his words above the sigh of wind.
“My lord, I cannae do any better. The men've all gone.”
Dougal ran a hand down his face. He wanted to groan.
Instead, he drew himself up to his height – six foot six inches – and stared down at the man.
“You mean to tell me your workforce has fled. And you didn't think to replace them? Why?”
The man winced. “I'm sorry, my lord,” he said softly, but firm. “That's the way it is. I asked in the village. But none'll come up here. The place is cursed. None want to come close.”
“For Heaven's sakes...” Douglas moaned. “Why do people say that?”
“Why?”
“Who says the place is cursed? Do you think it's cursed? Who is saying these things?”
He felt angry now. The man – a mason, employed to mend the wall around the village, looked nervously up at him.
“I...my lord, I can't say. I'm no holy man. What do I know of cursed lands? Nevertheless, that be what they say. Laird Brien is restless. He dinnae like what happens here.”
“I'm sure he doesn't,” Dougal said crossly. “It's disgraceful, so it is.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing,” he snapped. He tried to find inner calm. It didn't do to look ruffled in front of the men. His father always said a lord should always be calm. It inspired trust. He would have liked to see even his father be calm in the face of this. He sighed. The man's words, though annoying, gave him an idea. “Would they take the word of a holy man that the place is free of curses?”
“Well...” the mason wiped his brow. The wind, a chill one, raced up the small incline, buffeting them both and billowing Dougal's black cloak about him.
“Well?”
“Depends. Maybe not this new feller. If Father Mallory said it, then...”
“Where do I find him?” Dougal asked at once.
“He went after Lord Brien died, sir. You'll not find him in the valley.”
“Oh, for...” Dougal felt a headache coming on. This was quite unbelievable. The one man who could reassure his flock, and he, too was gone! “Why? Where to?”
The mason shrugged. “I dinnae know, sir. He was here one day, then up and off the next. His housekeeper, Frances, she did say that...” he looked away.
“She said?” Dougal asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“She said he went off to a priory some distance from here,” he said quietly. “Said he wanted to better himself, like. Without the family in the castle, see, he felt no calling here.”
“Oh.”
Dougal let out a long breath. He wiped his forehead, warm despite the frost on the morning air. This would not do! If they would not accept his word, nor the current priest's either, what could he do?
All he could do was follow the plan that Joanna made. Find out who was making the haunting at the castle, expose them, and make an end of it.
“Well, Mr. Soames, I'm sorry,” he said. “But I can't let this happen. Either find the men to mend this, or I will recall the coin I paid you. And find someone else to do this work.”
“Sir...?” The man looked horrified, and he wiped his brow despite the wind. “I don't know if I can...”
“Try,” Dougal said. He knew how hollow his threat actually was. If he didn't find men to mend the wall, he would have to call in a team from elsewhere. Who knew how long it would take for that to happen? The wall might stand in disrepair all winter. That meant raiders would soon be all over the village, taking advantage of his lordship's neglect.
“I will return tomorrow, Mr. Soames. Farewell.”
“Good day, sir.”
Dougal walked briskly to his horse, hoping he would calm down.
He rode the rest of the way at a gallop, letting the icy wind cool his ire.
When he reached the top, he paused at the gate, looking out over the land. The sky had cleared a little, the uncertain blue gray that heralded a change in the weather. It lifted his mood. A falcon hovered somewhere over the woodlands, keeping his eye on his territory.
I wish I could, Dougal grumbled. He's a better laird than I am! He ran a weary hand over his face.
“My lord?”
He nodded to the gate guard. He had yet to recall their names, though he recognized this man's face. Merry and crinkled, with friendly dark eyes.
“I'm back from the village. Keep an eye out on the road,” Dougal said.
“Yes, sir.” the man touched his forehead and then stepped aside so he could ride through the gate, being slowly hauled open by his colleague.
Dougal rode to the stables, then stalked across the courtyard, his boots ringing on the gray flagging. He passed two men doing desultory maneuvers in the practice yard, paused to check their stance, and walked inside.
I have no idea what to do about this.
He was about to shrug off his cloak, but it was chilly even indoors. He walked up towards the solar, a vague hope in his mind: maybe Joanna is here.
Joanna. That was another problem.
He had not ever felt like this about anyone before. Having her here, so close to his own chamber, was going to prove frustrating. Some part of him did not want to spend time thinking about anything except her. He knew that fighting the desire to take her, to hold her close, and drench her with kisses, would defeat him.
I have no idea what Father would decide.
He himself had no obstructions preventing marriage. Joanna was his equal, in status and in all else, and he would have asked her tomorrow to wed. However, what of his family?
He was the eldest son of one of the most well-placed, influential lords in this country. He could not simply throw away his position. His father would want to use him to gain allies, he knew that. Being who he was, his father probably had some plan of marrying him into the monarch's family. He had met some of them and was sure that was no coincidence either.
Father wants me to marry well. Too well.
He had met the nieces of the king, it was true. As well as many of the other ladies at court, high-placed, their betrothals stepping-stones to the monarchy. Dougal had not met any he could talk to easily. Nevertheless, what they represented was what his father wanted.
A grandson on the throne would be a way of being the power, without inheriting directly. Kind, gentle, and fair, his father was nevertheless one of the most ruthlessly ambitious men Dougal ever met. He knew what he wanted in his life and he strove to get it. Dougal loved him. He would not rob him of it.
Father's character is more like Alexander than mine, in truth.
Alexander. Dougal's younger brother. Two years his junior, he chafed at those years that were a gulf between them. Dougal sighed. Alexander had their father's bright ambitions. He had his willful, strong temper. He also had none of his mildness.
He's sure to be an abler lord than I am.
