A Laird and a Gentleman Page 3

  Cameron was all too aware of her vulnerability at the moment and its effect on him physically. He longed to pull her into his arms and reassure her that as long as she stayed with him, no one would ever harm her. Only once before had he felt so strong a need to protect someone, but that time he had failed. Since then, he had gone to extraordinary efforts to keep his men and those in his care out of harm’s way. Even so, it was his greatest fear that he would fail again—and this time with Mariam.

  Mariam stopped before him. Her pulse fluttered wildly at the base of her throat, revealing her nervousness. “I am here at your request. What is my punishment to be?” She cast a quick, nervous glance at Alexander before she swallowed, avoiding Cameron’s gaze.

  “Sit down, Mariam,” Cameron said, signaling to the chair he had just vacated, hoping to put her more at ease. He would teach his ward a lesson, but he had no intention of tormenting her.

  Mariam sat and her hands convulsively tightened on her velvet gown. She kept her eyes downcast as if she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She knew something serious was going to happen here. And that prospect obviously filled her with dread.

  “As I mentioned yesterday, you had many opportunities to speak the truth about Laird Douglas’s innocence before and during his trial, yet you kept quiet. You’ve left me with no other option than to force you to learn something about self-sacrifice.”

  “What does that mean? What will you do to me?” She knotted her hands.

  “It is more about what you will do for others,” he replied, keeping his voice firm, but not harsh. “A full day of cleaning the castle on your knees will not only give you time to think about how you wronged Lachlan, it will also provide a sense of accomplishment I feel you lack in your daily routine here.” Her eyes when they met his were not filled with vulnerability, nor were they sad, or remorseful. They were simply empty—as though she refused to let him see any emotion that might linger there.

  “Since I am not to be given a choice in the matter, I suggest we get started.”

  “Would you like to change into something more appropriate for cleaning?”

  “Why?” Her chin came up. “If you mean to humble me, then what better way than to force me to ruin one of my gowns?”

  He could easily buy her ten new gowns and she knew it, but he allowed the barb meant to make him feel guilt slide past him. He would yield to whatever power she still possessed—the power of her words.

  “Get started then.”

  *

  Mariam froze at the doorway to the lady’s chapel. Cobwebs blocked her from entering until she burned them away with the brace of candles in her hand. The chamber stretched before her, coated in a thick layer of dust with trails of cobwebs everywhere, making her wonder just how many spiders lived in the darkened corners.

  “You want me to clean this?” she asked, unable to disguise the dismay that threatened. “I’ve lived here a year and I never knew you had a lady’s chapel.”

  Beside her, Cameron appraised her with a careful, bland expression. “No one wants to clean it, so no one uses it.”

  “This place is a disaster.” Distress echoed in her words and around the empty chamber.

  “Disaster or not, this is what you are tasked with doing. And when you are done, the chapel will be available for your use.”

  Mariam studied Cameron instead of the filthiness around them. He looked so out of place, dressed as he was in a fashionably slashed black doublet, with black breeches, black boots, and a long, lethal sword strapped to his side. He appeared dark and dangerous. Different from the man she’d known a week ago, though she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had changed.

  She couldn’t really blame him for the change. They’d both changed. Adversity did that to people. From her experience, it didn’t make them stronger . . . just different. He’d learned that not even his association with the king could keep him or his brothers-in-arms safe. And she had learned that no matter how hard she tired, she could not escape the tendency toward evil she had inherited from her father.

  And despite the changes in them both, and the indisputable evidence of her own bad behavior, Cameron offered her this final chance at redemption.

  “You have until nightfall to do the task no one else wanted to do,” Cameron said, his voice firm.

  Mariam stiffened. “What?” Her uneasy gaze darted about the chamber then back to Cameron. “That’s impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible, Mariam.” His lips twisted in a bittersweet smile as he handed her a broom. “I will send Mistress MacInnes up here with all the other supplies you will need. In the meanwhile, I suggest you start with the cobwebs.”

