A Ghostly Tale of Forbidden Love (Highland Passions Book 1) Page 3

  Senara’s tongue prickled with the memory of how the dryness had puckered her mouth when she’d been allowed a sip and how sharp it’d been going down.

  The kitchen maid lifted her gray brows. “Away wi’ ye.” She waved her hands toward Senara, urging her from the room.

  By the time Senara arrived at Lady Edana’s side, displeasure carved the lady’s features downward and made the loosened flesh at her cheeks appear shriveled, like an apple left too long in the sun. “It certainly took ye long enough.”

  Senara leaned over the table and poured the wine. “Forgive me, my lady.” Wine glugged out from the narrow neck of the flagon and splashed gracelessly into the goblet.

  Lady Edana straightened away from the cup as though Senara had sloshed it toward her and the costly dress she wore. “Careful, ye little fool.”

  Senara’s face went hot once more and she longed to be in the hall with the strange, cold stone.

  Away from her lady.

  Once Senara had lifted the pot from the goblet, Edana snatched it up and took a long swallow. Her head snapped up and she slowly turned to Senara. “What is this?”

  Senara studied the pot in her hand, which was heavy against her palms, the clay now hot from her discomfort. “The wine ye asked for.”

  Without warning, Edana rose with such suddenness the chair she sat upon clattered backward and caused all in the room to cease their conversations and stare.

  Senara clutched the pot harder in her hands to keep from dropping the costly wine in her surprise.

  “Ye ridiculous chit.” Lady Edana’s face tinged red and her eyes seemed to bulge from her face. “How difficult is it to grab a bit of wine?”

  Then her hand drew back and, too late, Senara realized the lady meant to strike her.

  *

  Gavin was out of his seat with Edana’s thin arm locked in his grip before he realized what he was doing.

  His heart knocked hard in his chest with the desire to bestow upon Edana the same lack of mercy she’d intended for Senara.

  “Calm yerself,” Gavin said through his teeth.

  Edana jerked her arm from his grasp. “I am calm.” She glared at him for a moment and her nostrils flared, a clear sign she was anything but calm.

  “It’s wine.” Gavin looked toward Senara, who still clutched the flagon to her chest, as if she sought to protect it above herself.

  Her eyes were wide with surprise at his aunt’s outburst, her face soft with shock, and he knew she’d never been spoken thusly to before. Here, in his home, she had encountered her first moment of true hatred and bitter ire. He could not help the rise of humiliation and disgust at his wayward relation.

  Anger burned through him, and he found himself wishing Edana were a man so he could let his rage unfurl and flare.

  But she was a woman, and the one he had been sworn to keep close and safe.

  “We dinna beat servants in Castle of Park.” Gavin spoke slowly and in a voice low enough to keep his anger from boiling over. “If I ever hear of ye beating a servant, I’ll have ye beaten in kind.” He drew in a deep, steadying breath, though it did little to calm the roaring of his blood.

  Edana met his level gaze with one of her own. A challenge. She was the only person in all of Banff who dared look at him in such a manner.

  Gavin became aware of the stares around them and the silence of the hall. It was so powerful that the absence of noise left his ears aching.

  Edana turned to her toppled chair and glared at the nearest servant. “Fix this.”

  A lanky man snapped from his daze and rushed forward to right the piece of furniture. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and plunked down into the seat with her arms resting on the sides, her fingers curling over the edge like the talons of a resting harpy. Her chin lifted to an over-proud tilt, but she said not another word.

  At least she did not verbally challenge him in front of his people.

  Finally, he turned back to his clan and put an easy smile on his face. “I think we’ve all had enough food for one night.”

  There were a couple of uncomfortable chuckles, and several men smacked their ale mugs to the flat wooden tables with a bellow of agreement.

  “Shall I choose a lass to start the dancing?” he asked.

  The quiet gave way to a riot of cheers and whistles.

