The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2) Read online

  “But ‘tis dishonorable,” Cambel argued. He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “I won’t eat my pottage unless she’s allowed at the table.”

  Cristy feared Cambel was begging to be clouted for his impertinence. But Brochan answered him with patience and consideration.

  “Indeed?” he said. “Then what would ye suggest?”

  “I know,” Colin said. “She could give us her word she won’t flee.”

  “Her word?” Brochan almost choked. “And how do ye know ye can trust her word?”

  “She’s a lady,” Cambel said, as if it were obvious.

  Brochan smirked. “Ye’ve much to learn, lads. But if ye think ‘tis the right thing…”

  Cristy’s pulse raced.

  Colin and Cambel answered in unison, “Aye.”

  Brochan went to the cupboard and brought back a key. He dropped to one knee beside her. “Do ye swear ye won’t try to escape?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do ye give the lads your word on it?”

  “Aye.”

  He sprang the shackle and held out a hand to help her up. For one tense instant, she thought about racing for the door, despite her oath. And as if he read her mind, he clasped her hand firmly in his and led her to the table, wedging her strategically between his two sons, to whom she’d just given her solemn word.

  The pea and barley pottage Mabel served in a crust of coarse maslin was just as delicious as the frumenty. Cristy thought she’d be glad of an excuse to visit every day if the food was always so appetizing.

  While they ate, Brochan looked over several documents he’d brought to the table. Then he slipped a page toward the lads and asked them to recite the numbers in a long column while he checked them off on another page.

  Cristy was astonished the young lads could decipher the marks on the page. She wished she could. Women were seldom tasked with anything requiring such knowledge. But she often wondered how much more power she would have if she could read and write.

  In a flight of whimsy, Cristy imagined coming here every day to learn from the lads how to recognize numbers and pen letters.

  When Brochan no longer needed the lads, Mabel put them to work, sweeping up the rushes on the floor of the great hall. The old woman said she planned to see what crops she could salvage from the overgrown garden.

  Meanwhile, she quietly brought a ripped leine to the table and asked Cristy if she wouldn’t mind mending it.

  Brochan glanced up. “That’s my leine,” he murmured to Cristy. “Ye don’t have to do it.”

  “I don’t mind,” Cristy said. Otherwise, she’d be bored, with naught to do. “I promise I won’t even sew the sleeves shut.”

  He snorted at that.

  The afternoon was the most peaceful Cristy had passed in a long while. Between the fire crackling on the hearth, the laird quietly scrawling figures, the whispery sweep of the rushes, and the soothing repetition of stitching, she felt calm and restful.

  She’d just made a final knot in the thread when she glanced up to see Brochan slumped atop the table. His pen was still in his hand. His head rested on his forearm. And his open mouth was making a soft sawing sound. She smiled. He looked more like his sons than ever when he was asleep.

  All at once, a dangerous thought occurred to her. Mabel was outside. Rauf was in his chamber. Brochan was asleep. And she was no longer shackled. She could easily send the lads on some errand upstairs and slip out the door. Her heart raced as she considered the possibility.

  Then she thought about Mabel, who had made her a bowl of frumenty and treated her like a guest. She glanced again at the poor overworked laird dozing on the table. She watched his kind and dutiful sons, piling rushes near the door.

  She’d given them her word. She’d promised she wouldn’t flee. And though it might mean a beating for her if she didn’t escape, she couldn’t stomach the thought of betraying the sweet lads. Or their father.

  So, silently cursing herself for a fool, she carefully set his mended leine aside so as not to wake the laird. Then she glanced around the hall, wondering what else she could do to make herself useful.

  Brochan woke to the sound of Rauf coming downstairs. Startled and disoriented, the laird lifted his head, nearly upsetting the vial of ink. Then he frowned and gave his head a good shake, dispelling the fog from his brain.

  Had he fallen asleep at his work? Again?

  He had to stop that. There was too much to do for the luxury of dozing.

  The rushes were gone from the great hall. The lads must have finished their chores. But where were they now? And Cristy…

  His blood turned to ice as he realized the lass was missing. He stood up, knocking the bench over with a great thud.

