“Oh, the lord sent me here many years ago,” he said with a fond smile. “Before Lady Glenna was born. I have watched her grow.”
“Was Laird Douglas ruling when you came?”
The black man looked mildly surprised. “Aye.”
Tavish couldn’t help but glance at his mother, and wished he hadn’t when he saw her smug expression. He looked back to the black man, who seemed to be relishing each tiny sip of wine, cradling the cup in both his hands and closing his eyes with a small smile as he swallowed.
“Did you know the laird before him?”
“Forgive my ignorance, but nay. As you might have guessed I was not born of this land. My parents were killed in Tunis when I was a small child, and I was raised by Franciscans. I was sent here after I submitted to the lord, to care for the cave. Here I have remained.”
At this, Tavish sat up, his sea merchant ears perking. “Cave?”
“In the cliff below the hermitage. One of the first saints of Scotland is said to have died there. Though I do not receive many pilgrims of late.”
“That does interest me, Dubhán,” Tavish said, his mind going at once to the heavy chest currently residing beneath his bed. “I would like to visit this cave myself.”
“As you wish, laird,” the man acquiesced. “It is a dangerous path, though, I warn. Many are rumored to have disappeared from the cliff. Most are never seen again.”
“I thank you for the counsel,” Tavish said, the monk’s words calling to mind the warning from Frang Roy.
Things have a habit of disappearin’ at Roscraig…
An awkward silence descended for a moment as the dark monk seemed to be considering his words carefully. “Do not think me impertinent, laird, I pray. But…Lady Glenna has no family to speak of if—” He paused and Tavish saw his pale nail beds go even whiter as they gripped the cup. It was obvious the man was struggling with unexpressed emotion. “Have you spoken to Laird Douglas?”
“I have not,” Tavish said, not liking the guilt he felt tugging at a corner of his conscience.
Mam reentered the conversation then. “The laird is still quite unwell, Dubhán. He’s only spoken a handful of words, and those are mostly nonsense. He might yet die.”
Dubhán gave a solemn nod toward Mam and then turned his doleful gaze toward Tavish. He leaned forward. “Perhaps you will permit me to bless him, milord? While there is still time?”
An exasperated feminine sigh floated on the warmed air of the hall. “We’ve talked about this a hundred times, Dubhán.” A moment later the slight, pale figure of Glenna Douglas stepped from the shadow of the corridor into the room. “You know he stopped believing in such things long ago.” Glenna walked toward the table as she spoke, but her attention seemed to be on the room itself, her gaze going about the hall.
The monk stood as she reached his side, and Tavish himself felt the instinctive urge to rise, but kept his seat as he thought of the way she had dared strike him, as if he were no more than a stable boy; her boldness in occupying his dreams the past fortnight.
This was his hall and he would not stand for her.
Dubhán dropped his head in humility. “There is always hope.”
“I know,” she said, reaching out to take both of the monk’s hands in hers. “You have done your best. But I will uphold his wishes. If you love him, you will do the same.”
“My first love must always be for the lord,” he replied with an easy smile. “And bringing those of unbelief to his unyielding mercies.”
“I understand.” She let his hands drop and then turned to Tavish, and her lips parted as if she meant to speak straight away. But she closed her mouth and her slender throat convulsed, her nostrils flared.
Tavish noticed that, although she was again wearing the same faded gown as upon his arrival at the Tower, tonight her hair was swept up in a complicated labyrinth of twists that culminated in a regal peak at her crown and adorned with a small sprig of spring greenery that was trembling ever so slightly. Her green eyes flashed at him, suggesting her hatred for him was still just beneath the surface. She was so thin, her skin so pale and smooth, Tavish could see the flutter of her wild pulse in the delicate column of her neck.
“Have you a request,Miss Douglas?” Tavish said courteously, deliberately goading her as a distraction from her exquisite appearance. “Directions to the nearest town, mayhap?”
“My first request,Master Cameron, is that you not continue to shame your mother by lazing on your haunches like some ill-mannered mongrel when a lady enters a room. I have full confidence that Harriet taught you how to behave.”
Tavish was not expecting his barbs to be so expertly returned to him—and with such accuracy. So for a beat of time, he could do nothing more than blink while he recovered the use of his brains. She really did think a lot of herself.
He looked left and right, leaned back slightly to glance beneath the table and then let his gaze rove her leisurely from head to foot and then back to her eyes.
“Forgive me—I didn’t see a lady enter. Is she hiding behind you?”
The gibe struck its intended target, for Tavish saw the roundness of her chest rise, her cat eyes narrow even further.