  Gavin carefully took the flagon from Senara’s clutch. She released it with great hesitation and her gaze flicked toward all the faces now resting on her once more.

  “Lady Senara, will ye do me the honor of dancing with me this evening?” He bowed low and arose with his hand held toward her, palm up in invitation.

  She glanced toward Edana, and the small act of her obvious fear slipped into Gavin’s heart like a blade.

  “Dance wi’ him!” a woman shouted from somewhere behind them.

  “Dinna worry about her,” he said quietly to Senara. “I willna let her punish ye.”

  Senara put her fingertips to his palm and a tentative smile hovered at the corner of her lips. She gave a slow nod. “Aye, I’ll dance with ye.”

  A cheer rose up and spots of color showed on her cheeks.

  Gavin led her toward the cleared area of the great hall while the musicians readied to play once more with random notes peppering the air intermittently.

  When they arrived, they faced one another and put their palms together. Senara’s pulse thrummed wildly against his own.

  Fear?

  He hoped not.

  She’d had a tough go of it on her first day. He would ensure the rest of her time at Castle of Park was enjoyable, even if it meant wresting her from his aunt’s care.

  The music came then, a lively beat which pulsed around them and left even the most stoic of men tapping their feet.

  Within seconds, the frail smile on Senara’s lips broadened into a wide grin. It was like seeing the sun break through the darkness of a stormy day and left him wanting to turn his face to the warmth of her joy.

  Though her steps were unlike those at Castle of Park, she danced with the unfettered confidence of one who cared not what others thought of her.

  It was beautiful to watch her. Lovely and graceful and so wholly natural, it made his heart ache for such freedom from the crush of societal constraints.

  When at last their dance was done, she laughed and gave him a low curtsey. “Thank ye, laird.” In a soft tone meant only for him, she added, “For everything.”

  It was with great reluctance he released her hand and allowed her to slip away to the attention of others. His clan had offered her ready acceptance with the hospitality only the Highlands could truly demonstrate.

  He knew he needed to share her with them, even when he did not wish to.

  It was not until much later, when the dancing had stopped and the people were all trudging home, that he realized he’d not once allowed himself to be weighed down by the burden of his marital predicament. Not when he’d spent the night discreetly noting Senara’s presence – her laughter, her smiles, her grace.

  Aye, it was a hard thing, indeed, to think of a potential wife when all his thoughts kept straying back to Senara.

  *

  Happy exhaustion left Senara’s legs particularly heavy and tired. She’d danced perhaps one too many times, but wouldn’t take it back for anything.

  She climbed the steps to her small room with the tease of a smile still clinging to her lips. Sweat from her efforts had dried on her brow, leaving her skin feeling gritty and tight. She relished the idea of passing a cool cloth over her entire body and then falling into the cradling softness of her bed.

  The candle she held cast a flickering golden sphere of light around her until finally her door came into view. She pushed it open and stepped into her small space.

  Her very own small space for only her with the simple bag she’d brought from home, as yet still unpacked, the neatly made bed, and the table. Something shadowed on top of the small table.

  She walked closer and her h
eart caught in her chest.

  Freshly cut heather. In a real vase. Not a clay pot or a chipped cup, but a true glass vessel with a bonny twist at its base.

  A soft laugh escaped her before she could clap a hand over her mouth. It was all so wonderful. A dream come true.

  Life in a beautiful castle with a kind laird and even a room with a bunch of heather to greet her in the morning.

  She knew immediately she must thank him for all he’d done.

  If she hurried, Gavin might still be in his solar. She quickly wiped herself clean and dressed in a clean, albeit somewhat wrinkled, gown.

  Perhaps it was not especially appropriate for her to speak to him privately in the dead of night. The idea did niggle at the back of her thoughts. But then, she was merely a servant and did not have to worry after her virtue as highborn ladies must. It was quite a liberating thought and only served to further steel her eager resolve.