  “M’laird, what’s wrong?” Rauf said as he stepped into the hall.

  “Where is she? Where is the Moffat lass?”

  Rauf looked befuddled. “I’ve only just awakened, m’laird. I thought she’d be ransomed by now. Do ye want me to look for her?”

  Brochan was too troubled to answer. This was his fault. His lads were missing, and his hostage was gone. He should never have trusted the word of a reiver.

  With his heart in his throat, he strode toward the door.

  It swung open before he could reach it. In came Colin, Cambel, and the lass, their arms overloaded with great clumps of sweet-smelling green rushes.

  Unable to see where she was going, Cristy barreled forward and collided with him, dropping rushes everywhere. She would have fallen backwards from the impact, but he reached out and seized her elbow to steady her.

  “Da! Ye’re awake!” Colin called as he dropped his rushes.

  Cambel dropped his as well. “M’lady took us to cut new rushes. See?”

  It was then he noticed that Cristy was holding a scythe, the scythe he kept by the front door. He narrowed his gaze. Last night she would have tried to use the thing to cut him off at the knees.

  But today when he looked at her, the smoldering hatred he’d seen in her face before was gone. Her dark eyes danced with delight. And her wide smile revealed beautiful white teeth. Colin was right. She was a bonnie lass.

  Apparently, the bonnie lass had kept her word. She hadn’t kidnapped his sons after all.

  “Well, Da?” Cambel asked. “Are ye goin’ to give m’lady a proper thank ye?”

  He was standing close enough to her that he could see the pink kiss of the sun across the bridge of her nose and smell the fresh summer air on her loose hair. As his gaze fell to the gentle upward curve of her lips, he was sorely tempted to give her an improper thank you.

  The thought was disturbing. In five years, he’d thought of no one in that way. He’d clung to the memory of his wife, remembering her touch, her embrace, her kiss. That he was daydreaming about kissing another woman troubled him.

  So he set her at arm’s length and gave her a nod of gratitude. “Thank ye, m’lady.”

  Rauf stepped forward then, clearing his throat. “If ye’re ready to take a look at that garden wall, m’laird…”

  “Aye,” Brochan said, eager to evade temptation. “I can come back to the accounts later. I’ve got the wall halfway done, and I want to finish before dark.”

  “Then when ‘tis dark,” Colin told Rauf, “we’re all goin’ out to see the great comet.”

  “Are we?” Rauf raised a brow at Brochan.

  Brochan shrugged. “I promised the lads I’d take them out.”

  “And m’lady is comin’ as well,” added Cambel.

  Rauf’s brow lifted even higher.

  “We’ll see, Cambel,” Brochan said. “Her laird is likely worried about her and will send for her soon.”

  As it turned out, Moffat must not have been very worried about his neice after all. He sent neither the cows nor a message back with the monk. Brother William passed by on his way home, taking a moment to admire the newly repaired garden wall. But though he assured Brochan he’d delivered the missive into the laird’s hands himself, he reported
that Moffat had simply scoffed and sent him on his way.

  Brochan was glad Cristy wasn’t around to hear that. It would no doubt break her heart. But then he guessed that a man who considered it acceptable to strike a woman might also think it acceptable to torment her by delaying her ransom. And that thought made him feel ill.

  So he penned another demand to send with the monk, this one a bit more threatening. For each day of delay, Brochan would add one cow to the price of Cristy’s return. Surely that would get Moffat’s attention.

  Later, when Cristy asked if there was news from her uncle, he told her that Moffat was negotiating fiercely for her return, but that Brochan didn’t feel he was offering what she was worth.

  She seemed mildly disappointed. No doubt she expected Moffat to return the cattle at once to ensure her safe return, not to negotiate for a lower price. But Brochan was glad he hadn’t told her the truth. It would have crushed her.

