Flame by May McGoldrick

down and take it back to my
chamber,” Gavin commanded, turning sharply on his two men.
    Peter took a step back until his burly
shoulders were flat against the door jam. “I swear on my mother’s
soul, m’lord. I never touched this...thing. ‘Tis bewitched. It...it
must be! I swear, m’lord, I was never once out of...out of Edmund’s
shadow while you were gone.”
    A frown still darkening his face, the laird
pushed the candle into the sputtering warrior’s hand and
disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.
    The two men left behind looked at each other
in disbelief before raising their eyes in unison to the
portrait.
    “The first time, I admit, I found it to be
humorous,” Peter said quietly.
    “Aye, we all did,” Edmund replied. “Not any
more, though! Did you see the look in his eyes?”
    “Aye.”
    The two men stared up at the painting in
silence for a long moment.
    “The poor bastard!” Peter said.
    “Aye.” Edmund returned. “Clever, though!”
    “The master will catch him.”
    “And then...”
    “His death won’t come soon enough,” Peter
finished. “The poor bastard.”
     
    ***
     
    Just what he needed. Company.
    His neighbor, the Earl of Athol, was to
arrive the next day.
    Absently rubbing his sore shoulder with one
hand, Gavin watched as Margaret, the mute younger sister of the
steward, poured the last steaming kettle of water into the wooden
tub. Nodding his thanks to the woman, the laird waited until the
door of his chamber was closed before he began to shed his
clothes.
    Athol. Now Gavin was feeling the first pangs
of doubt about lairdship in a Highland castle. To be hospitable to
such men as Athol was a bit more of a challenge than he was
accustomed to. And to welcome a damned Highlander into his keep! It
had never been a secret at court that, aside from the Macphersons,
Gavin Kerr despised the whole lot of them.
    Fourteen years ago, on that bloody day at
Flodden Field, King Jamie had lost his life in battle to the
English because of these traitors. Admittedly, not all of them had
been at fault. But enough of the Highland lairds had looked
on--turning their heads and hanging back when they were most
needed--that Scotland’s chances had been doomed and her greatest
king since the Bruce was cut down in his prime.
    The warrior chief winced slightly as he
pulled his shirt over his head. The sore shoulder was already
stiffening up. Looking about the master’s chambers and seeing what
his fate had brought him, Gavin knew this was no time to dwell on
the wounds of the past. And reason told him that he had enough to
do here without adding a feud with a neighbor to the list of his
troubles. So tomorrow he would put on his best show of manners and
greet the scurvy dog Athol and his monkey faced entourage. He was
certainly capable of that much diplomacy.
    As he tossed away the last of his clothes,
Gavin’s eyes rested on the portrait of Joanna MacInnes. Lowering
himself into the tub, the warrior suddenly stopped and, stepping
out of the warm water, crossed the room and returned with his
broadsword. Easing himself in again, he laid the sword across the
staves of the huge tube, and settled in for a comfortable soak. He
had placed the painting above the hearth this time, and he gazed up
at the beautiful features. He was not taking any chances of losing
the picture again. And besides, it was so much more pleasant to
think fanciful thoughts of her than it was to brood over arriving
guests.
    Daydreaming in a bath was one thing, but
tomorrow there were so many things to be done. Things like
questioning the priest about the history of the abbey. He needed to
learn more about the past MacInnes lairds and their relationship
with the Earl of Athol.
    Gavin’s eyes again studied the enigmatic
smile of Joanna MacInnes. He wanted to find out more about the
young woman and the hidden sorrows Mater had referred to.
    And in the meantime, he would catch the
tricky bastard who kept stealing his