“From whom? Your friend at the abbey by Argyll's castle?”
“What do you know about Father William?” she said, startled by his question.
“Who is this Father William? And what is he doing there?” Colin was going to find out what the connection was between Celia and the abbey.
When Colin had gone to look at the bodies of the dead attackers, his village priest had accompanied him. The priest had immediately recognized the third body they examined—he had been one of the soldiers in the brigade that protected the abbey. And the only link between the abbey and the attack on Celia's bairn was this priest.
“He's my confessor and my friend. He is an educator and a priest.” Celia’s voice expressed her rising anxiety. “Why? Have you heard something? Has something happened to him?”
“How would I know? But why should something have happened to him? He's a miserable court priest. Why should somebody be after him?” Colin said in a biting tone.
“I do not know, but your nastiness is uncalled for,” Celia exclaimed with feeling. “Aside from Edmund, Father William was the only real friend I had for the six long years I spent in that empty court. He taught me mathematics, philosophy, history, Latin, and even Greek—things that are forbidden for women. He's as much my family as Edmund is.”
Glaring across the room at her, Colin understood that Celia was not going to tell him anything she didn't want him to know. She seemed genuinely concerned about this priest. And now she was blatantly ignoring him, having turned her attention completely to her child.
Colin stalked to the window and looked through it into the blackness outside. The sleeting rain was beating against the panes of glass in wind-driven gusts. As he listened to the icy rain and thought over all that had been occurring, he came to realize that he very well might have been wrong in his original assumptions about her. After all, she must have experienced real horrors confronting Danvers's soldiers, knowing that her child was merely a prize of war. The hardships of her escape were nothing, he knew, to the pain she had endured this morning hearing that Kit had been attacked.
Aye, she was holding things back. But in her own mind at least, she had good reason for it. It definitely seemed as though Edmund and this priest were all Celia had; there didn't seem to be anyone else. But what about the husband's family? Why weren't they helping her...and their own Caithness heir? Perhaps that was it, Colin thought, grasping at straws. Perhaps they had something to do with the attack today.
Whatever was behind it, everything Celia held dear was at stake. But to help her, he had to convince her that she could trust him. And interrogating her this way, he thought, was definitely not the way to do it.
Celia was now sitting on the bed, letting the bairn chew on the knuckles of her hand. She was deep in thought, but looked up with troubled eyes when Colin approached her.
“Celia,” he said, searching for the right words. “I want you to know that if I'm angry, it's because I'm frustrated trying to understand the reason for the attack today. It's my responsibility to protect my people and my guests, and an assault like the one that took place today simply does not happen here. My family has worked very hard to make this place strong, and by making it strong, we have made it safe. No one attacks Kildalton, even in such a cowardly fashion as those animals did today. No one attacks people who have taken shelter here.”
“Colin,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “I honestly do not know who those men were today.”
“I believe you,” he said, sitting beside her and taking her hand. “But I also think you're not telling me some things...perhaps to protect the ones you love. I can respect that. But I want to somehow earn your trust, so that I can help to protect you and them.”
Celia looked at him with gratitude for his attempt at understanding, and affection for his caring support. Before she could open her mouth to answer him, though, Celia heard Ellen open the door into her own room.
Colin stood immediately and moved to the fireplace.
Ellen knocked softly at the half open door and, at Celia’s response, entered the room, casting an embarrassed look at her mistress. She knew that she'd been gone a longer time than she'd anticipated, but Celia's reassuring smile comforted her concerns.
“Shall I take the bairn, m'lady?” Ellen asked in a hushed voice, very aware of the laird's presence.
“Aye, Ellen,” Celia responded, handing the freshly changed baby to her. “He's all cleaned up and ready for you. How is Runt?”
Ellen's fair-skinned face flushed bright scarlet. “He's...he's doing better, m'lady.”
Celia stood and put her arm warmly around Ellen, walking her toward the door. “You make sure that Runt gets the care he needs.”
