Page 3 of The Thief (Castle Blackstone #3)

Oh. My. Word!

The man staring down at her was...magnificent.

Not only did the Thief of Hearts stand a full hand higher than she and have the widest shoulders she had ever beheld, but he also appeared to be made of gold.

Golden, shoulder-length hair swung in wavy profusion around a striking chiseled countenance highlighted by gold-flecked brown eyes rimmed by gold-tipped lashes, above which lay thick and burnished gold eyebrows on a broad forehead. Even his sun-darkened skin carried a decided golden hue. The wide, hammered brass cuff encircling his left wrist and the matching belt girdling his narrow hips only added to the illusion. As she stared, double dimples suddenly carved great channels into his cheeks, making him appear very approachable were she of the mind.

Suddenly realizing she gawked, that she stood not on her own but leaned against him, she yelped, “Unhand me. ”

MacKay chuckled. “I would, my dear, but please note, tis ye holding me.”

Brow furrowing, Kate looked down and saw that her left hand did indeed clutch the Thief’s heavily muscled forearm. She squeaked and let go, wobbled, and then hurriedly stepped back.

Good graces! Nothing was going according to Sir Gregory’s plan. And why was MacKay still grinning at her?

The Laird MacDougall asked, “Ian, how goes it in Edinburgh?”

MacKay’s gaze remained on Kate as he responded, “Growing by leaps and bounds. The burghers have taken over. ‘Twill look like London or Paris in another decade.”

Lady Beth sighed. “I can’t wait. This,” Lady MacDougall indicated her gown, “is the sad result of my asking a color-blind sea captain to purchase a bolt of blue fabric while in Flanders.”

The lady was right. The sallow green velvet did little for Lady Beth’s countenance. Blue would have been far more flattering.

MacKay flashed his dimples again. “Nonsense, my lady. You, as always, outshine the sun.”

Lady Beth tsked. “You, Ian, are incorrigible and in sore need of a wife.” Moving to Kate’s side, she said, “Madame Campbell, may I properly introduce Sir Ian MacKay, counsel to our regent and all-round scoundrel of the heart. ”

Eyes crinkling at the corners, MacKay pressed a hand to his heart. “Ack, Beth, ye wound me.”

MacDougall’s wife rolled her eyes and leaned toward Kate. “Never say I didn’t warn you.”

Oh, dear. Apparently Sir Gregory hadn’t exaggerated. Feeling color bloom in her cheeks, Kate managed to curtsey. “Sir MacKay, tis a...pleasure. I’ve heard much.”

He held out a long-fingered, calloused hand. Reluctantly she placed her hand in his. Heat surged through her as he helped her to rise. Studying her from beneath partially lowered eyelids, he assured her, “Nay, my lady, the pleasure is definitely mine, and I pray the gossips have been kind.”

Hoping she appeared somewhat composed, Kate tilted her head and studied him in turn. “Kind? Perhaps truthful would better suit.”

Ha! He blinked. Perhaps this wouldn’t prove so difficult after all.

“My lady, seeking the truth is my mission in life.”

“Oh.” Not what she wanted to hear.

“So, what brings you to our humble shores?”

Kate, hand shaking, reached into her gown’s deep pocket. From its black-velvet depths, she pulled forth the swatch of Campbell tartan, upon which Sir Gregory had pinned his intricate bronze brooch. “This belonged to my husband,” she lied, her gaze locked on the brooch’s large center amethyst. “I thought Robbie’s family would like it returned since it once belonged to his father.”

Her ancient escort cleared his throat and Kate jumped. She’d completely forgotten Fraser stood beside her.

“Madame Katherine,” Fraser told them, “recently lost her husband, Robbie Campbell. She was on her way to his family, when she got lost in a bleedin’ storm. I took her in. As I was coming this way for the Council, I brought her along. From here ‘twill only be a few day’s ride to Castle Bovane where Maggie now abides with her sister. Ye’ll recall Maggie was a MacNab back in ’70.” Fraser hesitated and his brow furrowed. “Nay...mayhap ‘twas ’68 when she and Greg wed. In any event, ‘twas a grand an roic , with mountains of venison and mead enough to drown a man. And the pipes and dancing, the likes--”

The Thief placed a firm hand on Fraser’s shoulder, interrupting the old man’s ramblings. “Thank you, Fraser.” Turning his attention back to Kate, he murmured, “My condolences. May I be so rude as to ask when Robbie passed?”

