Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3) Page 8

  The cheeky peasant chuckled when he retched over the side.

  By the time they reached shore, Corbin’s head was pounding and he’d decided the old man was too much of a liability. However, his rowboat would be useful to make a getaway up the Nith—with Kyla. She’d have no trouble controlling the vessel.

  He had contacts in Dumfries who’d procure a horse for him, and from there it was an easy journey east to Lochwood lands. He could do nothing to secure Caerlochnaven on this occasion. That would have to wait for another day in the not too distant future.

  He helped Cladh heave the boat into the reeds, picked up one of the oars and used the last of his strength to take a swing at the back of the exhausted sexton’s head.

  He dropped the oar as the wood splintered.

  A chill shuddered up his spine when the old man turned to transfix him with an accusing stare before his knees buckled and he slipped soundlessly into the water.

  Breathing heavily, Corbin couldn’t seem to get his thoughts in order, until the cold water threatened to turn his feet to ice.

  He tossed the remains of the oar into the boat, then dragged the body into deeper water, avoiding looking into the still-open eyes. His breathing steadied when the tide slowly eased the corpse into the estuary.

  Shivering, he set off in the direction of the castle, his priority to find somewhere to shelter for the night before he froze to death.

  Bodies

  Early the next morning, Broderick settled Aiglon onto her perch aboard the gunboat. “We’ve an unpleasant task ahead of us,” he admitted. “But it has to be done. Kyla will feel better if we succeed in finding the bodies of her drowned crewmen.”

  At least if the unfortunates were given a proper burial, she’d be able to reassure the men’s families when she returned to Skye.

  “And I’m no closer to solving that problem,” he muttered under his breath, lest anyone overhear him conversing with the bird. “Truth is, I dinna want her to leave.”

  The notion of searching for the bodies had struck him during another night of tossing and turning in an unfamiliar and lonely bed. He’d never slept with another person, but, for no apparent reason, his own body heat now seemed insufficient to keep him warm—except when he woke sweating after an erotic episode involving Kyla and various bodily contortions that were physically impossible. His preoccupation with the woman was driving him to lunacy.

  He risked a guilty glance at the lass who haunted his dreams as she climbed aboard. When he’d explained his plan at breakfast in the hall, she’d insisted on accompanying the expedition, with her navigator.

  He might have warned it could turn out to be a ghastly experience, but the set of her jaw indicated she wouldn’t be dissuaded. In any case, unlike him, she was a born sailor who understood the sea and her knowledge might prove useful in locating the bodies. He couldn’t deny he also relished the prospect of sailing with her.

  Her smile of delight when he’d announced at yesterday’s luncheon that he would procure slings for her and Lily had rendered him speechless, and sent blood rushing to his groin.

  He wanted to see that smile again…and again. The calm, unruffled Broderick Maxwell had turned into a randy fool.

  He patted the pocket of his tunic where three slings rested. The steward who’d brought them to his temporary chamber late last night had obtained them readily from one of his tenant farmers. Now, all that remained was to invent some excuse so he could be included in the lessons. He’d tried whirling one of the slings over his head, feeling foolish without ammunition.

  He’d dozed fitfully, a vision of Kyla slaying Goliath playing behind his tired eyes. The next minute she was Hippolyta, the Amazonian queen of Greek mythology. Hence the erotic dreams.

  Aiglon screeched when the gunboat lurched, jolting his thoughts from biblical events, ancient Greece and guilty pleasures. “Head for the estuary of the Nith,” he shouted to the steersman. “Then hug the shore.”

  Kyla appeared reluctant to come near Aiglon, so he made his way to where she stood amidships with Nicolson. He was disappointed she’d braided her hair. He cleared his throat in an effort to take his mind off loosening the tight plaits so the brisk wind could lift the red tresses like a blazing banner. “’Tis possible the bodies were carried out to sea, or washed up on the English side of the Firth, but the tidal Nith is a good place to start.”

  She narrowed her eyes and scanned the waters fore and aft. “I agree,” she replied.

  He somehow got back to the prow, ridiculously pleased she thought he’d made the right decision.

