Taming The Lion. Suzanne Barclay
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swayed for a moment, terrified. Then she remembered the injuries Hakon had inflicted on the Sutherlands. Nay, Ross was not a danger to them. At least not that way. And the doors to the cellars were kept locked except when Roland and his men were working there.
Still it might be wise to post guards here until the Sutherlands were gone.
Catlyn felt a bit better till she glanced at the papers piled on her worktable. She should spend an hour or two on them, but her eyes were gritty, her nerves frayed. And she had one more duty to perform before she retired. Resolving to be down here at first light, she shut the door and locked it.
Ross crouched down behind one of the keg-laden shelves and watched Catlyn walk past, confident the shadows would hide him. Still he did not let go the breath he had been holding till he heard the door clang shut.
“Dieu, that was close,” he whispered into the gloom. He had found what appeared to be the distillery by following his nose. Surprised there were no guards outside, he had cautiously opened one side of the door and eased inside. The stench of whiskey had made his eyes sting and his belly roll. He’d ignored both.
Used to sneaking about in darkened places, he had slipped into the cavernous room and started his search for the stills themselves. Only a small amount of pale light came in from some openings high above. A locked set of double doors just off the entryway looked promising, but he had moved on, down row after row of kegs. The neatness impressed him. He rapped his knuckles gently on a few and judged them to be full. Full of whiskey. If Hakon knew the Boyds had so much on hand, he’d have worked harder to get inside and steal it.
Then he had seen the light spilling from a chamber cut into the wall. It drew him, but before he could get close enough to see what was inside, an incautious step betrayed his presence.
Ross looked toward the door, then back to the one Catlyn had so carefully locked before leaving. Possibly it led to the stills, or to a room where the accounts were kept. Orderly as everything was, he did not doubt that the Boyds, had a scribe who kept a record of how much whiskey was produced and sold. Tempted as he was to see if the lock would yield to the tip of his dirk, the time was not right.
Keeping to the shadows, Ross retraced his steps down the long corridor, out the back door and around the side of the tower. Up the rope he’d left and onto the ledge.
Tomorrow night he’d come prepared, with parchment and charcoal to sketch the stills.
Catlyn paused outside the chamber that had been her parents’, dreading what she’d find when she entered.
On the day Adair brought her father’s body back to Kennecraig, Catlyn had also lost her mother. Jeannie Boyd had taken one look at her departed husband and faded into a stupor from which she had yet to emerge. The pain of watching her mother retreat further and further into herself was almost more than Catlyn could bear.
She bowed her head, her heart aching. She would give all she owned, aye, even the precious stills, to have her mother whole again. “Please, please let me find her better.”
Bracing herself for disappointment, Catlyn knocked softly. She did not expect an answer. Even before her husband’s death, Jeannie Boyd had been considered a bit fey. She would immerse herself so thoroughly in the scenes she created with needle and thread, that she paid scant attention to the real world around her. Now her mind seemed to have permanently retreated into one of those imaginary worlds. A better world, where her husband was not dead, just away.
Catlyn pushed open the door and immediately spied her mother sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her husband’s clothes chest. It was empty now, every garment Thomas had possessed arrayed around Lady Jeannie in neat piles.
“Mama, how nice to see you up.” Hope buoyed Catlyn’s steps as she crossed the room. Could it be her mother had regained her senses and was finally setting Papa’s things to rights?
Jeannie raised her head, her once glorious mane of chestnut hair dull, her eyes red rimmed. “Thomas is due back any day, and I cannot find his best plaid.”
Catlyn’s knees went weak, and she sank down beside her mother. They had buried her father in his bloodied tartan. “He may not need it with the weather so warm,” she said gently.
“He counts on me to keep it in good repair. He teases me sometimes...says ’tis the only practical thing I do. And now... I—I can’t understand where it’s got to.” She picked up a saffron shirt and shook it, as though expecting the eight-foot length of plaid to fall from it onto her lap.
“It will turn up.” Catlyn captured her mother’s fluttering hands, found them icy cold and painfully thin. She chafed them between her own hands. “Let me put you to bed, Mama.”
“I cannot sleep till I’ve found the plaid.” She freed her hands and went back to shifting through the clothes.
Catlyn watched through a veil of tears. It seemed her mother was wasting away before her eyes, her plump body gaunt, her once golden skin pale from hours indoors. “Tomorrow we will take a walk on the battlements. The fresh air would do you good, Mama. You have not been outside since...” Catlyn choked on a sob. “It’s been so long since you’ve been out.”
“I will not leave this room till I have his plaid.” Frowning, Jeannie picked up a pair of worn woolen hose. “These are Thomas’s favorites. I know he’ll be surprised I’ve mended them so the hole barely shows, but he’ll be most displeased if I cannot find the plaid.”
The door to the chamber opened.
Catlyn turned toward it, her already low spirits plummeting when she saw Dora standing awkwardly in the doorway, a covered tray in her hands It was surely the cruelest of ironies that the one woman upon whom her mother depended was Eom’s mistress.
“Oh, Dora,” Jeanme exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’re back. You’ve got to help me find Thomas’s plaid.”
“Aye, my lady.” Blue eyes downcast, Dora sidled into the room and set her burden on the table. She was slender, blond and so radiantly beautiful that men, even those who’d known her all her life, stared when she passed by.
Small wonder Eoin had been tempted to dally with her while courting the plain wren of a woman who was heir to the distilleries, Catlyn thought. Even her mother preferred Dora’s company. Where Catlyn attempted to coax her mother back into this world, Dora seemed to slip readily into Jeannie’s.
“It may be that one of the maids took the plaid to wash,” Dora said. “Tomorrow we’ll go down and look about.”
“Let us go now.” Jeannie got awkwardly to her feet.
Dora swiftly put a hand under her elbow, steadying her. “Oh, nay, my lady. ’Tis night, now, and the maids will be asleep. You should be abed, too.”
“I am not sleepy,” Jeannie protested.
“Come sit by the hearth, then,” Dora coaxed. “I’ve brought up a cup of warm milk.”
“All right. But at first light, we must go down and search. Search everywhere.” Jeannie dutifully walked to her chair.
Dora glanced quickly, apologetically, at Catlyn. “I know ’tis a futile errand,” she whispered. “But the fresh air and a wee bit of exercise might do my lady good.”
“Aye.” Catlyn jumped up and crossed to her mother. She should be glad her mother had someone in whom she could confide and trust, but instead, she was jealous of Dora. Again. “I will ready Mama for bed, Dora. Eoin is doubtless waiting for you.”
“Nay, that is over. He...he is wroth with me.” Her hand absently fluttered over a bruise at her temple.
“Did he do that?” Catlyn exclaimed.
“Nay.” Dora shook her head so violently her long blond braids flew back, revealing another dark mark below her ear.
“Dora.” Horrified,