Arsenic and Old Armor Read online

  CHAPTER 3

  A dusting of white powder covered Marion from head to toe. The old nun jumped up from her seat and stepped back, gaping in shock at the young woman. Iain masked any reaction he might have had and strolled into the kitchen. A few of the workers looked up from their tasks, immediately bowing slightly in acknowledgment of his presence. As their eyes turned then to the white statue standing by the kneading table, there were a few gasps and even hushed chuckles.

  The older nun was quick to recover from her surprise. “You must be Sir Iain. Welcome, m’lord.”

  “And you are?” He took a step farther into the kitchens.

  “Sister Beatrice.” She stepped in front of him, effectively blocking his path to Marion. “You must have lost your way to the chapter house.”

  “No, I have come to the right place,” Iain answered, watching his future wife. She stood motionless, still wearing the ridiculous bowl on her head. Beneath the inane mess she’d created, however, it was impossible to miss how much she had grown since he’d sent her here. Unlike the rest of her family, she was tall and slender. Looking at her now, he realized he was eager to see the rest of her, too. She was going to be his wife. It would be much better if she did not have her fathers and her uncle William’s pear-shaped noses or her aunts’ pointy chins. Even with the little he could see of her face, though, it appeared she lacked both distinctive features. Her face actually looked well proportioned. He caught himself looking down at the brown habit that might have doubled for woolsack. The white veil covering her hair was no finer.

  “Ah, you mean the dining hall. You must be famished,” the nun said, pretending relief. “Allow me to take you to the hall where your men are seated.”

  Beatrice motioned, but he didn’t follow. She then took him by the arm, but Iain stood where he was, staring at his betrothed.

  “Good morning, Marion.”

  She remained silent. The bowl didn’t cover her eyes. They were open, watching him. There was defiance there, but interest, too. The long lashes were speckled with flour, as were the bridge of her nose and her cheeks.

  “The food must be getting cold, m’lord. You must be starving,” the nun persisted, tugging on his arm again.

  “In good time.”

  Sister Beatrice shook her head. “Really, m’lord, after such a ride, you—”

  “Leave us!” His bark had the desired effect. The older nun let go of his arm as if she’d burned herself. Immediately, she scurried past him and out the door. Iain decided she’d be back with her superior in no time.

  The eyes of twenty workers were on them. Everyone in the kitchen had stopped working.

  Marion took a step back, glancing quickly at another door beyond the baking ovens. She looked like a doe about to bolt. Iain approached, determined to mount a chase if he needed to. They would settle this nonsense right now, and he didn’t care who witnessed it.

  “Am I to receive any kind of greeting?” he said in a gentler tone.

  “No!”

  Another feeling of relief washed through him. She lacked the high-pitched voice of her aunt Margaret. “And why is that?”

  “Today is my day of complete seclusion,” she said, taking a couple of steps backward and glancing toward the door again. “I cannot entertain any company.”

  “Seclusion…with a score of kitchen workers.”

  “I have duties. I am still in seclusion.”

  “Excellent. Well, it happens today is my day of seclusion, too.” He followed her as she again backed away a step or two. “I will be in seclusion with my future wife.”

  “I am serious.”

  “So am I.”

  She moved quickly around a table toward the door. With a few long strides, he crossed in front of the ovens and reached the door at the same time that she did. She hurried through and started along the path. He was beside her in a moment.

  “If you recall, lass, our stars were made and matched in heaven. So many similarities exist between us. I’ve heard your aunts say so a hundred times.”

  “That is a lie. We have nothing in common.”

  The morning sun was shining through the clouds. As they turned a corner of the building, Marion nearly barreled into two nuns coming toward them on the path. The two women gasped loudly.

  “What have you done to yourself, child?” one of them asked in distressed tones.

  “The prioress wants to see you, Marion,” the other chirped immediately. “But you cannot go to her looking like that.”

  “Why is that? You disapprove of her hat?” Iain asked, moving next to her.

  The two women exchanged glances.

  “It is quite lovely,” the first nun croaked, biting her lip. “And you must be the laird we’ve been expecting.”

  “Lady Marion’s betrothed,” he corrected, taking his intended’s arm. She tried to shake him loose, but he tightened his hold on her. “Did you say the prioress is looking for her?”

  “She is, m’lord,” the second woman answered. “She was hoping to greet you, too. She’s asking that both of you go to the chapter house.”

  Marion sneezed and the bowl tipped forward on her head. Iain took off her disguise and handed it to one of the nuns. “You can advise the prioress that my fiancée and I will join her as soon as Lady Marion has cleaned up.”

  “Kindly take the laird there now, Sisters,” the imp on his side said pointedly as she tried to wrench her arm free again. “I shall join everyone later.”

  Iain held on. “I cannot stand our separation any longer, lass. I simply cannot let you out of my sight.”

  “You tolerated our separation well enough for twelve years,” she blasted at him. “Now let me go, villain.”

  Iain smiled confidingly at the nuns. “Lovers’ quarrel. Please tell the prioress her charge and I shan’t be too long.”