It was a pity he would probably not be one. Not directly, anyhow. Their father's lands all passed to Dougal. Which meant he was not free to do as his heart asked.
He sighed. Reaching the solar, he felt tightness in his chest. Joanna might well be there, sitting by the fire. He imagined her long red hair auburn in the light, gentle face frowning in concentration, tapered fingers holding thread as she embroidered.
He looked in through the door, disappointed. She wasn't there.
“Oh, well.”
He had wanted to see her. Wanted to ask her about his trouble with his tenants and with the laborers. Find out if they would accept the words of any other holy man around.
I'm being stupid.
He shouldn't rely on her help. However, it wasn't just her help; it was her. She made him laugh, lifted his spirits. At least he might see her at dinner, later on that day. In addition, at dinner, they would be alone.
The thought made his loins fill and he laughed at himself, knowing how foolish he was. He was the lord of this castle; she was the great-great-niece of Earl Brien, daughter of a local lord. He couldn't very well take her on the dinner table. So what was he thinking of?
Still, he couldn't stop the thoughts of her. Shivering with longing, he walked downstairs, planning a riding trip before dinner. In the hallway, he almost cannoned into Bet.
“Oh! Milord!” she said, hands flying to her face in sheer terror. “I'm so sorry!”
“I should have looked, too,” he said before he had thought about it. “You are unhurt?”
He was surprised to hear himself being so genial – it was not common to him.
“Oh, yes, my lord!” the woman beamed, her rosy cheeks flushing with surprised pleasure. “But my lord. I have grave news.”
“Oh?”
Not more. He braced himself for some news of missing guardsmen, or absent tenants.
“It's our Len! He's sick,” she said. “I dinnae ken what tae do? Who'll serve dinner? Oh...” She shook her head, looking worried.
“Who'll serve dinner?” Dougal shook his head, incredulous. “Has Len been treated? Has he seen the physician?” Again, he wasn't sure what prompted this solicitude. He just felt different.
“No,” the woman said quietly. “Who can I call, sir? Father Mallory, he were good at tendin' tae the afflicted. But the new priest, Father Benjamin...” she trailed off, shaking her head. “I'll send a man tae call him up here, but I dinnae ken a thing about him.” She shrugged.
“Good,” Dougal said. “And as far as serving the dinner goes? Have we any pot-boys?”
“Oh, yes, milord!” She nodded. The kitchen still had its potboys, whose duty it was to clean pots, run errands, and generally help in the kitchens.
“Well, then,” Dougal nodded. “They can carry up the meal. I'm sure we'll manage to do anything else needed. Until Len's is recovered.”
The woman dropped in a quick curtsy. “Thank ye, milord. Mayhap we're cursed, after all?”
Dougal let out a breath raggedly. “I hope so.”
The woman laughed and headed on her way.
Dougal walked on down the hallway, his heart strangely cheered by the incident. He had faced a difficulty – albeit a small one – and set it to rights. He had a sudden wish that he could inform Joanna. She would be pleased to hear of his victory.
“Bet?” he called, a sudden thought occurring to him
“Yes, milord?” the woman hurried back to him.
“Do you...did you see the lady Joanna this morning?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, no, milord. Well, I did. But not since she set out riding, sir.”
“Riding?”
“She loves riding, sir! When she was a bairn, she allus used to ride here. She has a jennet here in the stables – Master gave her to her. She goes all around the hills...” the woman gave a vague indication of direction, waving a hand that indicated the fells towards the western side of the fort. “Forgive me, milord. I'm rambling. Me and me memories...” she shook her head.
“Not at all,” Dougal said formally. “Thank you, Bet. Tell me of Len's progress.”
“Yes, sir. Bye! Thank 'ee, sir.”
She curtsied and left hurriedly, leaving Dougal alone. Dougal walked up the hallway again. He had just made up his mind. He would also go riding.
He paused at a looking glass and shrugged his riding cape over muscled shoulders. He sighed and told himself, firmly, that he was not going out riding to find Joanna. He simply needed air to clear his thoughts.
I am not falling in love with this woman. I am not.
He couldn't. He owed it to his line, his family. He could not lose his head over this girl.
But how can I help it?
She was so different from any other girl he had ever met. His father had sent him to court often, and he had socialized with all the highborn lords and ladies. They seemed so colorless, so pallid, compared to Joanna!
He smiled. He wanted her. He noticed just thinking of her made his groin stiffen.
Dougal Blackheath! This is ridiculous, he scolded himself. The girl was almost unknown to him – she had been under his roof for two days! However, that was part of the appeal, her secrecy.
He felt as if he would never know her. As if those gray eyes would always be a bastion of secrets, waiting to be learned, treasured, stored up. Like her mind, her body, too, seemed a treasure trove of secrets, waiting to be explored.
He laughed at himself, trying vainly to dispel images of her naked – imagination, of course – of how her small, pert breasts appeared without the confines of clothing. The snowy mound of her small belly. The long length of those strong legs. Her smile when she looked at him over her pale shoulder, body curtained by the veil of her hair.
Stop it!
He was tormenting himself and he knew it. He should forget her. Concentrate on the mystery. Ride.
Tying the straps of his riding boots again, he walked briskly from the hallway and out towards the stables. To go riding. Not to see her.
Why would I possibly wish to do that?
He sighed. Of all the foolish things, his own attempts to fool himself were probably the most transparent.
He was falling for her and he knew it.
He just had no idea what to do about it.
“Saddle my horse,” he said curtly to the stable boy, part of Len's vast family, who ran to do his bidding.
The boy brought his black stallion out to the mounting block a few moments later and he swung into the saddle, feeling calmer. He hoped a bit of riding would give him fresh perspective on the situation. He was in sore need of it.
He headed out at a canter into the darkening day.