Page 58 of The Falcon Laird
“Nor do they come easily to Scots, I think. What did you call Henry?”
“Most of the time I did not speak to him,” she said crisply. “What do you want to be called?”
“Gavin Faulkener is fine,” he said. “I just wanted to know the custom.”
“Ah, then, that is in your favor. Henry never asked. But beware, if we call you Kilglassie,” she said quietly. “If you take a Scots title for your own, you may lose a wee part of your Englishness.”
“Will I?” He leaned, his face closer, his gaze intent. “Will I indeed?”
She nodded, watching him warily. Gavin crooked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face a little. Delicate shivers traced through her at his touch.
“Does Kilglassie have a right to the treasure hidden at the heart of this place?” he asked. “Will you show me what you have not shown others?”
She drew a breath against the thrill that ran down through her. “The treasure is gone.”
“Someone will find it one day, my lady,” he murmured. He reached for her hand, his fingers warm over hers. “Come. Ihave something to show you.” He tugged. “I think you will be pleased.”
“Oh?” Something in her needed to resist the compelling force of his voice, his eyes, his touch. Searching for words, she fished up familiar bitterness. “Have the Scots surrounded the castle to take it from its English lord? Does Bruce’s banner fly on the battlement? That would please me.”
Gavin sighed and pulled on her hand. “Kilglassie’s treasure has a sour tongue. Come ahead.”
When they reachedthe upper level of the tower, he opened the door of the largest bedchamber. “Here,” he said. “Let me show you.” He pushed the door wider, its oak scrubbed now and stood back.
She stepped inside and gasped as she turned slowly. Gavin saw her startled gaze as she took in the changes: the floor, faced with clean boards; windows fitted with shutters above and below; the clean walls, washed pale with quicklime. A carved storage chest sat against one wall, and a large wooden bedframe, fitted with a mattress and bed linens, filled the center of the room. Pungent and fresh, the blended smells of wood and plaster had almost replaced the charred traces of the fire.
Gavin watched Christian spin in a slow circle, eyes wide, and catch her breath when she saw the fireplace he had ordered built into one thick wall. Not yet ready for use, a brazier crackled there now.
He silently blessed Dominy and Moira for their efforts in the upper bedchambers. They had even piled an abundance of blankets, pillows, and coverlets on the feather mattress placed on the bed.
Christian went to the bed and placed a hand on a carved post jutting up from the footboard. She stood silently, cheeks burning pink.
“We will need curtains there to keep out the chill,” Gavin said.
“I will find some,” she said quietly. Then she stepped past the bed and gasped again. “Myclàrsach! You brought it here.” She put out a hand to stroke the polished wood of the harp resting upright on a low stool beside a larger stool.
“I thought you might want it in here,” he said.
“Thank you. But how did you—this is all so fine. And done so quickly.”
“It still needs to be finished. But it will all come together very nicely. The rest of the rooms too.”
She nodded, glancing up at the walls and high ceiling, raftered with repaired oak beams.
He followed her gaze. “Those we can have painted if you like.”
“And we can hang lengths of plaids on the walls. They would be bright and lovely on the walls, and are very practical for keeping out cold drafts.”
“As you will,” he murmured. She glanced at him, another flash of green like an impenetrable forest, and turned again. She seemed subdued, yet restless and unsettled. He could not tell if her darkened eyes and the bright spots on her cheeks revealed happiness or displeasure.
“The shutters are new,” she said, walking to the windows and drawing the lower shutters apart.
“Aye, not yet oiled or painted.” He reached over her head to push open the upper pair. Afternoon light filled the room.
Beyond the window, the loch and the forested hills faded into the distance in muted lavender and gray. Christian stood silent and still at the window. The day was turning gray and cold quickly, and fog was gathering out on the hills. A chill, damp breeze lifted her veil, stirring the dark curls at her temples.
“We can commission a glazier for colored windows,” he said. “There was glass here before.”
She stirred out of some private, somber thought, and looked up at the slender empty lights. “There was,” she said.