  He didn’t see the blow to his shin coming. She must have rocks in the tips of her shoes, Iain thought. He hid his grimace, not wanting to give Marion the satisfaction of knowing that she had inflicted pain.

  “On second thought,” he said to the wide-eyed nuns, “my beloved demands some private attention. She has missed me far too much. We may take a wee bit longer than I intended. Which way to her chamber?”

  The second nun pointed weakly to one of the buildings. The first woman, though, quickly pushed her companion’s hand down. “Perhaps, it would be best if you let us help Marion. You do not know of her disposition.”

  “Indeed, I know her temperament very well.” He looped an arm around Marion’s waist and drew her tightly to his side. “Let us go, sweetness.”

  She refused and dug her heels into the dirt. Scooping her into his arms, he began to carry her toward the building the nun had indicated. Half a dozen steps were all it took before she started fighting him in earnest.

  “Let me go,” she cried, battering his face and squirming to free herself.

  “You’ve sprouted extra hands and feet in the past few years.” He tossed her across his shoulder. “Much easier this way.”

  “I am not six years old anymore, you barbarian. Villain. Put me down right now. You are embarrassing me.”

  “You asked for this.”

  “I did not.” She landed a sharp elbow to the back of his head and grabbed his hair. Iain tilted her backward, and she gasped and clutched at his tartan. “I dare you to drop me on my head. When I am free of you, I shall take out your eyes, tear every lock of hair from your head. I shall use your own dirk and cut out your ruthless heart and feed it to the dogs. If you even have a heart, that is. You’re an ill-bred cur. Vile and disgusting. You have lived too long.”

  A lengthy string of threats and epithets continued to pour out of her. priory workers and nuns and some of his Armstrong warriors were beginning to line the path ahead of them, watching them with amusement. No one approached or tried to stop him. They all knew. There had been plenty of warning. The men he’d sent ahead had been here nearly a month. Iain nodded and smiled as he passed them all, ignoring Marion’s tirade. At the door to the residential building, he asked an older woman who was coming out which room was Marion’s. She didn’t hesitate to answer.

  Iain climbed the steps three at a time to the second floor. The building was old, the hallway narrow and dark. As he shifted her weight on his shoulder, her head accidentally hit the wall a number of times. He had to give her credit, though. She didn’t complain about that even once. At the same time, the curses and threats never stopped.

  Her room was at the end of the corridor. He pushed the door open and walked in. Marion tried to raise herself on his shoulder and banged the back of her head hard as they entered the cell. Iain felt a fleeting moment of remorse as she actually did quiet down.

  The room was small, but not uncomfortable. At the end, sunlight came through a narrow window that he figured she could slither through if she was given the chance. The shutter was open and the air wafting in was fresh and warm. A narrow, tidily made bed sat against one wall, and the red-and-green plaid of the McCall tartan spread across it brightened the chamber. A chest and a table and stool completed the furnishings. He kicked the door shut with his foot and dropped her on the bed. She immediately sat up.

  “I am sorry about the bruises to your head,” he said, seeing her rubbing a few of the spots and looking around in a daze. He crouched before her and lifted her chin. “But such blows can only leave a bruise…not incur madness or loss of memory or forgetfulness or the inability to speak. In so many words, lass, I am on to your sly tricks.”

  Her eyes cleared, and she pushed his hand away.

  “I hate you.”

  “You don’t,” Iain said calmly. The white veil she had been wearing had dropped back onto her shoulders and for couple of moments, he found himself staring at th
e dark curls dancing around her face. Most of her hair was pulled back in a thick braid and bundled in a knot at the back of her neck. Her face was still covered with flour, her black eyes glaring beneath thick lashes. He realized he was very eager to see her cleaned up.

  “You do not trust me nor care for me,” she said in a low, husky voice. “There is no reason for us to wed. Why don’t you just gather your men and leave me here?”

  On his route here, he’d been tempted a number of times to do just that. He was fourteen years her senior. His taste ran to older women who brought some experience of lovemaking to his bed. Iain did not think he had the patience to deal with even a fraction of the trouble Marion had been as a child. Temperamental, stubborn, loud. He had hoped the convent life had beaten some of it out of her. Obviously, it hadn’t. He was here, though, and it was too late to walk away.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he explained. “You are coming back with me to Fleet Tower.”

  “Not as your wife.”

  “As my wife,” he stated.

  “Why?”

  “Because our fathers and their fathers wanted it that way. Because it is best for our people. And because it is in the best interest of Scotland to do so.”

  “That is a lie.” She shoved at his chest and tried to get up.

  He pushed her back onto the bed. She landed hard on her buttocks. “Why are you being so difficult? You were ready to marry me at the age of six. Why not now?”

  “I was a wee, blind simpleton at the age of six. I have grown, seen the world, learned about people.”

  “All from inside the walls of a convent in Skye?” he asked mockingly.

  “Yes. And what I see now is that you are the simpleton, and I do not wish to marry you.”

  “My apologies, lass, but it is too late for such antics.” He smiled smugly and put a hand on Marion’s shoulder, forcing her to stay put. “Now, here is the plan. You may wash your face and change your clothes and pack whatever you need to bring in the same small trunk you brought with you when you came. Then, you and I are going to say our farewells to the prioress and whomever else you please. We shall be on the road by noon and if the weather remains clear, we shall be back at Blackthorn Hall in a week, just in time for our wedding. Is that all perfectly clear?”