After Ellen disappeared with Kit into her room, Celia made a point of leaving the door half open. Crossing to the fireplace, she didn't have to look at Colin to know that his eyes were following her. She felt his presence dominating the room, dominating her attention. But she didn't want to pick up that discussion where they had left off. She just could not tell him more than he already knew. It was as simple as that.
She just wanted to look at him as she knew he sometimes looked at her. She wanted to look at him and memorize every detail of him: the way his hair lay tossed back on his shoulders, the way his searching eyes always sought out hers, the way his face could not help but display his every mood, the way he would stand with his arms folded across his broad chest, leaning deep in thought before the fireplace. But she realized that this vision was already branded in her memory. It was emblazoned there in colors to last a lifetime...for a lifetime of lifetimes.
Nonetheless, he was there before her now, and she simply had to look at him. Now...while she still had time.
Celia's gaze washed over him.
“If you're going to look at me that way,” Colin whispered, smiling. “You'd better go close that door.” He certainly liked the way she went about changing the subject.
Celia blushed at her indiscretion, but shook her head, smiling at his suggestion.
“Then I'll go close it,” he said, straightening up as if to follow through on his threat.
“No, Colin. If you do, I'll just open that door right up again.”
“That will be very difficult after I nail the damn thing shut.”
“Colin, don't you dare!” Celia said, moving between Colin and the door.
“My house,” the young laird said, stepping closer to her.
“My doors,” he continued, taking another step closer.
“My nails,” he said in a low voice, moving ever closer.
“My rules,” Colin whispered, encircling her with his arms and holding her tightly to him.
“Really,” Celia said, trying to sound as maternal as she could, knowing that she had brought this sweet torture on herself. “Kit acts more maturely than you do, sometimes.”
“He doesn't have to do outrageous things to get close to you,” Colin said, burying his face in the curls covering her neck. “Clearly, I do.”
Celia shuddered, feeling his lips on her neck, taking her earlobe between his teeth and lips, suckling gently.
“Clearly, you are a poor, neglected little thing.” Celia smiled, firmly pushing him away and turning him toward the door. She had to stop this now, before her defenses completely crumbled. “But it's time you went on your way.”
Colin hung his head dramatically as he released her and headed for the door. As he reached it, however, he turned and gave her a sly look. “You have to promise to come and tuck me in later.”
“Out!” she said with a smile, pushing him into the corridor and shutting the door with a sigh.
In Colin's dream Kildalton was under attack. The long cannons perched on the crenellated walls were pounding away at the English ships at sea. Celia, dressed in white, was seated among red roses in a garden located oddly in the South Hall. The English wanted her, but she held a thistle flower protectively in her arms. As the English cannon fire began to reach the castle, Celia held out the thistle flower to Colin. The sounds of the cannons grew louder and louder. Colin reached out for Celia, but the floors had become slippery, thick with mud. His hands reached out, but all he could grasp was the flower. And then Celia was gone, leaving Colin with the thistle. Where she had been, there was only a rose--a white rose.
The smoke in the hall was growing thicker; the huge guns were now booming in his ears. Over and over the pounding continued...
Colin awakened to his soldier's persistent knocking. Leaping from his bed with his cloak around him, the warrior pulled open the door. Outside his window, only the first gray shades of morning were apparent.
“M'lord, we need you down at the harbor Marketcross.”
“What's wrong?” Colin snapped, moving back into his room, quickly wrapping his kilt around him and belting on his sword.
“Two fishing boats full of mainland folk have come into the harbor. They're asking for protection, and they say there's more coming.”
“Protection from whom?”
“They say the English. They've got women, children, and wounded. But that's not all.”
“What else?” Colin asked sharply.
“They seem to think the English are coming this way.”
“The hell they are.” Colin hurled himself past the soldier and down the steps into the gloom of the Great Hall. Shouting orders to the gathered fighters and emerging servants, Colin swept out of the castle and into the swirling predawn mists.