  Desperation tightened Mariam’s chest. “And if I cannot do it?”

  “You have one day. Get started.” With those words he left her alone.

  Mariam took a step inside the chamber and listened. Nothing scurried in the darkness. She stepped cautiously through the thick dust on the flagstone floor, making her way to the altar where she set the brace of candles. Yellow-gold light spilled through the chamber and banished the shadows into the corners. In the half light, she could make out an arched wooden ceiling and gray stone walls through their dusty coating. The room’s two windows were so coated with dust they no longer let in much light.

  She raised her broom to the window on her left and swept the glass with soft but efficient strokes. Dust floated on the air as light brightened the chamber further. Mariam repeated the process with the window in front of the altar, and despite the dust swirling about the chamber, daylight filtered into the room. Next, she got rid of the cobwebs along the peaks of the ceiling and felt a momentary satisfaction.

  “Milady?” came a voice from the doorway.

  Mariam turned to see the hunched figure of Mistress MacInnes, as well as Petunia and Estella. In their hands they held buckets of water, several rags, and each also had a broom. “Thank you for the supplies. You should probably set all of that in the hallway. I was thinking I should probably sweep the entire room before even attempting to scrub anything down.”

  The women did as Mariam had instructed but then they stepped into the chamber with brooms in their hands.

  Mariam startled when they began to sweep. “What are you doing?”

  “We came to help,” Mistress MacInnes said from beneath the dark lacy veil that partially concealed her face. “There is far too much to be done here in the time Laird Sinclair allotted.”

  The older woman’s aura was a vibrant violet, indicating that she was filled with divine wisdom and enlightenment. “This was to be my punishment and my humiliation,” Mariam said.

  A lopsided smile pulled up the corner of Mistress MacInnes’s mouth. “The laird is out in the lists with his men. He will be there for a time, so the girls and I thought we might help.”

  A sudden warmth filled Mariam’s chest. The feeling was so foreign she gasped at the sensation. “You would help me? Why?”

  “Because we have all failed to do what was right at one time or another. Why should we hold you to a different standard than ourselves?” the older woman said. Behind her Petunia and Estella nodded their heads, their eyes illuminated with such caring that Mariam was unable to look away.

  “I don’t know what to say . . . except thank you.”

  “That is enough,” Mistress MacInnes said with a nod.

  Too stunned to do anything but stare at the women, Mariam asked, “Won’t Laird Sinclair find out?”

  The older woman thumped her broom on the floor, sending a spray of dust into the air. “Not if we hurry.”

  Still wondering what this kindness would eventually cost her, Mariam followed Mistress MacInnes’s lead as she set about clearing the cobwebs from the ceiling and then the walls.

  The four women worked silently for several hours until the wood of the ceiling gleamed a reddish brown and the walls and floor were a sparkling gray. “All that remains is to wipe down the altar, but the girls and I had best return to our own chores
before m’laird returns and notices our absence,” Mistress MacInnes said, signaling for Petunia and Estella to gather the soiled rags and brooms then depart.

  “I am grateful for the assistance.” Mariam paused in wiping down the last of the stone behind the altar. A sudden nervousness stole over her. “What would you want from me in return?”

  “What do I want?” The woman’s green eyes reflected pain before they shadowed.

  Mariam swallowed roughly, forcing back the onslaught of emotions the injured gaze roused.

  “What I want is your trust. We did this for you with the expectation of nothing in return. That’s what members of the same household do for each other.”

  Remorse stabbed through Mariam. She knew no one helped her because she never helped anyone else. “I’m not accustomed to kindness from others.”

  Mistress MacInnes’s lips thinned. “You were a wounded soul when you arrived and defended yourself in the only way you knew how. But it’s been a year, Mariam. It’s time for change if you are to remain among us.” Disappointment colored her voice.