  She shoved his hand off her shoulder. “And here is my plan—”

  “I am not interested in hearing your plans.”

  “You arrogant bully. How dare you—”

  “My schedule is simply derived from plans already in place…plans your troublesome delays have jeopardized,” he said seriously. “The date, the time, the list of invited guests…all of that…was decided by those at Stirling and Westminster. Both the Stewart and Tudor courts believe our little union shall help put an end to all the troubles in our part of the Borders.”

  “By his wounds, what have you been doing all these years, marauding and pillaging helpless crofters? Why is there suddenly such interest in our wee patch of countryside?”

  Iain crouched before her, trying to get through to her…hoping she would hear him and put an end to her foolishness. There was duty involved here. Responsibility.

  “I have been trying to provide a peaceful existence for my people…and for yours, as well. The troublemaker in the Borders region has been your dear cousin.”

  “Jack Fitzwilliam?”

  “The same.”

  “I cannot believe it. He was always a little wild, but—”

  “Well, believe it. Your uncle William’s illegitimate son has been raiding farms and attacking travelers. He has gathered other outlaws to his band and avoided capture by terrorizing Border folk. They have even hidden him out of fear of his ruthlessness. You probably don’t remember him well.”

  “I remember him. He used to come and visit sometimes…when my father was away.”

  Marion shivered slightly. In her eyes, Iain could see she didn’t like the memories of her cousin that were coming back to her. After a moment, her eyes narrowed. “What are you, a coward? You cannot take care of one outlaw without the intervention of two royal courts?”

  Iain fought his temper as heat rushed into his face. “I am no coward, but a considerate man who too many times listened to two old women’s tearful pleas about sparing the life of their only nephew. Jack would have been dead a dozen times by now if it were not for your aunts.”

  Marion considered his words.

  “He comes and goes,” Iain continued, “preying on one part of the Borders and then traveling south into England, only to return later. He is rarely in one place for too long. He is a creature of darkness, striking wherever he is least expected.”

  She frowned and shook her head. “My dear cousin has hated my very existence from the moment I was born. I hid from him whenever he came to visit Fleet Tower. What makes you think this marriage would have any effect on him?”

  “He has been spreading it across the countryside that he himself is the true heir to the McCall title and lands,” Iain explained. “He has told your people that you are really dead. If they do not support him and shelter him, they shall face his wrath. As it is, I am now just a steward of your land, and that makes Jack more dangerous. Our marriage at Blackthorn Hall will put an end to his claims and also assure the Crown that there is to be continued stability in the lineage.”

  She shook her head again. “No matter how grand a ceremony you’ve planned for this wedding, it will mean nothing to Jack. He will not change. So what are you going to do to him afterward? Kill him?”

  “Drive him off,” he said shortly.

  Iain knew he would surely kill him if need be. But not before dragging Jack Fitzwilliam before a judge for his many crimes. After all, this was 1525 and not the age of barbarians. Modern Scotland had laws. He would be tried fairly his claims heard.

  Then Jack would be hung from a gallows and his head placed on a pike at Fleet Tower.

  All Iain wanted was justice and peace for himself and his people. He had seen too much blood shed needlessly at Flodden Field. No more. Iain wanted a calm life. A wife, children, and the clans McCall and Armstrong living in peace and putting their disputes behind them.

  “Enough of that.” He stood up and grabbed Marion’s hands, pulling her up to her feet. “You need to get ready to leave.”

  She shook him off and sat back down on the bed. “You have not convinced me.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Marion, you are trying my patience for no reason. What is it that you do not understand? Your people are being abused. They need you. Your aunts and uncle are advancing in age and are in poor health. They want you back, as well.”

  “They never said any of that in their letters,” she protested.

  “How could they? And why would they, when the last thing they want is to worry you? And what could you have done from here?” Iain saw the look of doubt creeping into her face.

  She rubbed her forehead, but then stared in horror at the pasty flour falling onto her lap.

  “And what do you have to lose by marrying me, anyway? It is not as if you have another suitor.”

  She was too transparent. Iain shook his head as he could see on her face the thoughts that were already forming in her head. He was out of his mind to give her ideas.

  “In fact, there…there is someone else. A man closer to my age. Not old like you.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Will you wash your face, or would you have me wash it for you?” He reached over and wiped the flour from the tip of her nose. “How about the dress? I’d be happy to help you change.” He touched the coarse fabric at her neckline and let his finger brush against the silky soft skin of her neck.

  As if she’d been burned, Marion slapped his hand away and jumped to her feet. Stepping off the bed, she moved to where a pitcher and bowl sat on the table. “You must leave my chamber. I shall wash and change.”

  With her words, Iain smiled at her back. “You shall soon be my wife. There is nothing about you that I shall not soon see or touch.”

  She poured water on a small towel and started wiping her face with it. “‘Soon’ is your word. I want you to know that ‘soon’ may never come.”

  “I beg to differ.” Iain moved behind her.