“Uhmm, last November.”

Good Lord, she had almost forgotten the date, so disconcerting was MacKay’s unwavering perusal.

Mercy.

MacKay arched a golden eyebrow. “And for how long will we have your delightful company?”

Kate swallowed the thickness in her throat. “I, um, I’ll know better once I’ve spoken with his mother. ”

Frowning, MacKay turned to the MacDougall and murmured in Gael, “Has no one told her?”

Old-man Fraser asked, “Told her what?”

Since Kate had been warned not to alert anyone to the fact that she understood Gael, it took all her willpower to keep from reiterating her escort’s question.

Duncan MacDougall shook his head. “I was about to tell her when you arrived.”

To Kate’s shock the Thief of Hearts took her hand in his and gently stroked a calloused thumb across her palm. “I’m sorry, Lady Campbell, but Sir Gregory’s ladywife passed just a fortnight ago. Some say from a broken heart.”

Kate snatched her hand from MacKay’s. “Nay!”

Poor Sir Gregory. He’d spoken so often and lovingly of Lady Margaret that Kate felt she already knew the woman. He would be heartbroken hearing of this.

And now what am I to do?

Only Lady Margaret had the information she needed. Knew which liege lords were still loyal to King James, which ones had provided coins for James and her husband’s ransoms. Worse, Sir Gregory had said that Lady Margaret was the only person within this hostile place she should trust.

I need air. More, I need time to think. Alone.

Her palms sweaty, her middle roiling, Kate looked about for a means of escape. She’d come in over there by the third large arch, yes? No?

So many people were now milling about she couldn’t be sure. But arches usually indicated doors and she headed toward the nearest one. Muttering “ Excuse moi ” repeatedly, she wove her way through the boisterous crowd until she could see that there was indeed a door beneath the arch. Greatly relieved, she pressed through another group.

Just feet from her goal, the heavy door suddenly swung inward and a large, beefy man bellowed, “Robert, Duke of Albany, governor of Scotland!”

Kate froze. Albany, a man of perhaps seventy years, strode in, his finery as opulent as any she had seen.

Merciful mother of God. The two men she’d been warned to avoid had her trapped . Like mortar betwixt stone, she stood paralyzed, one nemesis before her and the other behind.

A strong arm suddenly wrapped around her waist. A powerful hand grasped her wrist and the scent of male and mint wafted across her cheek.

Before she could yelp in alarm, the Thief of Hearts whispered, “This way,” and guided her to the left.

Keeping to the wall, he whispered, “Trust me. We’ll be out of here in just a moment.”

Wide-eyed, she nodded, no longer jerking back but willingly following. He stopped at the edge of a large tapestry and glanced around. Apparently satisfied that all but their eyes were on Albany, MacKay lifted the heavy wall hanging and slipped into a darkened passageway, pulling her in behind him.

It took only a moment for her eyes to adjust to the reduced light. She stood in a short hallway with circular stairs to her left leading down and straight steps to her right leading up. Before her stood a partially open door to what appeared to be a well-lit receiving room with tables and low backless couches. She turned toward the richly appointed room, only to feel a tug on her hand.

She looked over her shoulder. MacKay was heading down the stone stairwell, his left hand holding a safety rope.

Oh, dear God! Was MacKay hauling her to the donjon?

Frozen on the top step, Kate jerked back. There was absolutely no way she would go to her death...not without a fight. He tugged on her hand again and she, frantic, tried to pry his fingers loose.

MacKay looked up at her, a question etched on his face. “My lady, these stairs only lead to the scullery and beyond that to the outer bailey where ye’ll find some much-needed air. Come.”

Without waiting for a response he started down the stairs again. Too terrified to speak, she repeatedly tugged to free her hand but he proved stronger and down she went, tripping and stumbling.

At the bottom, he pushed on a plank door and she was assailed by heat, chatter, the clanging of pots, and the scents of roasting partridge, venison and freshly baked bread. She sighed in relief. MacKay hadn’t lied. She was, in fact, in a scullery.

A dozen sweating, red-faced women, seeing he held her hand, stopped their work to gawk or hoot.

A fulsome woman of about forty--Kate assumed her to be Albany’s head cook from her tall colorful hat--gleefully warned as they passed, “Take care, mistress! He’s a handful.”