  She pushed open the door with a decisive shove and headed down to Gavin’s private solar.

  Chapter Four

  Though disappointing, Senara determined it was most likely for the best Gavin had not been in his solar.

  After all, girls ought not to wander the halls at night in search of single men. And it wasn’t as though he thought anything special of her as a mere servant.

  Position and wealth might mean little to Senara, but it meant everything to Gavin. And she had nothing of either.

  Still, Senara could not help the squeeze of disappointment deep in her chest as she made her way back toward the stairs. The air was prickly cold and left the hairs on her arms standing on end.

  A cry sounded in the distance, a wisp of an anguished scream as if carried on a hearty wind. Though far off, the noise scrabbled over her nerves.

  No, not so far away. Below.

  Senara looked to where the stairs disappeared into a dark nothing. Anything could be in that nothing.

  Her courage flagged for but a moment. Da would not be frightened of a noise. She may have left his sword upstairs, but she was never without his bravery. Or her dirk for that matter.

  With the power of being her father’s daughter, she crept down the stairs with her dirk locked in her grip. On the first floor, the air was cold enough to nip at her nose and leave the bottoms of her feet chilled through the thick-soled slippers she wore.

  The wailing cry came once more, louder though still distant, muffled almost. She followed the sound down the hall to where she’d been before where the cold stone had hummed against her palm.

  The candle flame sputtered and set the narrow hallway bouncing wildly around her, but it did not go out.

  Her breath fogged in front of her and hovered in a hazy white cloud. She stared at the frozen breath in wonder. While summer was not always warm, it seldom was ever so cool as to cause such a chill – especially indoors.

  A grinding sound filled the quiet and mortar sifted down from the strange stone. Senara’s breath came faster and filled the air with white puffs.

  Something was in there.

  Holding her dirk in front of her with one hand, she carefully set the candle to the ground and approached the stone. Her heart was racing so fast, the point of her dirk trembled.

  Be brave like Da.

  She drew a deep breath and put her hand to the stone.

  A howl of agony screamed around her, roaring in all directions at once. She jumped and tried to jerk her hand back, only to find her fingers were locked on the narrow lip of stone. Not stuck between the stones, but somehow adhered to the stone.

  Be brave like Da.

  The cries pitched into a continual wail that made her head ache as though it would split. She pulled hard at where her hand clamped the sharp edges of stone.

  It gave the slightest bit.

  She set the dirk aside, planted one foot against the stone wall, and pulled back with all her might using both hands.

  Being brave was far easier when one faced potential victory.

  The rock slid a bit more. With a great cry, she yanked hard and wrenched it free. The stone released from her fingertips and dropped to the ground with a clacking thunk. Everything went as still as her breath, which still hung in the frozen air.

  A shiver of apprehension shot up her spine with such suddenness, she had only time to regret the loss of her blade before a gust of wind rushed from the gap in the wall. It blew with enough force to make her hair feel as though it were being yanked from her scalp. It was cold enough to burn.

  The breath sucked from her chest.

  Thoughts poured through her mind, memories that were not hers, and she was powerless to stop their onslaught.

  Hope, eagerness, and brilliant warmth. Senara was filled with them all at once in a dizzying swirl until she realized she stood outside under a wide blue sky with the velvety softness of lush grass against her bare feet.

  Nearby, there was a humble stone priory with an aged monk speaking to a young man with dark hair.

  The old man smiled down at the lad, his eyes crinkling with genuine kindness. He pressed into the lad’s hands a bundle of plain brown cloth and a simple chain affixed to a wooden cross.

  “For yer temporary vows, Balthasar.”

  The name pulled her from the reverie before another sucked her back.

  Fear prickled with excitement and so much mixed in between. Castle of Park rose before her, very similar to how she knew it.

  The young man was older now, his face leaner.

  Balthasar.