  Mariam winced. She wanted to change . . . or at least stop her further descent down the irreversible path toward villainy like her father. “I’ve disappointed you.”

  “You have,” the older woman said sadly as she turned toward the door.

  Mariam set her rag down and scrambled around the altar, trying to stop Mistress MacInnes before she left. This was her one chance to make things right. “I’m sorry—” The words caught in her throat as she tripped on the stone leg of the altar, sending her flying forward. She put her hands out to block herself, but they hit the floor’s slick surface that hadn’t fully dried and did nothing to break her fall. Her chin hit the flagstone, pain reverberating through her jaw. Even as the insult rippled through her head, it didn’t block out the sound or the feel of her shell necklace shattering beneath her.

  “Are you all right?” Mistress MacInnes asked with distress in her voice.

  Mariam could hear the rustle of the older woman’s skirts as she returned to her side. Ignoring the pounding in her head, Mariam pushed herself upright and stared down at the shattered remains of her precious shell necklace. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes, forcing back the tears that threatened. That was all I had left of my mother.

  Mariam’s heart pounded in her ears, the pain of her loss sent a chill through her, and she trembled. It seemed as though everything around her was shaking. When Mariam realized the floor beneath her was truly shifting left then right, back and forth, her eyes flew open and she drew a tight breath.

  Then as suddenly as it started, everything stopped moving.

  Mariam’s heart squeezed, then fell into her stomach. Her gaze shot to Mistress MacInnes. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  Momentarily, the fear of discovery overshadowed Mariam’s loss. When would she learn to control her emotions? Did the older woman suspect that something odd had just occurred?

  “Mariam, answer me.” There was no curiosity or judgment in the woman’s eyes.

  Relief ran through Mariam’s blood so potently she felt weightless for a heartbeat until she dropped her gaze back to the floor. “I am unharmed, but my mother’s necklace is destroyed.”

  “’Tis a shame,” Mistress MacInnes said, her voice soft.

  Loneliness swept over Mariam as she pressed her hand to her chest to cover the place where her necklace used to reside. She closed her eyes, fighting despair. Now she was utterly alone in this world, without the last remnant of her mother to see her through the worst of days.

  Then she felt a light touch of a warm hand against her own. “Mariam, open your eyes.”

  Her eyes flicked open and she stared into the partially deformed face before her. “Even without your necklace, you still have your memories.” The woman reached up and stroked the hair away from Mariam’s face. “No one can take those from you.”

  “But I remember so little. I was so young. I blame myself for her leaving that fateful night . . . the night she died.”

  The old woman startled for an instant before she took both of Mariam’s hands between her own.

  “Not everything is as it seems. As you grow older, you may see things you might not have as a child.”

  “Such as?”

  The older woman released Mariam’s hands and reached for the crushed shell that had settled between two of the stones. “From the outside, this was like any other shell. But inside . . .” She placed what remained of the spire into Mariam’s hand. Protruding from the white shell was a tiny, rolled piece of parchment.

  “What is this?”

  Mistress MacInnes shrugged. “If the necklace was from your mother, perhaps it is from her?”

  With suddenly trembling fingers, Mariam plucked the aged parchment from the spire and set the shell back down. She held her breath as she unfolded the long, skinny parchment. Emblazed upon the yellow-gold paper in black ink were the words: On the seventh day from the opening of the shell, you will come into your own.

  “What does it say?” Mistress MacInnes’s gaze was filled with curiosity.

  Mariam crumpled the paper in her fist, wishing this was all a bad dream. It said she would have to make a choice in only a few days. It’s time to decide if I am good or evil. The path toward evil would be so easy to slide onto. But choosing good meant having to fight. It meant finding something inside herself that was worth fighting for. A touch on her shoulder brought her back to the moment.

  “Is it a message from your mother?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not.” Mariam passed the crumpled parchment to Mistress MacInnes. Did Mariam’s mother know she would face this battle within herself? A sudden chill shivered along her spine as the frantic beating of her heart echoed in her ears.

