feeble flickers of a near extinguished hearth fire, nary a ray of light graced what had oft been called one of Baldoon's most opulent rooms.
Not a one of the resinous wall torches burned. And though several elaborately wrought candle stands stood about the chamber, the beeswax tapers they held remained unlit. As did the candles adorning two multi-branched candelabra of finest silver.
For days now, the sumptuous solar, the pride of every MacLean laird since time immemorial, had been purposely plunged into darkness and desolation.
By order of Iain MacLean.
To suit his glum mood.
"Drowned," he muttered under his breath, and whirled to stomp across the solar's rush-strewn floor for what had to be the hundredth time. "Drowned, drowned, drowned," he chanted the word like a litany-singing monk gone mad and kicked the sturdy leg of an oaken trestle table.
A slight shuffling noise sounded somewhere behind him and he swung around to catch Gerbert, Baldoon's ever meddlesome seneschal, attempting to light a brace of candles just inside the door.
His dark eyes widening in disbelief, Iain stared at the white-haired steward a long moment before he marched across the room and blew out the old man's handiwork with one furious huff of air.
Straightening, he glared at the gray-beard. "Think yourself above heeding orders, Gerbert?"
"Nay, sir, begging your pardon, milord." Gerbert excused his blatant disregard for Iain's orders with a falsified tone of obeisance.
Almost as perturbing, he possessed the impertinence to return Iain's glare with an unblinking stare of his own.
Scowling, Ian waved his hand through the dissipating smoke of the extinguished tapers. "Is this affront because you doubt the bounds of my authority in my brother's absence?"
Gerbert's face remained a careful mask of mildness. "Of a certainty, nay, my good lord."
The bland expression grated sorely on Iain's nerves. " Of a certainty, nay, my good lord , " he mimicked.
Unruffled, Gerbert fixed his watery blue eyes on his laird's brother.
And said not a word.
"Explain yourself!" Iain bellowed, his face turning scarlet. "By whose leave did you begin lighting tapers?
“By no one's, sir."
"Then why?"
"Because none are lit and 'tis dark in here."
"By the bloody lance of St. Peter!" Iain kicked over the candle stand. "None are lit because I want it dark in here, you fool!"
"Candles should be burning in your lady wife's honor." A film of perspiration on the seneschal's forehead bespoke the heavy toll it cost him to remain calm in the face of Iain MacLean's outburst. "Her soul ---"
Turning his back on Gerbert, Iain strode to the table and swiped up an ewer of wine. He filled his chalice and downed the contents in one swallow.
"There are enough candles ablaze in the chapel to light her way to heaven and beyond," he vowed and slammed down the empty wineglass. "And nary a one of them does a whit of good." Whirling around, he stared hard at the other man. "Do you not see?"
As if he saw indeed and dreaded what was to come, the aging seneschal's shoulders sagged and he lowered his gaze. For the first time since entering the solar, he evaded Ian MacLean's glass-eyed glare. Instead of meeting the younger man's wrath, he stared at the floor and began shaking his white-tufted head.
"My wife does not need blazing candles a-lighting her way to the blessed beyond," Iain snapped. "She doesn't belong with saints and martyrs. She belongs with me!"
"She is dead, Iain." A dark-haired woman stepped into the room, a bulging sack clutched in her hands. "You cannot bri ---"
"Nay, I cannot bring her back." Ian turned on his sister, Amicia. "On our sainted mother's soul, I vow I would kiss the devil's buttocks if I could!"
"Iain!" Amicia gasped.
"Iain!" he echoed, throwing his hands in the air. "If it pleases you more, I can fall to my knees and shout a hundred thousand holy hosannas." He peered sharply at her, a fiery challenge sparking in his dark eyes. "Think you it would do me
Not a one of the resinous wall torches burned. And though several elaborately wrought candle stands stood about the chamber, the beeswax tapers they held remained unlit. As did the candles adorning two multi-branched candelabra of finest silver.
For days now, the sumptuous solar, the pride of every MacLean laird since time immemorial, had been purposely plunged into darkness and desolation.
By order of Iain MacLean.
To suit his glum mood.
"Drowned," he muttered under his breath, and whirled to stomp across the solar's rush-strewn floor for what had to be the hundredth time. "Drowned, drowned, drowned," he chanted the word like a litany-singing monk gone mad and kicked the sturdy leg of an oaken trestle table.
A slight shuffling noise sounded somewhere behind him and he swung around to catch Gerbert, Baldoon's ever meddlesome seneschal, attempting to light a brace of candles just inside the door.
His dark eyes widening in disbelief, Iain stared at the white-haired steward a long moment before he marched across the room and blew out the old man's handiwork with one furious huff of air.
Straightening, he glared at the gray-beard. "Think yourself above heeding orders, Gerbert?"
"Nay, sir, begging your pardon, milord." Gerbert excused his blatant disregard for Iain's orders with a falsified tone of obeisance.
Almost as perturbing, he possessed the impertinence to return Iain's glare with an unblinking stare of his own.
Scowling, Ian waved his hand through the dissipating smoke of the extinguished tapers. "Is this affront because you doubt the bounds of my authority in my brother's absence?"
Gerbert's face remained a careful mask of mildness. "Of a certainty, nay, my good lord."
The bland expression grated sorely on Iain's nerves. " Of a certainty, nay, my good lord , " he mimicked.
Unruffled, Gerbert fixed his watery blue eyes on his laird's brother.
And said not a word.
"Explain yourself!" Iain bellowed, his face turning scarlet. "By whose leave did you begin lighting tapers?
“By no one's, sir."
"Then why?"
"Because none are lit and 'tis dark in here."
"By the bloody lance of St. Peter!" Iain kicked over the candle stand. "None are lit because I want it dark in here, you fool!"
"Candles should be burning in your lady wife's honor." A film of perspiration on the seneschal's forehead bespoke the heavy toll it cost him to remain calm in the face of Iain MacLean's outburst. "Her soul ---"
Turning his back on Gerbert, Iain strode to the table and swiped up an ewer of wine. He filled his chalice and downed the contents in one swallow.
"There are enough candles ablaze in the chapel to light her way to heaven and beyond," he vowed and slammed down the empty wineglass. "And nary a one of them does a whit of good." Whirling around, he stared hard at the other man. "Do you not see?"
As if he saw indeed and dreaded what was to come, the aging seneschal's shoulders sagged and he lowered his gaze. For the first time since entering the solar, he evaded Ian MacLean's glass-eyed glare. Instead of meeting the younger man's wrath, he stared at the floor and began shaking his white-tufted head.
"My wife does not need blazing candles a-lighting her way to the blessed beyond," Iain snapped. "She doesn't belong with saints and martyrs. She belongs with me!"
"She is dead, Iain." A dark-haired woman stepped into the room, a bulging sack clutched in her hands. "You cannot bri ---"
"Nay, I cannot bring her back." Ian turned on his sister, Amicia. "On our sainted mother's soul, I vow I would kiss the devil's buttocks if I could!"
"Iain!" Amicia gasped.
"Iain!" he echoed, throwing his hands in the air. "If it pleases you more, I can fall to my knees and shout a hundred thousand holy hosannas." He peered sharply at her, a fiery challenge sparking in his dark eyes. "Think you it would do me
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