  The odor of sickness hung heavy in the air, but he did not appear afraid – only determined as he trudged toward the castle. Each footfall kicked out the hem of his coarse brown robes she saw him receive and set the cross hanging from the chain at his waist bobbing and twisting.

  He turned then, and his gaze fell on a woman with dark eyes and dark hair. Her clothes were fine, like that of a lady, but her blatant interest was as bold as any tavern slut. The young man bowed his head forward and continued away. He did not see the woman stare after him, nor the coy smirk lifting at her lips.

  Senara was sinking into the memories too fast, drowning in them. She rasped in a ragged breath of air so icy it pulled her away before plunging her in once more.

  Everything was so alive! The air hummed and snapped and crackled with vitality. With Want.

  With Sin.

  Balthasar held the dark-haired woman in his arms. He shook his head but left his heavily-lidded eyes fixed on her. “Nay.”

  “Ye dinna love me?” The woman pouted.

  He straightened. “Ye know I do.”

  The woman pushed her finger to his lips before dragging her nail down his chest to where the simple chain belted at his waist.

  And pulled.

  Senara wanted to look away but could no more do so than she could leave.

  The woman parted Balthasar’s robes, and the chain fell from his waist into a pile of linked metal with the cross buried beneath.

  Senara rebelled against the overwhelming emotions, managing to pull away for only a moment before one last vision gripped her and locked her in its unyielding hold.

  Her heart was beating too hard, too fast, as though it were a runaway horse ready to gallop out of her chest.

  The clink of shackles pulled her attention to where Balthasar was chained to the wall. Several men stood by. She could tell they were soldiers by the way they held their hands over the hilts of their swords.

  The dark-haired woman was there with a man much older than she. They were staring at Balthasar.

  The woman started to weep and buried her face in her hands. The chain was looped between her fingers, the cross swinging in mockery. “It was rape.”

  Balthasar’s eyes flashed with palpable hurt. “It isna true. Ye said—”

  “Ye’re ruined.” The old man’s upper lip pulled back from his teeth. “Worthless to ever marry off.”

  The old man rushed toward Balthasar with suddenness and landed a blow on his jaw so hard, the wall spattered with b
lood. Balthasar blinked away the tears showing bright in his gray eyes and shook his head to clear it.

  The old man cradled his hand. “Wall it up.” He nodded to a man who stood by with a bucket of gray sludge.

  The craftsman dropped to his knees and the room filled with the gritty scrape of a trowel to stone, over and over and over until a wall appeared in front of Balthasar.

  The craftsman kept his eyes downcast, as if he did not want to see what it was he did. He worked with sweat beading his brow, his actions fast and sloppy as if he had the devil whipping at his back. And perhaps he did.

  Balthasar did not fight, nor did he cry or yell. His head bowed forward in resignation, bleeding, broken and forsaken.

  One final stone remained when a soft cry escaped behind the wall.

  The dark-haired beauty stared into the remaining hole with cold black eyes and turned away as the last stone was fitted into place.

  Senara staggered backward against the force of a lifetime experienced in only a matter of moments. Or perhaps hours?

  She had no idea.

  The world was still dark. Too dark. Black.

  The way Balthasar’s world must have been when the final stone was placed.

  Her heart went wild with panic and her hands stretched out in front of her. And kept stretching.

  She was not behind a wall. It must have been the candle, either snuffed or having burned out at some point.

  Her throat ached and the darkness around her was so thick and black, it felt as if it were pressing into her eyes.

  She put a hand to her chest and found her heart still racing.

  A man appeared suddenly, his body cast in a milky light. He wore the plain brown robes of a monk. His thick dark hair was mussed and he looked as if he had not shaved in several days. But it was his eyes which turned all the blood in her veins to ice. White-gray and so deeply cold, they appeared to glow. He stared at her, unblinking and fiercely intense.

  Her heartbeat stuttered in her chest. “Balthasar.”

  He lowered his head in a nod and his form began to fade until only his eyes were left, chilly gray and staring.