  “’Tis quite a puzzle,” Mistress MacInnes replied, “but it sounds as though you have some time to figure out the true meaning of these words.”

  “Only a week. Not much time at all,” Mariam cried.

  “And many battles were won in far less time.” Mistress MacInnes stood and extended her hand to Mariam. “I have every faith in you, my dear.”

  She accepted the outstretched hand and stood beside the hunched old woman. “Why? You barely know me. How can you know what is inside me?”

  “I have known many people in my life and have learned to size them up rather quickly. Besides, I knew your mother once, long ago.”

  The woman should hate Mariam for all of the horrible things she’d done to make her life more difficult over the last year. Mariam let out her breath slowly, attempting to gather her scattered thoughts into some semblance of order as she stared into the woman’s face—terrified and relieved by what she saw there. True concern swam in the depths of the other’s tired green eyes.

  Mistress MacInnes did not look away. Instead, the warmth in her gaze intensified. “You and I are friends, Mariam. Friends care about each other.”

  “Friends?” The word was hoarse and unnatural-sounding upon her tongue. “I’ve never had a friend before. Not one.”

  Mistress MacInnes smiled. “Call me Nessie, then. All my friends do.”

  “You knew my mother?”

  She nodded. “Aye. It was many years ago, but I still remember her well.”

  Warmth flooded Mariam’s chest at the connection this woman once had with her mother and at the fact the older woman had befriended her. “I—”

  “What, might I ask, is going on here?” Cameron’s voice boomed from the doorway.

  Mariam’s gaze jerked to his. “Cleaning, as you asked.”

  His irritated gaze shifted to the now spotless floors, walls, and ceiling. The scent of lemon and oil mixed with the tallow of the candles, creating a heady combination in the afternoon air. “You were to clean this chamber yourself.” He strode into the chapel until he stood beside both Mariam and Mistress MacInnes.

  “It wasn’t Mariam’s fault.” Mistress MacInnes straightened as much as was possible beneath her hunched for
m. “This was entirely my idea.”

  “Nay, I am at fault here. I should have declined the assistance.” Mariam could barely get the words past her dry throat. Cameron had obviously come directly to her from the lists as evidenced by the damp tendrils of hair that framed his face, the high color in his cheeks, and the moisture that molded his linen shirt to his heavily corded shoulders. Realizing her gaze lingered on his body contours longer than was appropriate, she quickly brought her attention back to his face.

  “Why must you challenge me on everything?” His gray eyes glinted fiercely. “In case you didn’t hear me the first time, I said I would not force you to leave this castle. But keep testing me like this and I might.”

  “M’laird, she tried to send me away,” Mistress MacInnes pleaded.

  “This does not concern you, Mistress MacInnes. You can leave us now.” His gaze never wavered from Mariam’s.

  Mariam was scarcely aware of anything but the man before her—the sleek ripples of the muscles of his arms, the way his chest moved in and out with each breath. His gray eyes held both anger and something else . . .

  It was the something else that suddenly made it hard to breathe. She was dimly aware of Mistress MacInnes’s departure as all her senses focused on the man standing before her effortlessly holding her gaze with his own.

  “I tried to punish you in a way that might humble you—to make you respect what others do around here a little more, but once again you manipulated the situation for your own purposes. So perhaps it is time for you to come up with a punishment you can and will deliver on.” His voice was silky soft, almost a murmur. His index finger reached out and touched her cheek. She inhaled sharply. The sensitive skin seemed to tingle and almost burn beneath his touch. His hand wandered down to caress her throat, his thumb finding the wild beat of her heart there.

  Mariam shivered as fear took hold. He couldn’t send her away, not now when she had only seven days to find a path to goodness. “Nay, you don’t understand. I truly meant to do what you asked—”

  “You leave me no choice.” He picked her up and slung her face down over his shoulder.