Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts #5) - Cynthia Wright Page 0,20

basin were arranged. Sobs rose in her throat. She hated feeling this way—soiled, as if she’d committed a terrible sin, and she told herself it was not her fault. But was that true? Perhaps her memory was fuzzy, and she hadn’t meant to do anything wrong, but it had happened all the same! Her mind went round and round, trying to piece together the events of the evening, but every memory led her down a dark, confusing alley.

With shaking fingers, Nora removed her underskirt. When she saw the blood smeared over the linen of her petticoat, she thought she might be sick. Oh dear God. Just as she poured water in the basin and braced one foot on a stool to wash the most intimate parts of her body, a hesitant tapping came at the door.

“Lass? Are ye unwell?”

Father! Nora’s heart leaped with panic as she yanked down her petticoat. “I am fine,” she managed to reply in a low, even voice, praying he would not open the door and see her standing by the washstand. “I had just fallen asleep.”

“Oh!” he sounded surprised. “I did not mean to wake ye, but I feared ye might be ill.”

“Not a bit,” Nora replied, forcing a light tone. “I merely wanted to be fresh for our morning’s labors.”

“Ah, ye make me proud, abed while all the other ladies of the court indulge in rich food, spirits, and dance.”

“Good night then, Father.”

“I wish ye peaceful sleep, lass. Ye are quite right: there is much to discuss on the morrow. I had a long conversation with His Majesty tonight, and when we rise, I will tell ye all that he said and all the golden opportunities that lie in store for us here at Stirling Castle.”

When her father had gone, Nora gave in to the urge to weep, leaning against the cold wall. For years, she had been building private dreams and plans for a future that was out of reach to other women. A future that would require her to put her commitment to art above any other human need, including romance, love, or even a family of her own.

As Nora began to wash, she was swept by a wave of terrible foreboding, a realization that no amount of soap and water could undo the events of this night. The moments when Raymond Slater had lain atop her might well have reduced all her shining dreams to ashes.

Chapter 6

Lennox rose at first light, hoping to ride away from Stirling Castle before any distractions could appear. The night before, he had gathered his few possessions and rolled them into a blanket, and now he emerged into the courtyard, the bundle tucked under his arm. Perhaps, on his way to the stables, he might stop in the great castle kitchens and ask for some food to carry him to Falkland. Over years of traveling, Lennox had learned that female cooks were generally quite eager to feed him, especially if he paused to smile and jest with them.

It promised to be a fine day. Soft dawn sunlight streamed into the inner close, which was surprisingly busy. Servants hurried to and fro, busy with the tasks of the new day, while the masons and carvers were climbing the scaffolding that surrounded the stone façade of the new palace.

The kitchen and stables were in the outer close, and Lennox tried to blend in as he started off in that direction. He was eager to be on the other side of the high castle walls, to inhale the sweet spring air and discover what views lay in store when he wound his way down the mighty volcanic crag that served as a pedestal for Stirling Castle.

However, after only a few steps, he heard a familiar voice call his name.

“Lennox, mon frère!”

With a wry smile, he stopped to greet Christophe, who was now master mason at Stirling. “I am very impressed by the scale of your project,” Lennox said after shaking his brother-in-law’s hand.

“Ah, you know it’s largely the king’s doing, not mine. His Majesty has elaborate plans for his new palace.” He gestured toward the work a group of masons were doing nearby. “At Falkland Palace, we carved a few roundels into the stone outer walls—likenesses of royal favorites. But here at Stirling, there are plans to cover one entire ceiling with at least forty-five medallions carved of oak, and each one must be painted in detail by a true artist.” St. Briac arched an ironic brow. “Are you