  *

  Braids invariably gave Kyla a headache, especially when they’d been plaited too tightly by a pouting maidservant who made no bones about expressing the opinion women had no place aboard a boat.

  As for searching for bodies!

  Kyla had been afraid Doreen might have an apoplectic fit when Lily whined to accompany the expedition.

  However, if she let her hair fly free, the wind would play havoc with it, and she needed to keep her wits about her on this somber mission. She’d a feeling from Broderick Maxwell’s frown of disapproval that he didn’t care for braids either, though why she should care…

  The peculiar urge to please him had to be stifled. She’d almost drowned because of his actions, and her father’s birlinn lay at the bottom of the sea, thanks in no small measure, she was sure, to the eagle tethered to the prow of the gunboat.

  Bird of ill omen.

  She cringed when Broderick loosed the jesses. “Aiglon will find them, if they’re to be found,” he shouted.

  Awed by the width of the bird’s wingspan, Kyla watched it glide effortlessly over the water. “Probably more interested in fish,” she muttered to Nicolson.

  He grunted in reply.

  There could be no denying the pride in Broderick’s eyes as he watched his eagle. Indeed, it was more than pride. He loved the creature.

  She clenched her jaw against the memory of a dog she’d loved to distraction. Having stubbornly refused to speak for seven years, she’d blurted out the hound’s name the first time she’d set eyes on him.

  Blue, how I miss ye.

  She was still lost in thought when they reached the estuary and Broderick ordered the sail be lowered. They proceeded slowly, propelled by the oarsmen.

  Kyla deemed Maxwell’s grin amusing when she nodded her approval of his tactics. Perhaps Lily was right. He did like her. However, this wasn’t the time to worry about whether a man liked her or not. Since when did that matter?

  “She’s found summat,” Nicolson said gruffly.

  Kyla shaded her eyes and searched for the bird, attributing her unusual confusion to memories of a beloved pet, laid to rest scant months since.

  Nicolson pointed. “Circling. Yonder.”

  “Pull harder,” Broderick shouted, “to starboard.”

  Kyla’s unease grew as they neared the bank where the eagle now perched in a dead tree—another portent of ill.

  She gasped at the unexpected sight of vaguely familiar objects washed up on the shore. “Part of our cargo,” she yelled to Broderick when she finally discerned what they were. “Bales of woven cloth and hides.”

  “I’ll send men to salvage them later,” he replied.

  “Probably waterlogged,” she said sadly, relieved he judged the task at hand more important. “But if there’s a chance…”

  “Body in the water,” Delft shouted, pointing to shore.

  Two men slipped over the side into the shallows and waded into the reeds to where a body floated face down.

  Kyla’s hopes that her missing crewmen may have miraculously survived plummeted to her boots. Her belly churned as they rolled the corpse over.

  “An auld man,” one of them yelled. “He’s nay one o’ yer sailors.”

  They pulled the body to the boat. Strong hands helped haul it aboard.

  Kyla stared hard at a white, wrinkled face she didn’t recognize. “Who is he?” she asked, guiltily relie
ved it wasn’t one of her crew.

  Broderick peered at the dead man. “’Tis Cladh, the sexton from Darling Abbey.”

  Delft knelt by the body and lifted the man’s head. “Aye, and he didna drown. Somebody cleaved open his skull.”

  Kyla inhaled deeply, unable to comprehend what was being alleged. “Darling Abbey?”

  Broderick turned her to face the opposite bank. “Yonder.”

  A strange foreboding crept up her spine when she espied a cathedral-like building looming in the distance. Something evil lurked in that holy place. She swayed, grateful Broderick still gripped her shoulders.

  But his next words only added to her unease.

  “Who’d want to murder an auld gravedigger?”

  *

  They continued to search the banks of the Nith, but Broderick’s attention kept returning to the blanket-covered body beneath one of the tholes. A vague feeling of disquiet refused to leave him.

  He glanced over his shoulder numerous times at the abbey, just visible in the distance—and he wasn’t the only one. Unless he was mistaken, the same foreboding had washed over Kyla when she’d espied the monastery. She’d almost swooned against him.