Grinning, MacKay countered, “Behave yerself, Bridie. You’re a married woman.”

Bridie laughed and blew him a kiss.

To Kate Mackay murmured, “I swear Bridie is the finest cook in all of Christendom.” As if to prove the point, he snatched one of the plump apple tarts cooling on a nearby table and then winked at her as it disappeared into his furry sporran. Oh, but that she could steal a tart. She hadn’t eaten in hours.

He tugged on her hand again. “This way.”

MacKay pushed on another door, and she found herself in a walled, half acre of budding plants that would, no doubt, soon infuse the air with the heady scents of rosemary, basil and thyme.

He led her through the garden and vaulted a low stone wall. To her amazement he then turned and reached for her waist. Oh, nay! He was going to try and lift her. No one had even attempted the feat in more than a decade. “Nay! ‘Tis quite gallant of you, but truly I can—- EEEK !

She was airborne. Instinctively she threw her arms about his neck, realizing too late what she had done.

The Thief of Hearts’ perfectly carved lips were moving, possibly saying she’d broken his back, but she heard naught save hot blood bounding in her ears.

Searing pain flashed to life behind her eyes, followed by the image of Ian MacKay lying upon her, his weight nestled between her thighs, his heavily muscled arms and chest glowing like polished brass by the light of a fire. Her heart thudded painfully. They were alone in a low, dark place. His incredibly handsome face was too near, his golden gaze intense, focused on her lips, as he whispered, “Tell me the truth, lass. Now, or --”

Oh, no! No, no, no!

The image faded, and Kate found herself, still held by the hand, in a large, open bailey, the few trees surrounding them stunted for lack of purchase on the granite hillock, their fragile arms reaching for the full moon high above the rampart walk. She jerked free of the Thief’s hold.

Good Lord and the saints preserve her! She rarely experienced insight into her own life and those few usually proved false, but then again one had come to pass with—

She had to get away. Aye, this very minute.

“My lady, are you still not well?”

Why on earth was everyone asking her that?

She clenched her jaw to keep from shouting, No, I’m not the least well, thank you very much, what with my only ally being dead and you hauling me about like a rangy mutt you, you,...seducer!

What was she to do now? She couldn’t run home. If she did, then all she feared would come to pass. James would become a murderer, women like Lady Beth and her children would be slain, castles would be set afire and razed, cattle slaughtered, men decapitated--all in the name of vengeance.

No, she could not leave without learning who within this gathering wanted their king released, who--if any--had put forth hard-earned coins for his ransom, for surely there had to be some. It was imperative that at least those families be spared James’s wrath.

Feeling strangled, unable to breathe, Kate pulled down the stiff muslin cowl wrapped about her chin and neck, signifying her supposed widowhood. Still unable to breathe, she reached with both hands beneath her veil. One hard tug and the offending cowl fluttered to the ground, a stark white slash on the brittle grass at her feet. She took great gulping breaths, but still feeling stifled she reached for the starched brow band holding her veil.

MacKay startled her by taking a gentle hold of her wrists. “Allow me.”

He released her wrists and then startled her further by running a thumb along her now-exposed jaw. “Lass, ye have a nasty red grove here.” Almost as an after thought he added, “And ye have no reason to fear me.”

Oh, she most certainly did, but didn’t dare blink in response, as pins eased out of her hair and her heavy black headdress went the way of her cowl.

Happy to have the weight off but anxious to get away, she murmured, “Thank you,” and bent to pick up her headdress, but he stilled her with a hand to her chin.

“Nay, not yet.”

Augh! Now what?

He pulled more pins, and she felt the weight of her hair being lifted; a decidedly curious sensation, given they stood almost breast to breast, hip to hip.

Acutely aware of the odd stirring in her middle that MacKay’s nearness caused, Kate stood silent, her heart beating a frantic tattoo against her ribs as her waist-length hair flowed through his hands.

“Ah, ‘tis as I imagined. Black as a raven’s wing and glimmers like Loch Meadie on a clear night under a full moon.”

Her hair?

He continued to stare as if truly fascinated while the heavy strands spilled over her shoulders and settled around her ample hips. With an odd gleam in his eye, he whispered, “Were ye mine, ye would wear naught but this.”

Kate snorted and spoke the truth for the first time in days. “ Bullocks. ”