deserted. Brushing down Bàn calmed Margaret’s frayed nerves.
Rheade’s voice broke into her reverie. “Ye’re enjoying that.”
“I’ve loved horses since I was a bairn,” she admitted.
He put an arm around her waist, hefting the satchel of provisions over his shoulder as they left the stable.
“The chambers will be cold,” he added, pointing to the turrets. “Especially up there.”
She gathered the borrowed plaid tighter, her heart in her boots. She’d never been fond of heights. “Ye plan to hide in the tower?”
She welcomed his reassuring warmth when he pulled her closer. “Tannoch has already searched the castle. He’s not likely to look here again. He’ll be frustrated after Logan leads him astray and hopefully forget about ye. He’ll believe ye’ve fled to Oban.”
“Perhaps that’s what I should have done,” she murmured as he led her through the unlocked door into the entry hallway.
The first grey streaks of dawn revealed opulent furnishings. The Earl of Atholl’s immense wealth was legendary. “Why would someone risk this?” she whispered, inhaling deeply. “They’ve strewn rushes somewhere in the house that still smell sweet. Scented with hops, I believe. Typical for February.”
He sniffed. “One smell is much like another to me,” he admitted. “Except—”
He inhaled close to her neck. “What is the tantalizing perfume you wear?”
Her nipples tightened. She’d never considered herself tantalizing. “’Tis a sweet-bag I wear around my neck, made of silk. My mother taught me how to stuff them with damask rose leaves, orris and cloves.” She pressed her hand to her breast. “The rest are in the wagon on their way back to Oban. This is the last one I have left.”
His mouth had fallen open, his gaze fixed on her breasts. For a moment she thought he might salivate, but then he licked his lips and said, “Ye can fashion more in the future. My mother grew damask roses at Dunalastair. Yer Aunty can mayhap make use of the ones in the wagon.”
She laughed out loud.
He eyed her curiously, then looked around the entry hall. “I agree it’s hard to fathom why the Earl decided to murder his nephew, though the animosity between them is of long standing.”
She was confused. “But wasn’t the Earl one of the nobles who helped ransom James from his imprisonment at the English court and bring him back to Scotland?”
They paused at the foot of an immense winding staircase. Only the first steps were visible. “He was, but a lot has happened in the thirteen intervening years to turn him against the king.”
“Where are the servants?” she asked.
“All fled,” he replied. “In fear of their lives.”
“But if they’d done nothing,” she protested.
“Anyone associated with the perpetrators of this heinous crime will be suspect,” he explained.
Her heart plummeted. “Even me,” she rasped.
He took her hands and blew on her fingers, the sadness in his eyes betraying he regretted his words. “Better?” he asked.
How to tell him his warmth had travelled from her hands up her arms, down her spine and thence into her tingling nipples. “Aye,” she said hoarsely.
“Ready for the climb?”
He took her hand and led her into the darkness.
THE TURRET ROOM
It occurred to Rheade half way up the long winding stairway that the assassins might have returned. Perhaps they’d watched the castle being searched from a distance and decided it was now a safe place to hide. He drew his dagger, just in case.
Margaret gasped, pulling her hand from his. Coming close to losing her balance, she leaned back against the wall, her fingernails clawing at the damp stone. He cursed his thoughtlessness. “Dinna worry, ’tis a precaution. I should have warned ye.”
They continued on past three landings with innumerable chamber doors visible from each one, until they came to the topmost landing where they paused, both breathing heavily. The steep climb was tiring, but worth
Rheade’s voice broke into her reverie. “Ye’re enjoying that.”
“I’ve loved horses since I was a bairn,” she admitted.
He put an arm around her waist, hefting the satchel of provisions over his shoulder as they left the stable.
“The chambers will be cold,” he added, pointing to the turrets. “Especially up there.”
She gathered the borrowed plaid tighter, her heart in her boots. She’d never been fond of heights. “Ye plan to hide in the tower?”
She welcomed his reassuring warmth when he pulled her closer. “Tannoch has already searched the castle. He’s not likely to look here again. He’ll be frustrated after Logan leads him astray and hopefully forget about ye. He’ll believe ye’ve fled to Oban.”
“Perhaps that’s what I should have done,” she murmured as he led her through the unlocked door into the entry hallway.
The first grey streaks of dawn revealed opulent furnishings. The Earl of Atholl’s immense wealth was legendary. “Why would someone risk this?” she whispered, inhaling deeply. “They’ve strewn rushes somewhere in the house that still smell sweet. Scented with hops, I believe. Typical for February.”
He sniffed. “One smell is much like another to me,” he admitted. “Except—”
He inhaled close to her neck. “What is the tantalizing perfume you wear?”
Her nipples tightened. She’d never considered herself tantalizing. “’Tis a sweet-bag I wear around my neck, made of silk. My mother taught me how to stuff them with damask rose leaves, orris and cloves.” She pressed her hand to her breast. “The rest are in the wagon on their way back to Oban. This is the last one I have left.”
His mouth had fallen open, his gaze fixed on her breasts. For a moment she thought he might salivate, but then he licked his lips and said, “Ye can fashion more in the future. My mother grew damask roses at Dunalastair. Yer Aunty can mayhap make use of the ones in the wagon.”
She laughed out loud.
He eyed her curiously, then looked around the entry hall. “I agree it’s hard to fathom why the Earl decided to murder his nephew, though the animosity between them is of long standing.”
She was confused. “But wasn’t the Earl one of the nobles who helped ransom James from his imprisonment at the English court and bring him back to Scotland?”
They paused at the foot of an immense winding staircase. Only the first steps were visible. “He was, but a lot has happened in the thirteen intervening years to turn him against the king.”
“Where are the servants?” she asked.
“All fled,” he replied. “In fear of their lives.”
“But if they’d done nothing,” she protested.
“Anyone associated with the perpetrators of this heinous crime will be suspect,” he explained.
Her heart plummeted. “Even me,” she rasped.
He took her hands and blew on her fingers, the sadness in his eyes betraying he regretted his words. “Better?” he asked.
How to tell him his warmth had travelled from her hands up her arms, down her spine and thence into her tingling nipples. “Aye,” she said hoarsely.
“Ready for the climb?”
He took her hand and led her into the darkness.
THE TURRET ROOM
It occurred to Rheade half way up the long winding stairway that the assassins might have returned. Perhaps they’d watched the castle being searched from a distance and decided it was now a safe place to hide. He drew his dagger, just in case.
Margaret gasped, pulling her hand from his. Coming close to losing her balance, she leaned back against the wall, her fingernails clawing at the damp stone. He cursed his thoughtlessness. “Dinna worry, ’tis a precaution. I should have warned ye.”
They continued on past three landings with innumerable chamber doors visible from each one, until they came to the topmost landing where they paused, both breathing heavily. The steep climb was tiring, but worth
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