  The body was certainly an unexpected discovery, and one he was bound to investigate as Warden of the Solway. At least this death couldn’t be laid at his door.

  They’d gone almost as far as Kingholm Quay, but the tide would soon turn, stranding them on the mudflats if they weren’t careful. On the point of abandoning the search of the opposite bank, they found the two drowned sailors within a few yards of each other.

  Kyla and Nicolson knelt silently by the bloated bodies after they were brought aboard.

  Broderick ought to offer condolences, but any words he might utter would sound empty.

  “They were cousins,” Kyla rasped, piercing him with angry green eyes. “From Ywst.”

  He could only nod in reply. Her obvious grief was another nail in the coffin of his fancies. She would never see him as anything other than the man who’d sunk her father’s boat.

  The Gatekeeper

  Shivering uncontrollably, Corbin gritted his chattering teeth. He’d scoured the environs without finding a single place to shelter. The sun would go down soon and he’d never spent a night outdoors. Despite the long trek, his feet still felt like two blocks of ice. The robe had chafed every inch of his skin, making it difficult to walk quickly.

  Panting hard, he came to an abrupt halt when the gatehouse towers of Caerlochnaven loomed ahead. There was nothing for it but to seek shelter there. He’d be denied entry if he waited until it was completely dark.

  He wasn’t concerned Maxwell might recognize him. They’d met only twice in skirmishes when both were clad in full armor and steel bonnets. He doubted he’d even recognize himself in his current condition.

  But Kyla MacKeegan would know him if she had been taken to the castle.

  Just contemplating those glorious red tresses warmed him.

  Distant voices on the air drew his attention to a large group of men and horses approaching from the south. It was now or never.

  He picked up his pace and almost collided with a burly fellow who appeared out of the darkness of the gatehouse tunnel.

  “Forgive me, my son,” he panted, pulling the hood to cover as much of his face as possible.

  The guard took him by the elbow and peered at him. “Ye look done in, Brother. Are ye lost?”

  “Aye, an accident…our boat…”

  “Ye’d best go to the hall and get warm. They’ll take care o’ ye there.”

  The hall was the last place Corbin wanted to be, but he had to get indoors. “I dinna want to trouble the castle folk,” he whined, parroting the man’s brogue, “just a wee mouthful o’ grub and a warm fire.”

  The man scraped his beard. “Weel, I’ve pigeon pie and ale in my wee nook. And a brazier. A bit o’ company wouldna go amiss. Name’s Hamish. Follow me.”

  The wee nook turned out to be a cramped hole in the wall. But, saints be praised, there was a brazier. Corbin held his hands to the glowing heat, pleased the disgusting muck of the abbey’s fields in his fingernails only added to the authenticity of his disguise.

  Hamish chattered on, but Corbin was too immersed in the rebirth of his frozen body to pay attention. Pungent odors assailed his thawing nostrils—male sweat, stale food, and rodent droppings. His gaze fell on a pallet, strewn with rumpled linens. He wondered if Hamish dwelt in this place, squirreled away like a bear in its cozy winter den.

  He managed to hold on to a tumbler of ale thrust into one hand and a piece of pigeon pie in the other. He wasn’t fond of pigeon pie, but he wolfed it down like a man who hasn’t eaten for months.

  “Sit thee doon,” Hamish said with a chuckle, indicating a rickety three-legged stool.

  Corbin complied. If the flimsy stool had held Hamish’s considerable weight…

  The gatekeeper picked up a torch and lit it from the brazier. The acrid smell of smoke rendered the fetid air even more difficult to breathe. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said jovially. “Horses approaching, nay doot the laird back from the Firth. Terrible business.”

  Corbin stopped chewing, alarm skittering up his spine. “A mishap?”

  But Hamish had already lumbered out into the dark tunnel. Corbin could only hope he didn’t mention his guest.

  When meager light filtered into the bolthole, he assumed the fellow was lighting torches. Minutes later, the clatter of horses’ hooves echoed off the tunnel walls. Then hushed male voices, too indistinct to hear what was being said.