  When it began to grow dark, Mabel announced that she and Cristy had a surprise for everyone. Brochan shook his head in amusement. He hadn’t seen the old woman so full of life in a long time. Apparently, she was intent on impressing their “guest.” He’d heard the busy clattering of pots and pans from upstairs when he sent the lads out for the late milking. Now, as he sat finishing up the accounts by candlelight, he smelled the savory aroma of something baking in the kitchens.

  What the ladies had planned was dinner under the stars on the crest of the motte surrounding the tower house. From there, they could view the heavens in all their splendor, as well as keep an eye on the herd below.

  Rauf spread a wool cloth on the grass for them to sit on. Of course, the lads had to squeeze in beside Cristy. Under the evening sky, they dined on flaky pork coffyns, oatcakes spread with soft ruayn cheese, and crispels with cloudberries. Mabel said that Cristy had found a dusty-shouldered bottle of Port in the corner of the buttery, so she poured everyone a cup, even giving the lads a few drops.

  The sky darkened until the stars popped out, one by one. Then Brochan pointed out the comet near the horizon to the lads.

  “See how it has a long tail streamin’ out behind it?”

  “Why does it have a tail?” Cambel asked.

  Colin asked, “Where is it goin’, Da?”

  “Is it goin’ to crash into the earth?”

  “Are the coos afraid of it?”

  Brochan chuckled. “The coos don’t seem afraid of it. Do ye think they are?”

  “Nay,” Colin decided.

  Mabel added, “Some folks are afraid of it.”

  “Why?” asked Cambel.

  “They say such a star can bring bad weather or bad luck,” Mabel said.

  “What do ye think, Da?” asked Colin.

  Brochan frowned. “I don’t think a faraway star, way up in the sky, can do us any harm down here.”

  “What about ye, m’lady?” Cambel asked. “Do ye think it brings bad luck?”

  Brochan nearly spat out his oatcake. The star had certainly brought Cristy bad luck. If she hadn’t been staring at it, he wouldn’t have caught her so easily.

  But Cristy sounded pensive. “I’m not sure.” And when she continued, her words echoed what the tavern wench had said. “I’ve heard the star has the power to change one’s fate. But I don’t know if ‘tis good or bad.”

  “I think ‘tis good,” Cambel declared. “After all, the star brought ye to us, m’lady.”

  Brochan saw him give her a squeeze of affection, and his heart pinched at the gesture.

  “’Tis a very kind thing to say, Cambel,” she replied.

  “I think so too,” Colin said, not wishing to be excluded.

  She gave him a hug as well.

  Brochan didn’t know what to say about that. He was fairly certain what had brought Cristy to them was not the star, but a cattle reiving gone awry.

  Nevertheless, the night felt magical as they continued to watch the heavens and the unique star perched in the sky. Somewhere deep in his heart, Brochan made a wish—a secret wish on the star—that he could always feel this content.

  Chapter 6

  When Brochan rose the next morn, he was sure he’d find his sons tucked around the reiver lass again. He’d heard them last night when they thought he was asleep, stealing down the stairs and dragging their coverlets with them.

  He should probably have stopped them. After all, it would serve no purpose to let them get close to her. It would only make it all that much harder for them when she left.

  But he didn’t have the heart to call them back. And in truth, he envied their daring. He wished he could creep down and crawl under the furs with the lass.

  Mentally chiding himself for such reprehensible thoughts, he continued down the steps. But when he entered the great hall, fragrant now with fresh, sweet rushes, the coverlets were stacked neatly away, and the hearth was deserted.

  Where were his sons? Where was his hostage?

  Unwilling to resort to premature panic, Brochan descended to the kitchens to find Mabel.

  “Good morn, m’laird,” she sang out.

  “Where have the lads gone?”

  “Och, they’ve taken Cristy out to milk the coos.”

  He let out an invisible sigh of relief. Then he blinked. The lads rarely got up before dawn. Perhaps having a guest was giving them a sense of responsibility.

  The scent of warm cinnamon was making his mouth water. He nodded to a tray full of freshly-made pastries. “What are these?”

  “Almond frytours.”

  He reached out to take one, and she gave his hand a smack. “They’re for supper, a special treat for Cristy.”

