Heat Of The Knight. Jackie IvieЧитать онлайн книгу.
it could be anything else, but in the rain-blurred night, that’s what she decided it would be.
She was actually grateful it was night. This might be enough to make her sit down and wallow in self-pity, if she actually saw it in the light of day
“What are you standing about for, lass? Let’s get to rescuing the war trunk so we can find a spot to dry out in!”
Lisle gained as many slivers in her palms as there were calluses and cracks, but she had the thing beneath the beam, and then she was shoving on it. Nothing happened. She tried putting her entire body weight on it, testing the ladder’s tensile strength. That got her a bit of sway to the pile of rubble, and a groaning sound that transferred from the wood along her palms and into her spine.
She went back down. The stack leaned back, an inch or two from where it had started. She only hoped this chest, that Aunt Fanny was desperate to own, was beneath this chunk of old roofing and decayed beams. Someone should have taken the time and funds years earlier and redone some of the castle. Maybe then, when there were only MacHugh daughters alive to inherit it, there might be something left to inherit.
Lisle was being stubborn. She should open the Monteith missive, sell off the lot for a whole bunch of his dishonorable gold, and buy them a smaller place; one with some land worth farming, or raising sheep or cattle, or anything that might bring some coin into the family coffers, rather than sending all of them flying out in the opposite direction.
She took a deep breath and launched herself onto the ladder again. The beam swayed up, dangling pieces of unrecognizable debris, and she kicked with her feet to get it to move a little farther this time before she came back down. The ladder did the same creaking motion, although the wood in her hand shivered along with it, but when she came back down, the beam had moved, and none the worse for it. She was almost in buoyant spirits the third time she tried it, absolutely amazed that something she was trying was working.
“Good work, lass. I see it. I ken what she wants now.”
“What?” Her teeth clenched, and the word was whistled through them as she jumped up again, bruising her ribs a bit with it, and gathering even more slivers in her palms.
“The MacHugh war chest. It’s hid in the deacon’s bench. If it’s what I think it is, I know why the woman will na’rest without it. It’ll contain the family Bible. That’s what she wants.”
“What…why—?” Lisle held herself up, kicking her feet with a swinging motion, and moved the beam another good foot to one side. Her query didn’t make much sense with the amount of air available to her to use on it, but he understood it.
“I said, it contains the family Bible. All the history. All the names. All of them, lass. Every hero. Every chieftain. Every Celt.”
“I mean, why are you keeping it in the west hallway, buried in a deacon’s bench, and being nibbled on by rats?” She didn’t pause through the entire sentence, because that would mean she’d have to suck in more air, and every breath was so laden with rain mist, she might as well be swimming. That also meant she had to wait before coming up for more air.
“Because the chapel’s lost to us, years past.”
That much was true. It was already roofless, and full of ghosts. No one went in there anymore, even the ones pretending to be religious. That was all right with her. She hadn’t managed to get on her knees and say one prayer since leaving the convent school what felt like years ago, but was actually only one.
The Sisters would be mortified. That was all right with Lisle, too. She did her praying standing up; she hadn’t time for any other way. Such was the punishment for being in the midst of one problem or another since becoming a MacHugh, and God wasn’t listening, anyway.
She scrunched her lips together, launched herself up onto the ladder’s edge, and swung her legs back and forth easily this time, since the beam’s weight was putting her higher off the floor than before.
The ladder was offended, and the wood was telling her every bit of it, as it shuddered and groaned in her hands, making it impossible to hang onto for any amount of time. Her own arms were stiff, and her elbows locked, and the shaking of her perch loosened her grip and weakened any kind of hold.
“I’m coming down, Angus!” She was trying to shout it in warning, because he’d ducked beneath the mass of tapestry-draped beam, and she couldn’t stay aloft much longer.
He was dragging something, and not about to let go.
“Angus!”
The wood creaked loudly, drowning out her voice, but the old man was scuttling out without the chest, and glaring at her like it was her fault as he sat there, his hands about his knees in the damp and decay and mess of what had once been a glorious hallway.
“You dinna’ give me enough time, lass! Try again. And stay up longer this time!”
“The ladder’s not going to hold, Angus. We’re going to have to leave it for now.”
“We canna’ leave it. The women will na’ rest.”
“They’ll have nae choice. We can fetch it on the morrow.”
“You doona’ understand. That book’s full of heroes!” He yelled it up at her.
“Well, they’re all dead heroes, Angus! Dead!” She yelled it right back.
“That does na’ change it, lass. You doona’ understand. You were too long in that foreign school. It’s worrisome.”
“Anything I am is worrisome to you. You’d best start changing your tune, or you’ll have to do it without your blessed bagpipes in future. That’s what I’m for thinking.”
“You’re threatening me with my own pipes?”
“I never threaten, Angus. I’m only—” Lisle stopped and swiped a sliver-filled palm against her forehead to force the rain to find other channels to sluice down rather than her eyes, then swallowed around the ball in her throat. “Forgive me. I won’t hide your pipes another moment. I only did it to protect you.”
“I ken that, lassie. I always did, although it’s a thing that canna’ be done. Sometimes there’s nae protection anyone can give us. It’s a Scot thing. We’re that stubborn, that focused, that straightforward. We’ll never give an inch, na’ one. You’re a Dugall. You know. You lost four times more clansmen at Culloden last spring than the MacHughs did. Four times.”
“Doona’ remind me,” she said, holding every bit of anguish deep down, so not one bit of it sounded in her words.
“Highland blood runs deep and thick in our veins. It’s na’ something we can change. I doona’ think we’d wish it changed, even if we could. That’s why that chest is so important. It’s got the MacHugh family Bible in it, and that book holds the soul and spirit and lifeblood of this clan. We’ve got to get it.”
“What clan, Angus?” she asked. “What? Where? There’s nae MacHugh left. Just you. Three aunts. Four lasses. Me. We’re na’ a clan. We’re na’ much more than wretches, and very soon we’ll be homeless wretches to boot.”
His shoulders drooped. Lisle felt like she was kicking a wounded, great, old stag. His voice warbled when he answered.
“You’re wrong. There’s the lasses. They’re MacHughs. They’re the future. You know that. ’Tis why you protect and nourish them. You know it.”
Lisle sighed. “I’m their stepmother, Angus. That’s why. You speak of a MacHugh future? There is na’ one. There’s only the MacHugh lasses. Not one possessing a dowry, clothing to call her own, and nae schooling beneath her belt, or even a good meal, for that matter. I’m a failure at protecting and nourishing and making a future for the clan. I’m a failure at just about anything I do. This included.”
“Nonsense! You’re nae a failure, Mistress. You’re the bravest lass in the isles…mayhap further. Trust auld Angus