  Corbin itched to creep to the open door and peek, but the risk was too great. After a short while, the sounds receded, the gates thudded shut and Hamish returned, shaking his head.

  It wouldn’t be wise to show too much interest, but this was an opportunity to make use of the monastic disguise. “I sense ye’re troubled, my son,” he oozed. “Can I be of help?”

  Hamish bit into his pie. “Nay,” he replied with his mouth full, “but the poor wretches they fished out o’ the river might need a few words said o’er their bodies on the morrow.”

  Corbin’s revulsion at the lack of manners fled as a maelstrom of confused thoughts swirled through his brain. He could have kicked himself when the first words out of his mouth were, “The river?”

  Hamish evidently didn’t deem the question odd. “Aye, the Nith. Two lads from the Hebrides. Drowned when our laird was forced to fire on their birlinn.”

  The adder slithering in Corbin’s belly calmed. “Dear, dear,” he gushed, hoping he’d made the popish sign of the crucifix correctly.

  Hamish got to his feet, stretched and patted his privates. “Ye can sleep on yon pallet. I’m off for my regular bit o’…” He stopped abruptly, and removed his hands. “Sorry, Brother. Er…I mean…”

  Corbin struggled not to smile. A glance at the questionable pallet quickly banished his amusement. “I appreciate yer generosity. God will reward ye.”

  The red-faced gatekeeper paused in the doorway. “Almost forgot. They found a third body.”

  The adder hissed again. “Oh?”

  “Laird Maxwell reckons ’tis the sexton from Darling Abbey. I shoulda thought to have ye come out and confirm it.”

  Corbin again cursed himself for an idiot when he replied, “But I’m nay from Darling Abbey.”

  Hamish stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then grunted and left, scratching his bald head.

  Frocks

  Kyla perched on the edge of Broderick’s bed and stared at the frocks Doreen had laid out while she was in the bath. They were beautifully sewn, and elegantly simple in design, if slightly old-fashioned.

  She felt better now she was clean, and supposed there was no alternative but to don female attire. Her own garments would need to be sent to the laundry after the strenuous day at sea and she couldn’t keep borrowing Broderick’s shirts.

  It wasn’t as if she never wore dresses at home, but maintaining her to
mboy persona seemed safer in the current situation. Let no Lowlander think she was anything other than captain of a Hebridean birlinn.

  The memory of finding the gravedigger’s body refused to leave her. It filled her heart with an insistent foreboding the murder was an omen.

  The recovery of her drowned crewmen had been a tremendous relief. Upon their return to the castle, Broderick had immediately made arrangements for a burial on the morrow. Their final resting place would be far from Ywst, but it was preferable to a watery grave.

  A tap at the door heralded Lily’s arrival. The lass noticed the dresses straight away. “Will ye wear one?” she asked. “They’re waiting to serve supper.”

  Kyla had little appetite, but the men who’d manned the oars would be hungry after the long day without a proper meal.

  She could choose to stay in the chamber.

  And do what? Brood and fret? Despite her resentments, she had to admit she looked forward to Broderick’s company. His genuine regret over the deaths of her kinsmen touched her heart. She was drawn to him like a moth to the flame.

  She shivered. That was a foolish and potentially dangerous notion.

  “This one, I reckon,” Lily declared, holding one of the frocks against her body. “It belonged to my mother, but ’tisna too fancy.”

  The hopeful look in the bairn’s eyes underscored how much the lass craved her attention. “Aye,” she agreed. “’Twill be my honor to wear it, but I draw the line at braids again. Some in the hall might be offended, but…” She ran her fingers through damp hair. “…Doreen did them so tightly my scalp thinks my hair is still braided.”

  Lily laughed mischievously as she began loosening her own tresses. “Good idea. I ken exactly what ye mean.”

  Convinced Doreen already deemed her a bad influence, Kyla shrugged the frock over her head, and stood in front of the mirror.

  Lily joined her.

  “We look like a pair o’ gypsies,” Kyla said with a grin.