  He scowled. “Ye’ve never made these for me.”

  She told him matter-of-factly, “Well, honestly, m’laird, ye’ve never seemed to care if ye were eatin’ capercaillie or collops.”

  He raised his brows. Was that true? He supposed he hadn’t expressed much interest lately in what he put in his mouth, as long as it filled his belly. Half the time he was too busy or tired to eat. The other half, he shoved down his food as fast as possible so he could get back to work.

  He furrowed his forehead in disappointment.

  “Och, here,” Mabel said, looking sorry for him. She handed him a couple of frytours and poured him a cup of watered ale. “I’ll make up another batch.”

  He returned to the great hall to eat, mentally reviewing his tasks for the day. The frytours were delicious. Perhaps he should tell Mabel so. Perhaps then she’d make them more often.

  Now that he’d figured out how much he owed to the various vendors, he had to count out the silver and send Rauf to deliver the payments. Mabel said she’d accompany Rauf so she could purchase food supplies. While she was away, Brochan planned to clear out the goods in the pantry that were beyond use. And with any luck, sometime today Moffat would arrive with the Macintosh cattle to exchange for his niece.

  By the time he finished counting out the payments he owed and enclosing them in pouches with the receipts for Rauf, the sun was already streaming in to the hall. He wondered what was taking the lads so long. He could use their help today, sealing cracks in the dovecot. He’d promised Colin he could keep chickens, but first he had to make sure the dovecot was in good repair.

  When he wandered outside, the cows had already been milked. The wooden buckets were brimming, and the pair of milk cows were ambling slowly back toward the rest of the cattle. But where were Colin and Cambel?

  Shielding his eyes with his forearm, Brochan gazed down the slope.

  In the midst of the herd, acting as if she was impervious to the great beasts, stood wee Cristy, as bold as a knight. She had Cambel and Colin with her.

  Brochan’s heart staggered. His sons never visited the cattle without his supervision. It was too dangerous. Cows were unpredictable, and they spooked easily. Did the lass know that? Did she understand cattle at all?

  Shite.

  His first instinct was to yell at them to get away from the herd. But he knew that w
ould be a mistake. Naught would set off a stampede like a sudden loud bellow. He rubbed an anxious hand across his chin.

  Where was the bull? Thankfully, at the other end of the field, peacefully chewing his cud.

  But there were still several protective cows with young to worry about.

  Moving as swiftly as he dared, he slipped down the brae.

  What the devil was the lass thinking? Why had she let the lads wander into the thick of the herd? What was she doing?

  God’s eyes, he had neither the nerves nor the time for this.

  Halfway down the slope, he slowed his pace. As he continued to watch, he realized what Cristy was up to as she held the lads’ hands to keep them close, moving purposefully between the cows, herding them, isolating one from the rest.

  Bloody hell. The mischievous minx was teaching his sons how to reive cattle.

  “That’s it,” Cristy murmured. “Go slow enough not to spook her. But not so slow that she thinks ye’re a wolf. Once she starts walkin’ in the direction ye want, move with her so she keeps goin’ forward, but keep your distance.”

  The lads did just as they were told. She was impressed. They were learning fast. She hadn’t been much older than they were when she’d first learned to handle cattle.

  They moved steadily alongside the cow until it was separated from the rest of the herd and walking at a good pace.

  “Ye did it!” she quietly cheered. “If ye wanted, ye could walk her wherever ye liked now. She’s—”

  “Psst!”

  Cristy jumped. Brochan had startled her, coming up behind her that way. But she didn’t want to panic the cows, so she instructed the lads, “Just keep calm.”

  “What do ye think ye’re doin’?” Brochan’s voice was hushed, but she could feel the intensity of his anger in the bite of his words.

  “Quiet, Da,” Cambel warned.

  “We’re reivin’ Eufemie,” Colin whispered.

  “I can see that,” Brochan muttered.

  Cristy, recognizing the impatience in his tone, suggested, “Why don’t we put her back with the rest o’ the herd now, lads?”